“Should be fine,” Remy answered with nod.
She dug the blade into the center of the finger’s pad, the blood welling up on either side of the blade. “Shit,” she hissed. “Now what?”
“I need to smell it.”
She raised her finger toward Remy’s nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled, taking the scent of her magickally tainted blood into his nose.
Images exploded in his mind, pictures so vivid it was as if he were already there.
“Got it?” Izzy asked.
He opened his eyes and nodded, then spread his wings wide.
“Come closer,” he told them. They shuffled toward him, and his wings began to close around them as if in a hug.
“This isn’t gonna hurt, is it?” Izzy asked.
“When was the last time that you ate?” Jon asked, as their reality began to shift.
And they were gone.
Gregson Paul had been raised a good Catholic boy.
Church every Sunday for most of his life, followed by an hour of Sunday school, where he’d learned the wonders of the Holy Bible.
He’d always thought of the stories inside the Good Book as that—just stories, parables that sought to teach the reader something about how to live life as a good Christian.
He never thought of any of it as true: Noah’s ark, Lot, Sodom and Gomorrah, Moses and his commandments.
But here—at the North Pole—right before his eyes, one of those stories had come to life.
“It’s Eden,” he said to Marjorie Halt as he gazed through the metal of the gate at the thick greenery beyond.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she said, hands on an impressive hip as she studied the gated jungle that had appeared amid the ice and snow.
“Then explain it,” he said. “Look at us.”
They were in their T-shirts and underwear, the heat from the mysterious jungle overwhelmingly tropical.
“There has to be an answer,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of the gate.
Daniel Hiratsu knelt silently in the grass, his scientific instruments scattered uselessly about him. All he could do was stare. Terrance Long stayed back on the ice and snow, clothed in his heavy gear. He was attempting to communicate with anyone who would listen, but was met with a wall of interference. It appeared that Eden would not let him.
Gregson knew that it was Eden before them, as crazy as that sounded. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. It was as if the jungle were broadcasting something directly into his mind, telling him that this was true.
“I want to go in,” Marjorie said as she wiped trickles of sweat from her brow. She was standing before the gate, a look of determination on her pretty face.
An uncomfortable feeling suddenly twisted in Gregson’s gut.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Why isn’t it?”
“Because we’re not allowed,” he said, having no idea where his answer had come from but knowing it to be true.
“Yeah, right,” Marjorie said. She turned, rushing the gate and grabbing hold of its metal bars.
She didn’t even have a chance to scream.
The lightning arced from the sky, striking the top of her pretty head, disintegrating her in a flash of brilliance that caused small, colorful blobs to dance before Gregson’s rapidly blinking eyes.
All he could do was stare at where the girl whose remarkable ass had brought him to the North Pole had been standing, now nothing more than a smoldering mark upon the ground before the gate.
After a moment, the sound of sobbing distracted him and he turned to see Hiratsu rocking back and forth, his face stained with tears. Long was standing nearby, having ventured onto the grass, the hissing walkie-talkie he’d been using resting by his boot, where he had dropped it.
“I told her,” Gregson said, his voice cracking. He could feel his sanity slip just a little bit more. “I told her not to do it.”
“We should go,” Long said, his voice cold and emotionless. “We should get out of here before . . .”
Before we’re all struck down by lightning . . . by the wrath of God? Gregson wondered.
He slowly turned from the Garden on wobbly legs and caught sight of figures in the distance near their tent. He hadn’t noticed their approach; they just suddenly seemed to be there.
“Who . . . ?” Gregson began.
The others turned to follow his gaze; then almost as one they began to move toward the strangers.
But the closer they got, the more wrong they appeared.
The lead figure was dressed in long, tattered robes, like some sort of twisted monk. The other appeared naked, his flesh as white as the snow they trod across, but covered in strange, angular black markings. An even odder observation was that he appeared to be carrying two people beneath his arms, an older black woman, and . . .
A mummified body.
Alarms went off in Gregson’s brain and he felt the grip of madness embrace him that much closer; first the Garden of Eden, and now this.
Gregson called out to warn Terrance, well in the lead, but he was too late. Terrance had stopped before the robed figure. Gregson could just about make out the scientist’s excited voice as he spoke to them.
The pale-skinned man—if he was a man at all—seemed to lose his shape, dropping the two figures that he carried and lunging at Terrance Long.
What happened next was indescribable.
The monster—there was no doubt in Gregson’s mind as to what he was now—pounced upon the scientist and, in a display of preternatural strength, began to rip the man to pieces, eating the body parts as if starving, as the leader of their expedition’s blood stained the snow.
Hiratsu screamed and started to run, but the white-fleshed monster simply reached out with an arm that grew incredibly long to coil around the Asian-American’s ankle and draw him toward the beast.
Gregson couldn’t move, watching as Hiratsu struggled to halt his progress, digging his fingers first into the grass, and then into the ice, but to no effect.
