A Hundred Words for Hate

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  He landed in a crouch before the fragile wooden structure, the scent of his prey driving him forward. A sentry and its faithful four-legged beast attempted to bar his way, the human firing a noisy weapon that spit fire and flecks of metal, but to little avail.

  The Cherubim briefly admired the bravery of the human and his animal before turning the fires of Heaven upon their fragile forms, wiping away any evidence that they’d ever existed.

  The power continued to cry out from within the structure, and the Cherubim threw himself upon the closed wooden doors, taking them and most of the front wall down as he made his entrance.

  Screams of terror erupted from the human bugs inside, their frenzied attempts to escape a distraction from his purpose. The fire leapt from his fingertips, igniting the room and its scurrying inhabitants as it searched for the source of his outrage.

  The Cherubim’s three faces sniffed the air, the smell of forbidden power prevalent over the choking aromas of wood smoke and burning flesh.

  “There,” Zophiel proclaimed.

  His quarry stood, staring wide-eyed at his awesome visage. She was a woman, a human woman with a power so dangerous that it threatened Heaven itself.

  And nothing would stop him from destroying her.

  But something had stopped him.

  Zophiel hovered over the world as the memories flooding his brain became a trickle, and then trailed off to nothing.

  Something had prevented him from carrying out his duty, but the memory of what it was eluded him. The Cherubim was frustrated, and that quickly turned to anger. He turned his attention toward the Earth below, knowing that the answers he sought would be found there, amongst the hairless monkeys that had captured the love of the Heavenly Father. Strangely enough, this thought calmed him, the knowledge that he would soon have answers to temporarily sate his fury. The Cherubim returned to the hunt, finding the elusive scent again, and flying toward it.

  This time he would not be stopped.

  The woman had agreed to take them.

  Remy sat across from Jon in the boat, the woman at the back, steering with the craft’s outboard motor. Behind them, the little girl stood on the wooden dock watching them leave, kitten still clutched in her arms.

  “I don’t know how she’ll feel about this,” the woman said as she piloted the craft through the thick, brackish waters, between twisted, primordial-looking trees hanging thick with moss.

  “We’ll just explain ourselves like we did with you,” Jon said, slapping at the bugs that were trying to feast upon his blood.

  “Huh,” the woman responded, taking them deeper and deeper into the swamp.

  Remy let his senses wander. There was something here, something ancient and powerful. He could feel it emanating from the trees, from the animals that hid as they approached, from the water.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said as the boat moved deeper into the swamp’s embrace.

  “It is,” the woman replied. “But that beauty’ll kill you if you’re not careful.”

  “I’m sure it would.” Remy watched an alligator, at least eight feet long, slither from a mud-covered bank into the still, oily water, where it disappeared.

  “How much longer?” Jon asked, still slapping at bugs that seemed intent on eating him alive. The bugs didn’t bother Remy—he had lowered his body temperature so as not to be all that enticing.

  “Not long,” the woman said.

  The swamp grew thicker—denser—almost completely blocking out the rays of the hot sun as if night had suddenly fallen.

  “There,” the woman said, pointing through the thick mist rising from the water at something in the distance ahead.

  At first Jon and Remy couldn’t see anything, but then they saw . . . something.

  It was a single, tiny ball of orange, and then there was another, resembling a set of fiery eyes peering out through the darkness, but that illusion was dispelled by the appearance of another, and another after that. Multiple orbs of light hung in the mist, like stars in the sky, before Jon and Remy could figure out what they were seeing.

  Before the thick, smoky mist pulled apart like a delicate spiderweb, and they saw the stilt house, looking like some large, prehistoric beast standing in the midst of the swamp on tree trunk-sized legs. Burning lanterns hung from the structure.

  “It’s almost as if she knows we’re coming,” Jon said, his eyes never leaving the house.

  “Oh, she knows,” the woman said.

  Remy’s sense of an ancient power was even stronger here. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end as they drew closer.

  A wooden ladder hung from the elevated platform, and the woman piloted the boat as close as she could before cutting off the engine.

  “This is as far as I go,” she said.

  Jon stood, grabbing for the ladder. “Maybe you should join us,” he said. “Help explain that we don’t mean her any harm.”

  “She doesn’t need to hear anything from me,” the woman said. “She’ll make up her own mind about you.”

  Remy stood carefully so as not to tip the boat, and joined Jon at the ladder.

  “Thank you for this,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she answered. “Whatever happens from here on is out of my hands.”

  “Thank you for not shooting me,” Jon said, starting to climb the ladder.

  The woman laughed. “You might be wishing I did after you’ve dealt with Izzy.”

  Remy followed Jon up onto the platform, the two of them watching as the woman piloted her motorboat back into the embrace of the thick swamp mist. Not only did it swallow her up, but it swallowed the sound of the outboard as well, leaving them alone in an eerie silence.

  “I suggest we get this over with,” Jon said, reaching up to adjust his hearing aid as he turned and walked toward the front door of the house. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can reconnect with Adam and Malachi and . . .”

  A woman stood in the open doorway.

