A Hundred Words for Hate

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Jon recoiled, his entire body shivering with the intensity of the agony. His gaze fell on the ground at his feet and he realized that where he was standing was inexplicably dead. The Garden around him was lush and thriving, but this area now appeared leached of life.

  And then he heard the sounds. They were coming from the dead zone, somewhere very close.

  Something was stirring.

  Something beneath the earth.

  And as it stirred, Jon felt himself growing sicker . . . weaker . . . as if his very life force were being sucked away.

  Remy had just finished leaving Linda Somerset a message, explaining that he’d be gone longer than he thought, but would make it up to her when he got back.

  First Mulvehill’s bottle of twenty-five-year-old Scotch and steak dinner, now Linda, and he was sure Marlowe would have something to say when he returned.

  Jon emerged from the bathroom, interrupting Remy’s thoughts. He was completely naked, and looked even paler, if that was possible.

  “We have to find the key right away,” he said, swaying on his bare feet.

  “I agree,” Remy said carefully. “I’ve already gone over the maps and I think—”

  “No.” Jon shook his head. “We have to get there fast. . . .”

  “Yes, I know, and I’m pretty sure I’ve mapped out the fastest route—”

  “Faster,” Jon interrupted, panting, as if he’d overexerted himself in the shower. “It has to be faster. We have to be there now.”

  Remy rushed to the man’s side as he began to fall, grabbing hold of his arm to steady him. “What’s happened, Jon?”

  “Something’s happening in the Garden,” he said, gasping. “Since Nathan did his thing I’m more connected. . . . I had a vision. . . . Something’s killing it.”

  “Did your vision show you what’s killing it?” Remy asked. “Is it Zophiel or . . .”

  “I don’t know what it is,” Jon said with a shake of his head.

  “So not only do we have to get the second half of the key and get Adam home; now we have to save the Garden as well.”

  “Looks like it,” Jon agreed. He pulled out the chair to the desk and sat, elbows resting on his bare knees. “We need to get to Louisiana as fast as possible, and the quickest way is you.”

  Remy didn’t like the sound of that. “Me?”

  Jon looked up, face pallid and sweating. “You’re an angel; I saw those wings when you rescued me from the wreckage of the dome.”

  “You want me to fly us there?”

  “Don’t play stupid, Remy,” Jon said. “You know you do more than fly.”

  “And you received your doctorate in angelology from what school?”

  “From the school of answering to one for more than seventy years,” Jon retorted.

  It was easy to forget how old Jon actually was, and how long he’d been in the company of Malachi.

  “I don’t know where we’re going,” Remy said. “I have to have some sort of connection.”

  “I do,” Jon said. “After Nathan ate the fruit and connected us to the Garden, it was like I was there.”

  Remy shook his head. “But it didn’t happen to me.”

  “It’s in my blood now. The scent of the place is in my blood.”

  Jon had received a gash on the side of his head in the biodome explosion, and although it had stopped bleeding some time ago, it appeared to be seeping a bit since his shower. He reached up, touched the wound, and held his bloodstained hand out to Remy.

  “You can follow a scent. Track this. . . . It should bring us there, or at least pretty close.”

  Louisiana: 1932

  Francis had become a regular at the Pelican Club.

  Leo, the big man on the porch, greeted him nightly with an accepting nod, and Cleo, his dog, with an excited wag of the tail.

  He was okay as far as they were concerned.

  If only they knew the truth.

  Melvin greeted him the same way from behind his two-by-four bar every night—with a big smile and a jelly jar full of moonshine.

  Francis liked being a regular, liked the fact that folks smiled at him as he entered, assuming he was one of them.

  If only they knew the truth.

  The Thrones had sent him here on a mission of murder, and as he sat on the rickety wooden stool, sipping moonshine whiskey from a jelly jar, he waited for his target.

  He had been waiting for days.

  It wasn’t that his target hadn’t made an appearance; in fact, she had been there every night. He liked to tell himself that he was waiting for the opportune moment.

  But he knew otherwise.

  It was always the same. He arrived at the Pelican intent on carrying out his assignment, but then she’d open her mouth to sing, and it was like nothing mattered anymore.

  Tonight the Swamp Angel was singing once again, but there was a difference; tonight she was looking at him. It was bad enough that her voice had such an effect on him, but now, as her eyes touched his, it was a whole new ball of wax.

  “I think somebody’s noticed you,” Melvin said as he used a rag to dry the inside of a recently washed jelly jar.

  “What are you talking about?” Francis asked, not able to tear his gaze away from the Angel.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about,” Melvin said. “You’d have to be dead not to notice.”

  The situation was going from bad to worse, and this target wasn’t even a real angel; she was human. Francis picked up his drink and retreated to one of the darker corners. He had to think.

  The Swamp Angel finished her first set, climbed down off the stage, and grabbed a drink from the bar. She and Melvin talked for a moment, both glancing toward Francis.

  Quickly the former Guardian angel willed himself invisible, appearing to humans as only another shadow in the darkness of the corner.