Finished with Long, the white-skinned thing pounced upon Hiratsu, its protean form flowing over the man as his screams intensified.
Gregson finally looked away as Hiratsu’s pathetic cries died away, to be replaced by the sounds of something hungrily eating.
He did not hear the approach of the robed man, but found him standing before him.
Gregson knew, could feel, that he was in the presence of someone—something—unearthly. He was going to speak, but could think of nothing to say.
The robed figure turned his attention toward the gate and the lush, steamy jungle behind it. “Your kind had its chance,” he said, his voice low and melodious. “But you tossed it all away.”
He looked back at Gregson, his eyes cold and mesmerizing in their intensity. “I could never understand His fascination,” he said. “I could have given Him something so much more . . . worthy.”
Gregson had no idea what the robed man was talking about, but continued to listen.
“And now it’s come to this.”
He stepped forward and leaned close to Gregson’s face. “Do you have even the slightest idea what I’m talking about, monkey?” he asked.
“No,” Gregson croaked, and began to cry.
The man’s intensity softened, and he put his arms around Gregson’s shoulders, drawing him into an embrace.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault; it’s as if He wanted you to fail. Engineered it to be so.”
Gregson was sobbing now, his face buried in the collar of the filthy fabric of the man’s robes. It smelled strongly of blood, and of the air just before a storm.
“But I believe I can do better,” the robed figure said, suddenly pushing Gregson away. “I must do better if reality is to survive the coming cataclysm.”
Gregson’s brain was on fire, trying desperately to hold on to what little sanity he had left. “Who . . . who are you?” he manage
d to ask.
The robed man seemed genuinely pleased by the question, and his posture straightened as he spoke.
“I am Lord God,” he pronounced.
But that just made Gregson Paul laugh as the final strands of his hold on reality snapped, and he began a free fall into madness. First the Garden of Eden, now God.
Gregson didn’t think he’d ever heard anything funnier, but the robed man—God—didn’t appear to be the least bit amused.
Gregson tried to control himself, but the laughter of madness would not be contained. Stumbling back in a fit of giggling, he bumped against something, turning around to look up into the horrible, blood-covered face of the monster that had consumed his friends.
And Gregson kept laughing.
Even as the thing of nightmare reached for him, pulled him up into its many arms.
And into its mouth.
Malachi brought a hand close to the gate, feeling the energy radiating from the black metal, an energy that could destroy even him.
The gate had been closed by an edict from God. It could be opened again by neither the divine nor man.
Not unless one possessed the key.
The Lord God had given them the ability to see the error of their disobedient acts, and to someday return to the Garden from which they were banished. But there had to be penance; they would have to be truly sorry.
Then, and only then, would they be allowed to pass through these sealed gates.
The elder turned to look at the two pieces of the divine key that he had endured so much to obtain. The old woman had draped her body across the naked form of Adam, protecting him from the elements, her own fragile body shivering in the cold.
Again he questioned the Creator’s fascination with imperfection, wondering if he would understand once he himself assumed the role of Lord of Lords.
His eyes shifted as he watched his own creation finish its meal, blood glistening upon its face and muscular body. It saw that its master was watching, and came to attention, eager to please.
“Bring them to the gate,” Malachi commanded.
And the Shaitan obeyed.
Just as it should have.
Eliza tried to protect Adam from the harshness of the elements. It was in her blood, and at first she did not understand.
But now, in this cold, frozen place, with the warmth of the Garden before her—calling to her—Eliza Swan understood.
They had always said she was special, that there was something inside her that made her different from all the other Daughters. This was the reason they were so upset when she left them.
And yet, she had never realized how special she really was.
So special, in fact, that there would be folks in Heaven who would try to kill her.
The monster was before them again, pulling them up from the snow with its snaky arms, and hauling them closer.
Closer to the Garden.
She remembered now that she used to have dreams as a child: vivid dreams of this very place. And she used to tell her grandma, and her mother, and all the other Daughters, and they would look at her in that knowing way and smile.
The monster tossed them roughly onto the warm, green grass before the heavy metal gate.
“Keep treatin’ us like that and you’ll kill us,” Eliza said, her body aching in so many places she was surprised she could still move.
“Not yet,” Malachi said, staring hard through the thick metal bars at the Garden beyond.
Eliza felt the pull of the place, like a piece of metal being drawn to a magnet. She couldn’t fight it if she wanted to. Adam lay silently beside her, but now his eyes were open.
Malachi was watching her, his monster—all covered in blood—standing obediently beside him. She was reminded of the big man Leo, and his dog, Cleo, at the Pelican Club, only she had liked them.
“Do it,” Malachi said, eyes still locked on the lush green beyond the gate.
Eliza lay on the ground, pretending she hadn’t heard him, picking blades of grass from Adam’s pale, naked flesh.
“Did you hear me, monkey?” Malachi asked, his voice deceptively calm and pretty.