  Jon noticed her with a start, jumping back and bumping into Remy.

  She was older at first glance, but exactly how old was tricky. She looked forty, but could have very easily been sixty, considering her pedigree. She had smoky skin and piercing, light-colored eyes. She was wearing a loose-fitting cotton top and a flowing peasant skirt in multiple colors. She was exotically attractive, but what really stood out was her hair, long and frizzy with streaks of white—like lightning bolts shooting from her scalp and running through the length of her wavy curls.

  “Well, hello,” Jon said, recovering quickly. “I’m Jon, and this is Remy, and we’ve come to—”

  “I know why you’ve come,” she said. Remy didn’t like her tone and immediately went on full alert. “I’ve been waiting for a long time.”

  Her eyes gave the first sign that they were in trouble. In less than a second, they changed from a light shade that could have been the palest green to something dark and murky, like the swamp waters surrounding them.

  The many bracelets adorning her wrists jangled noisily in the stillness as her hands shot out to either side of her, supernatural energy leaking from the tips of her fingers. Remy could feel the power start to surge, permeating the air as it intensified. It was all happening too fast.

  The magick was loose, charging the very air around them with an aura of danger. Remy pushed Jon aside, moving to the forefront in an attempt to quell their growing predicament, but it was too late for that, and she told him so.

  “You’re too late, angel,” she said, with a smile that showed off pearly white teeth and bands of magickal energy squirming across their ivory surface. “I’ve prepared for the likes of you two.”

  The winds began to howl, and the still waters seethed. The trees seemed to be moving—snaking closer to converge on the stilt house. The wood beneath their feet began to vibrate, and Remy was forced, yet again, to call upon the power of the Seraphim. But again he wasn’t fast enough.

  Something surged up, something
sculpted from the mud and water and wildlife of the swamp.

  The monster was in human form, mouth like a swirling vortex opened to roar its might, but it was like nothing Remy had ever seen before. It towered above the platform, then flowed down in a tsunami of thick, foul-smelling mud, to snatch them from their perch.

  Dragging them down into the murky depths.

  Louisiana: 1932

  Francis was totally smitten by Eliza Swan.

  He had never felt anything like this before. Certainly he’d had his dalliances with human women over the numerous centuries he’d been on Earth cleaning up God’s messes, but none had ever managed to touch him so precisely . . . so deeply.

  It was like magick.

  He was at the Pelican Club again, listening to Eliza sing, and this time he knew that she sang to him.

  Her voice made him feel more alive than he had in forever. It made him forget the dark days of war, when he slew his brothers in the name of a cause that he eventually came to realize was insane. She made him truly feel.

  As if he were loved by God again.

  But no matter how loved he was feeling, it didn’t change the fact that he’d been given an assignment, and the Thrones weren’t all that crazy about insubordination.

  Eliza Swan was supposed to die, and he was the one who had to see to it she did. The Thrones wanted Eliza’s blood for whatever reason, and they would not be denied.

  She was singing one of his personal favorites, a beautiful, melancholy tune called “Searching for Paradise,” and he let her sweet, sweet voice wash over him.

  This one is something special, he thought, wondering why the Thrones would want her dead. Maybe it was the spell she seemed to have over anyone who heard her voice.

  She finished her song to wild applause, and flashed Francis an amazing smile from the stage, leaving no doubt she’d sung that song for him.

  There had to be a solution to this problem that didn’t involve killing her. Part of him argued to just do the job and move on—that nothing, and no one, was more important than being able to pass through the gates of Heaven again and bask in the glory of the Almighty.

  He imagined that was the same part of his nature that had been beguiled by the words of the Morningstar. He shouldn’t have listened then, and he wasn’t going to now.

  He picked up his drink, and it was about halfway to his mouth when he felt it, a strange tingling in his spine. He’d heard humans make reference to the sensation as someone walking over their grave, and he couldn’t have said it better himself. Although it was just the feeling he got when others of his kind were around.

  Francis scanned the room. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, doubting he’d see the flaming, eye-covered orbs of the Thrones floating around the Pelican, but then again, he hadn’t followed through on his orders, and the Thrones were impatient sons of bitches.

  But it wasn’t the Thrones. It was an angel, tall and dressed to the nines in a dark suit and tie. The angel’s human guise was a striking one, with hair and beard of glacial white. He looked like some sort of aristocrat who had decided to see how the simple folk lived.

  He was headed directly for Francis, other patrons instinctively moving aside, allowing him to pass.

  Francis casually set his jar of moonshine down, letting his arm brush against his coat pocket. The Enochian dagger was still there, resting . . . waiting . . . eager for another taste of angel blood.

  But he would wait, see what the creature of the divine wanted first. Who knew, maybe he just stopped by for a drink, saw Francis, and was coming over to say hi.

  And maybe pigs had suddenly learned to fly.

  Eliza was wailing beautifully upon the stage, this time accompanied only by the fat man—Big James—on his guitar.

  Francis watched her, but was totally aware of the angel now standing before him. “Can I help you with something?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the woman onstage.