  The woman took her drink and headed toward him. And certain that he couldn’t be seen, Francis watched her, nearly mesmerized by her beauty. She was wearing a frilly white blouse and a blue skirt that came down past her knees. The clothes looked as though they might have had some years on them, but it didn’t matter. She wore them well.

  She stopped before him and took a dainty sip from her whiskey. “Do you like my singing?” she asked.

  Francis looked over his shoulder but there was no one else there.

  “Are you not answerin’ my question because you don’t, or are you just being rude?” she asked.

  She can see me.

  The Swamp Angel smiled, and held out a delicate hand. “Well, I’m not rude,” she said. “I’m Eliza. Eliza Swan.”

  Not good. Not good at all.

  The smell of Eden was most certainly in Jon’s blood.

  He had quickly dressed, then given Remy a facecloth he had used to wipe the blood from the laceration on his head.

  His blood reeked of magick, and Remy could follow magick.

  With the scent of Eden filling his nostrils, Remy reluctantly called upon the Seraphim. He felt the transformation begin, as his clothing shifted from cloth to armor, and wings of gold unfurled from his back. His angelic nature eagerly attempted to fully assert itself, but he forced it back, allowing only a small part of the divine power to come forth.

  Remy leaned in close to Jon, capturing a whiff of fresh blood from his still-weeping wound.

  An explosion of imagery filled his mind. He knew where they were going.

  “Are you ready for this?” Remy asked.

  Jon nodded, although his expression wasn’t as certain.

  Remy took hold of Jon’s shoulders and closed his wings around both of them. In his mind, he saw the place where they were headed and tightened the embrace of his wings as he felt reality begin to shift.

  The strong bleachy smell of the motel room was replaced with the thick aroma of honeysuckle and the heavy, damp smells of a swamp.

  They had arrived.

  Remy opened his wings, and Jon spilled out onto the ground, where he i
mmediately began to vomit.

  “Sorry about that,” Remy said as he took full control back, pushing away the fearsome visage of one of God’s soldiers. “I’ve heard it can be a little rough.”

  “S’okay.” Jon wiped his mouth and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  “So, where are we?” Remy asked, looking about the heavily wooded area.

  “It’s called Eden Parish,” Jon said, beginning to make his way through the forest.

  “Of course it is,” Remy said, following.

  Jon pushed through the thick underbrush to emerge in what looked like a small junkyard. Old, rusted-out cars were parked here and there, and a school bus without any wheels listed to one side, and appeared to be sinking into the soft earth.

  “Is this right?” Remy asked, the place not where he imagined one of the descendants of Eve to be found.

  “I think it is.” Jon continued to walk across the yard, past corroded car engines and shopping carts overflowing with pieces of scrap metal. There was a dilapidated trailer ahead, and Remy could see a small child sitting on some wooden steps that led up to a screen door.

  The child was filthy, and was playing with a black-and-white kitten in her lap.

  “Hello,” Jon said, smiling at the child.

  She looked at him and scowled before placing the kitten in the crook of her arm and heading toward the door.

  “It’s all right,” Remy said, stepping forward.

  The little girl had the screen door open halfway, but let it close, her eyes never leaving Remy’s.

  “I know what you are,” she said almost dreamily.

  “She can see me,” Remy said to Jon. “Really see me.”

  “She probably can,” Jon answered. “Just like I can see you.”

  “You can see me?” Remy asked him, surprised by the admission.

  “Certainly,” he said. “The original bloodlines are very attuned to all things divine. That’s how I found you in the park that night; I could see your glow.”

  “I glow?”

  The little girl clutched her kitten closer. “I know what he is, and I know what you are as well,” she said, scowling at Jon.

  “What am I, darling?” Jon asked, gently.

  “You’re one of the bad men,” she said.

  “He’s not bad,” Remy began to explain. “He’s a nice man who—”

  “No, to her I am bad,” Jon interrupted. “Remember, she’s a child of the original bloodline . . . of Eve’s original bloodline. . . . Our two lines have been at each other’s throats for millennia, one blaming the other for what transpired in the Garden. She can tell what I am, and hates me. It’s practically genetic.”

  The little girl stared at Jon, and Remy could feel her anger.

  “You know the old saying about how Eskimos have a hundred different words for snow?” Jon asked Remy.

  Remy nodded, having heard something like it before.

  “Well, they say that the Daughters of Eve have a hundred words for hate . . . all directed at the Sons of Adam.”

  A large woman, her gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, appeared at the screen door. “Lydia, get your ass in here.” She, opened the creaking door just enough for the child to scoot inside. “What the hell do you want?” she asked, turning her angry gaze on Jon and Remy.

  The woman’s not-so-pleasant disposition went from bad to worse as she continued to stare at Jon.

  “I was hoping you could help us,” he said as politely as he could.

  “You’ve got a lot of balls coming here,” the woman snarled. “We’ve killed people like you for less than trespassing around these parts.”

  “Please,” Jon said. “We don’t want any trouble, we just . . .”

  A shotgun muzzle slid out from behind the screen door, aimed at Jon’s chest.