“I heard you,” she replied. “But I haven’t a clue as to what you’re going on about.” Even though deep in her heart, she did.
He looked at her then, his cold, icy stare so intense she could practically feel his eyes inside her. “You lie.”
“Guess you know me best,” she said, realizing that she was staring at the metal obstructions that barred their entry. Something stirred inside her, fighting to get out. It was the Garden pulling her, calling to her from the other side.
“Far better than you know yourself,” Malachi purred. He knelt down beside her, that horrible knife of fire appearing in his hand.
She gasped, remembering the feeling as he’d used it on her, cutting loose the pieces of her forgotten life. Cutting loose the location of Eden.
Malachi brought the blade down toward Adam. “He has so little life left. I would hate to see it wasted . . . out here . . . so close to home.”
Eliza shielded the man with her own body, the instinct to protect him strong. Almost as strong as the instinct that pulled at her from beyond the gates.
“You leave him alone,” she cried. “The poor man’s been through enough.”
“And now it’s time for him to rest,” Malachi said with a nod.
“Yes,” Eliza agreed.
“Then do as you’re told. Open the gates.”
Holding Adam in her arms, Eliza felt suddenly whole, complete. The feeling in her chest had grown to bursting, and she wondered if her old heart was about to give out.
“Open the gates,” Malachi said again, his attack dog looming behind him.
She looked down at the ancient man in her arms and saw that he was looking at her. Malachi had been so right: he didn’t have much life left, and it was only a matter of time before it would all run out.
She saw the corners of his mouth twitch first, and she was surprised by the movement on his sunken features; then she realized he was trying to open his mouth.
“What is it?” she asked, pulling him closer. “What are you trying to . . . ?”
But she knew the answer, the feeling in her own chest bubbling up, threatening to explode from her.
They were both feeling it. Together.
Adam’s ancient mouth slowly opened, releasing a soft, whispery sound.
And Eliza could not help herself. She found herself doing something she hadn’t done in so very long—not done since Pearly Gates had used his magick to take away her memories.
She was doing what she loved to do.
What she had been born to do.
Eliza Swan let it out, the sound of her voice joining with the weak sound from Adam to form the most beautiful of songs.
Eliza and Adam were singing a song of absolution.
And the gates swung wide to welcome them home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Remy did not feel the bite of the severe cold, only the heat of Zophiel’s sword, and the pull of Eden upon it.
He opened his wings to the sight before him: a jungle, enshrouded in a roiling tropical fog, growing up from the bleak surroundings of ice and snow.
The blade flashed with an angry fire, and he felt it pull him toward the gates, which were yawning open.
Remy remembered the last time he and the Garden were together—it had been his duty to close those gates, severing its connection to Heaven.
The Garden called to him now, and Remy answered, trudging across the frozen landscape, burning sword clutched firmly in his hand. The Seraphim was with him; Remy could feel him inside, burning in his muscles, joined with his being, no longer struggling for supremacy.
For now.
The angel nature must have understood; he must have realized that for them to survive there must be unity.
At least, that was what Remy hoped.
“A little help here,” said a voice, barely audible over the
polar winds.
At first it startled him; he had almost forgotten he hadn’t come here alone. He turned to see Jon supporting Izzy, who was bent over and vomiting onto the snow.
Remy returned to his friends, a sudden, burning spark of annoyance that he needed to do this confirming that the Seraphim was indeed with him in more than spirit.
“Feels like you turned me inside out,” Izzy slurred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“If it means anything, the more you do it, the less awful it feels,” Jon offered.
They were shivering with the cold, and Remy held out his burning blade, letting the heat of the sword warm them slightly.
“We might want to get moving,” he said, his attention drifting back to the open gates. “Before the cold finishes you two off.”
He started to walk, and they followed, eager to stay close to the warmth of the blade.
“Do you think they’re here?” Jon asked through chattering teeth.
Remy noticed patches of blood on the snow, and what appeared to be a crumpled tent off in the distance. The scent of violence, though fading in the wind, still wafted heavily on the frigid air.
“They’re here,” he said, stopping at the gates. “The last time I saw this place I locked the gates behind me.”
“Looks like they found a key,” Izzy said, carefully stepping from the ice onto the thick green grass.
“That’s exactly what they did,” Remy answered, staring into the Garden. The Seraphim was ready for anything. . . . Remy was ready for anything.
“So, what’s the plan?” Jon asked. The man had already begun to sweat profusely in the stifling heat radiating from the jungle.
Remy considered the question.
“We go in and we kill the bad guys,” he answered, and then started through the opening, into the Garden of Eden.
“That’s it?” Izzy asked, following Jon, who followed behind Remy. “Sure am glad you guys worked this out so carefully,” she griped. “For a while there I’d almost convinced myself this whole business was suicide.”
Her face was numb.
Linda led Marlowe into the lobby of her apartment building, letting the door slam closed on the cold behind them.
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