  “No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” the angel said, his voice oozing authority.

  Francis glanced quickly at the angel and was surprised to see that he too was staring at Eliza.

  “I believe we’ve both found what we’re looking for,” the angel said.

  “Maybe you should start by telling me who you are and what you want,” Francis said, feeling what could only have been sharp pangs of jealousy.

  The angel slowly turned his gaze to meet Francis’s.

  “I am Malachi,” he said in a way that made Francis think it should have meant something to him.

  “Am I supposed to know you?” he asked, retrieving his whiskey from where he’d placed it on the floor beside his stool. “Because I’m sorry to say I have no idea who you are . . . other than you’re obviously from that grand ballroom upstairs.”

  “Grand ballroom?” Malachi questioned, before it eventually dawned on him. “I see, you make light of the Kingdom.” He nodded ever so slowly to show he understood, but Francis doubted that he really did. “You’re trying to be like them—the humans. I could never understand the need for this sense of humor. It was a trait I would have deemed worthless in the initial design, but the Allfather saw things differently.”

  Malachi’s words were like a jab with a sharp stick. This talk of design and the Allfather piqued the former Guardian angel’s curiosity to the extreme.

  “Now do you know who I am?” Malachi asked.

  Francis knew of a powerful angel, one of the first to be created. It was he and the Morningstar who had stood by the Lord God’s side as He created the Heavens and the Earth below.

  And yes, he had been called Malachi, but why would an angel of such power be here?

  “You’re that Malachi?” Francis asked, hoping that he was mistaken.

  “I am,” the angel said.

  “But why are you here?”

  “I am here for the same reason you are,” Malachi said, staring at the stage where Eliza and her band were deciding what song they would do next.

  Francis’s hand drifted down toward his pocket. “You’re here to kill her.”

  “No.” Malachi looked at him. “To save her.”

  Francis’s head was spinning, and he was about to ask the angel to step outside so they could talk freely when there came a horrible commotion—the sound of smashing glass and splintering wood, followed by the screams of the Pelican Club patrons.

  Francis jumped from his stool, removing the deadly blade from his pocket. The screams intensified as the air became rank with the smell of burning flesh and something else.

  Something divine.

  The smell of angel.

  The cries of the fearful and the dying replaced Eliza’s songs. Francis watched in growing horror as the club’s patrons, engulfed in fire, ran to escape, too terrified to realize that they were already dead as the hungry flames burned them to nothing.

  A Cherubim emerged from the smoke with a discordant roar. It had been a very long time since Francis had last seen one of the more beastly of the Heavenly hosts. The Cherubim were the Lord’s guard dogs, and he briefly considered the fate of Leo and Cleo on the front porch of the establishment.

  What is something like that doing here? Francis wanted to know.

  He watched as Melvin stood bravely before the forbidding angel, grabbing hold of a chair and swinging it wildly at its multiple faces in an attempt to drive it back.

  It was the face of the lion that decided the club owner’s fate, its ravenous jaws opening to ridiculous proportions, snatching the man up, and biting him in half.

  Francis had seen enough.

  He was moving toward the Cherubim, knife poised and ready. But something grabbed hold of his arm with a steely grip.

  Francis spun around and looked into the face of the angel Malachi.

  “You won’t do much damage with the likes of that,” the elder angel said, making reference to Francis’s Enochian blade.

  The Cherubim lifted its trifaced head, and its multiple eyes locked upon the angels. He spre
ad his wings, fanning the smokefilled air eagerly before he started to charge.

  “He’s looking for her,” Malachi said, taking his eyes briefly from the monstrosity coming at them to look at Eliza frozen upon the stage.

  “Eliza!” Francis cried out, noticing for the first time that she was still inside.

  But the Cherubim had noticed her too, changing his course and barreling across the club floor, tossing tables and chairs aside as if they were nothing.

  “Get her to safety,” Malachi ordered. “You have to protect her for me.”

  Then Francis saw that the angel held his own weapon in hand, a blade, long and narrow, that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and looked as though it might have been made from a piece of the sun.

  And for a brief moment, Francis actually believed that the two of them had a chance against the rampaging Cherubim.

  Right before Malachi plunged the burning dagger into Francis’s eye.

  Hell

  Francis screamed at the top of his lungs, struggling against the restraints that held him upon the stone table.

  Malachi withdrew his blade, the smell of burning angel flesh trailing behind it like a tail.

  “There,” the angel lord said, placing a cold, dirty hand against Francis’s hot, sweating brow.

  “What did you do to me?” Francis asked, his voice nothing more than a strained whisper.

  “I made you forget,” Malachi replied with a knowing smile. Hell rumbled outside the caves, sending shock waves through the mountains. Dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling upon them. “But I left you with enough to do what needed to be done.”

  Malachi turned and picked up a bucket nearby.

  “She had to be protected,” he said, pulling a ladle of water from the bucket and bringing it to Francis’s lips. “And I could think of no one better to do that than a member of the Guardian host.”

  Francis did not want the water; he wanted answers, but as the ladle touched his lips he slurped greedily until Malachi took it away.