  “We don’t like your kind in this parish,” she warned. “So if you don’t want to end up at the bottom of the swamp I suggest you take your sorry asses and get . . .”

  Remy stepped in front of Jon.

  “We don’t mean to cause you any problem, ma’am,” he said. At first he thought he might get shot, but gradually her expression began to soften, and she lowered her weapon.

  “What the hell is one’a you doing with the likes of him?” she asked, disgusted by the idea of anyone—never mind an angel—being seen with a Son of Adam.

  Jon bravely stepped out from behind Remy.

  “Haven’t you felt it?” he asked her.

  “Felt what?” she barked, the shotgun starting to rise again.

  “You know what I mean,” Jon said. “We’ve all been feeling it . . . all of us who are of the blood.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “I see it in my dreams,” Jon interrupted. “A place so beautiful that I wake up with my face soaked with tears. It was supposed to be our home . . . where the first of us were to live with our families, and our family’s families . . . forever.”

  Remy could see the woman’s eyes grow glassy with emotion. “But then there was the sin,” she mumbled.

  Jon moved closer to the steps. “But what if there’s a chance that sin could be forgiven?” he proposed eagerly. “That all the hate we have for one another . . . all the guilt, could be made to go away?”

  Tears were running down the woman’s leathery face as she stared at him from the doorway of the mobile home. “Why haven’t I shot you yet?” she asked, wiping away the tears with her free hand.

  “Because you can sense that what I’m saying is true,” Jon replied. “That there’s a chance they can finally be forgiven.”

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “There’s a house on stilts,” Jon said, gazing past the mobile home. “Out there in the swamp. I need to speak to the woman who lives there.”

  The woman’s expression turned to one of surprise.

  “What do you need her for? She’s crazy.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Jon said with a soft smile, and the woman smiled as well, the urge to kill him no longer a priority.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fernita’s poor old eyes blurred as she tried to focus on the latest row of foreign scribbles that adorned the wall of her living room, behind the sofa.

  Remy’s friend was with her, trying to get her to stop, but he just didn’t understand. Wiping the markings away . . . it was like washing a window covered in thick dirt, and finally being able to see what was on the other side.

  Some of the memories were horrible, yes, that was true, but others . . .

  Others were special beyond words.

  Louisiana: 1932

  She didn’t know why the man with thinning black hair caught her eye the way he had, but there was just something about him.

  Eliza had seen him out there in the audience every night for the last week, listening as she sang. Maybe it was the way he watched her, as if he could feel what she did as she sang her favorite songs.

  The songs made her feel whole. Complete.

  And it had been a very long time since she had felt complete.

  No one knew how long she’d been hanging around this sad old world. She knew that she didn’t look to be any older than her mid-twenties, but looks were deceiving.

  She was much, much older than that.

  Her grandmother once told her it had something to do with their bloodline, that they were one of the first, and it made them age slower.

  All Eliza knew was that she had experienced a lot of things in her life—war, slavery, freedom, of a sort—but nothing made her happier than singing her songs.

  Her family hadn’t approved of her singing in clubs. They kept telling her that her voice was a gift from the Lord, and she should use it only on special occasions. But Eliza couldn’t understand that. Why would the Almighty have given her this gift if she wasn’t allowed to share it with everybody?

  That was the question that made her leave her family, setting out for Louisiana in the middle of the night. That was why she was
here, sharing her songs with everyone. But tonight, for some reason, she didn’t really didn’t care about everyone. Tonight she wanted to share her songs with only this man.

  What is it about him?

  She’d seen him talking to Melvin, but her boss didn’t seem to know who the stranger was. Just some guy coming to hear her sing, he’d guessed.

  Still, she wanted to know, and decided she’d get what she needed from the horse itself.

  He seemed surprised that she was even talking to him, and now as she stood before him, hand out, waiting for him to reply, she wasn’t sure if he was just rude or touched.

  “I’m Pearly Gates,” he said finally, taking her hand in his.

  The moment was special beyond words.

  The moment that Eliza Swan fell in love.

  Zophiel flew just above the sea of clouds, a shark swimming the ocean waters following the scent of blood.

  One moment it was strong, taunting him with its proximity, and the next it was gone, driving him to the brink of madness.

  But he did not stop searching; this was what he had come to this world to find.

  What he had sworn to destroy.

  It was there again, wafting in the atmosphere. He took the scent into his being. This time it was strong, and growing stronger.

  His powerful wings, sheathed in the armor of God, beat the air with increasing fury, his speed intensifying as he followed the trail. The smell of it had become even more intense, his preternatural senses aroused to the brink of overload.

  Zophiel was so close.

  But he mustn’t become careless, for he had been this close before. . . .

  The memory bubbled up from the morass of his subconscious, reminding him of his folly.

  Zophiel had no recollection of how long he had been in the world of God’s man, or why, until he’d sensed the power.

  It called, teasing him with its poisonous taint. He did not know why he hated it so, only that he had to destroy it.

  Circling the land from above, the Cherubim found the source of his rage, and descended upon it with the combined shriek of his three faces.