The Shaitan attempted to bend its body around the sword, but the blade forged in the fires of Heaven would have none of that. It was starving for the blood of its enemy.
Gouts of black, foul-smelling blood spurted into the air as the blade cut through the twisted thing’s rubbery skin. The Shaitan cried out in pain, and dropped to the ground, slithering back from its foe.
Remiel spread his wings wide and flew after the monster, relentlessly hacking at its thick, trunklike body, each blow cutting spurting gashes in the thing’s ever-shifting flesh. The Shaitan managed to reach the Tree of Knowledge, winding itself around the trunk like a serpent, and up toward the expanse of withered branches. Huge, leathery wings began to take shape from its body, beating the air, as it attempted escape.
Remiel shot up into the air, intercepting the beast as it exploded through the diseased, fruit-covered branches. He slashed one of the monster’s new wings, crippling it. It began to fall, and the Seraphim joined it, holding on, pushing the monstrosity down through the Tree’s branches to the hard ground below.
Remiel landed atop the thrashing Shaitan, raising his fiery sword and plunging it into the monster, pinning it to the ground. Screams filled the air . . . the Shaitan’s, as well as those of its fetal brethren still gestating and waiting in the soil beneath.
The Shaitan’s movements grew frantic as it attempted to right itself. Its blood flowed into the ground, exciting the young beastlings that waited below and enticing them toward the surface.
The earth began to seethe and Remiel quickly stepped back. The Shaitan struggled to be free of the sword, but it held fast, pinning the monster to the churning earth.
And then it began to scream.
The baby Shaitan were emerging, pale skinned and hungry, crawling up from the darkness into the murky light of the Garden. They shrieked angrily at the light, the sudden illumination hurting their sensitive eyes, but it did not stop them from their purpose.
To feed.
The blood of their brother had created a feeding frenzy—the blood of their brother rich with the taste of Seraphim.
It was a horrific sight to behold, and the unfortunate Shaitan survived much longer than Remiel would have imagined possible.
He was not sure how long it was before his foe was completely consumed, but the Seraphim realized that, little by little, the babies were starting to notice his presence. Those that had fed sniffed the air, zeroing in on his scent, and began to claw their way toward him across the overturned earth, dragging malformed limbs in their wake.
Hungry for their next meal.
And Remiel did not know if he had the strength left to defeat them.
The old black woman struggled in his grasp as Malachi peered through the thick jungle foliage at the battle raging before him.
This Seraphim, he thought, watching as the angel Remiel finally dispatched the Shaitan. There is something different about him now, something that wasn’t part of his original design. Something new is present.
Something deadly.
The Shaitan’s death screams spurred him to action. He began to drag the woman away, but she fought him.
“I know that one,” Eliza Swan cried. “That’s my Remy,” she said, voice trembling with emotion. “That’s my Remy Chandler.”
Malachi savagely pulled her away. All he needed was for her to draw the attention of the Seraphim—especially that Seraphim.
The ground still moved beneath each footfall, trees swayed, and plants reached weakly to snag them as they passed. The Garden was dying, but she still tried to stop those she believed had harmed her. He wondered how long she had before all the life left her.
A wall of thick vegetation blocked the opening to his cave, but the scalpel of light was more than sufficient to gain him entrance. The vines squeaked in death, and wilted away as the blade cut through their tubular bodies to expose the gaping cave mouth.
Eliza planted her feet, not wanting to enter, but the elder had little time for the human monkey’s games. He dragged her with ease, the grip upon her wrist so powerful that he could feel the frail old bones grinding together as he pulled her along.
The chamber was just as he’d left it, and he headed toward his workstation, tossing Eliza aside. The old woman fell to the ground, stunned.
Malachi ignored her, his mind abuzz. He found a deep bowl made from the bottom portion of a gourd, and plucked it from the table. Turning, he focused on a section of wall and recalled the forbidden piece of angel magick he would recite, and the sigils he would have to draw, in order to make his escape.
Now all he required was the blood to draw with.
Malachi turned toward Eliza and brought forth the ever-soversatile blade of light. “One last chore before . . . ,” he began, only to stop short when he saw that they were no longer alone in the cave.
A figure knelt beside the woman, tenderly touching her face as she lay stunned upon the floor of the cave. At first he did not recognize him, clothed as he was in a dark three-piece suit, but as he rose there was no mistaking the former Guardian angel.
“Fraciel,” Malachi said excitedly. “How nice it is to see you again.”
“Yeah,” Francis said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket so the white of his shirt showed just below the cuffs. “And it’s Francis now.
“Bet you didn’t see this coming.”
Francis could practically hear the gears turning inside the old angel’s skull as he slowly approached.
“This day is just full of surprises,” Malachi said, dark eyes shining in the weak light of the cave. “Surprises and revelations,” he added.
The elder stopped halfway to Francis, who continued to stare in stony silence.
“The surprise, of course, being that you’re still alive,” Malachi said with a chuckle. “And the revelation that we are somehow linked, you and I.”
Francis was mildly interested to see where this would go.
“Ever since I first partook of the fruit from the Tree,” the ancient angel explained, “you have been part of the future that I foresaw. . . .”
Malachi paused.
“I had thought your part at an end with my escape from Hell, but now . . . seeing you here, I realize that our lives—our futures—are far more intricately entwined than that.”
“You gutted me like a fish,” Francis said, still feeling the excruciating pain.
“I did,” Malachi agreed. “And yet here you are. Don’t you see, Francis? We’re supposed to be together.”
Malachi was inching closer, and Francis let him come.
“The survival of this reality—of all realities—is our responsibility,” the elder stressed. “We are the future.”
“I have a job for you,” Francis heard Lucifer Morningstar say, as he balanced on the precipice of death. “If you are so inclined.”
There must have been something in his eyes, something that told Malachi he wasn’t about to buy into his bullshit. And that was when the ancient being made his move. The scalpel was out, slicing through the moist, stagnant air of the cave, as Malachi darted forward to try to kill him again.
But Francis had been expecting as much, willing the golden pistol from where it waited in the ether, to his hand, pitilessly firing a single, Hell-forged bullet into the center of Malachi’s forehead.
The elder’s head snapped violently backward, the glowing scalpel flying from his open fingers, an amusing look of surprise frozen upon his ancient features.
“Always wondered what would happen if I fucked with the future,” Francis said, watching his victim fall backward to the floor.
He walked over to where Malachi lay, surprised to see that he was still alive, even with a bullet of Hell metal lodged inside his skull.