The angel tensed as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it. There was no mistaking the smell wafting out from within his office. He listened to the clacking sound as the bolt slid back, unlocking his office door. It had been quite some time since he had last breathed in that thick, heady aroma. To the human nose, it would smell like a strange mix of cinnamon and burning tires.
To an angel, it smelled of power.
Remy turned the knob and swung open the door.
They were waiting for him. Four of them, each dressed in stylish suits of solid black with white shirts buttoned up to their throats. They stood before his desk, their broad backs to him, unresponsive to his entrance.
Remy entered the office just as he did any other day of the week, putting his keys back in his pocket and gently shutting the door. He placed his mail in a wicker basket that rested atop a gray file cabinet to the right of the door. The basket had once contained a plant sent to him as thanks from a satisfied customer, but not anymore. He had never been very good with plants.
His visitors still did not move, and Remy continued to act as if they weren't there, grabbing the glass carafe from the coffeemaker that sat on a small brown refrigerator on the other side of the file cabinet. He leaned over, opened the fridge, and removed a jug of springwa-ter. He filled the carafe, then placed the water jug back inside. Allowing the refrigerator door to close by itself, he turned to finally acknowledge his guests.
“Coffee?” he asked, plucking a filter from a box. He placed it in the machine and filled it with several scoops of the rich-smelling brew, then poured the contents of the glass carafe through the plastic grill on top and flicked the switch to on. The machine gurgled to life.
He knew them, these silent visitors, each and every one of the strange figures who stood perfectly still before his empty desk, staring off into space. They were Seraphim, one of the highest orders of angels in the kingdom of Heaven. At one time, they had been his brothers.
One of the Seraphim slowly turned his gaze away from the wall and fixed the detective with an intense, unblinking stare. The eyes were large and completely black, the actual look of the human eyeball a detail considered trivial by its wearer. His name was Nathanuel, and he was their leader.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Remy knew it had been some time since the angel last wore the clothes of flesh, remembering the difficulty he himself had encountered after his decision to be human. “Coffee. Yes, I would enjoy coffee.” The voice sounded wrong, the cadence off. Human speech was far more complicated than any angel knew.
The coffeemaker hissed and burbled loudly as the final drops of water passed through its innards.
“Hope you like it strong. It gets me through the day.”
He was talking to them as if they were new clients – as if they were of this earth. That was a mistake.
Nathanuel laughed suddenly, harshly. It was how the angel imagined a human laugh should sound, but no human would have recognized as laughter the strange barking noise that sounded entirely bestial.
Remy looked over at the Seraphim leader.
“Something wrong?”
Nathanuel continued to stare at him. “You need coffee to keep you going. That is amusing.”
Remy turned back to the coffeepot. “Yeah, a real riot.” He set two mugs down, a black and an olive green, then looked toward the other Seraphim who were still engrossed in the empty wall behind his desk. “Anybody else? I've got a whole pot here.”
None responded, showing as much life as department store mannequins.
“They are not as... daring as I,” offered Nathanuel.
He watched as Remy, carrying the two mugs of steaming coffee, careful not to spill them, walked to his chair behind the desk.
“Please, take a seat.” Remy motioned with his chin to the angel leader as he prepared to sit.
Nathanuel looked at the comfortable chair to the right of the desk, his shiny, dark eyes taking in every detail.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
The others were suddenly attentive, watching their leader as he sat, as fascinated with that act as they had been with the wall.
Remy had placed his cup on a cardboard coaster advertising the latest in light beers. He tossed another coaster in front of the Seraphim before placing Natha-nuel's coffee mug atop it. “How do you like it? Cream? Sugar? I drink mine black.”
The Seraphim leader studied the steaming mug on the desk in front of him. He reached out with both hands, gripped the cup, and brought it stiffly to his face. The angels standing around him leaned forward in unison.
“I will drink it as you do,” Nathanuel answered.
The Seraphim leaned closer still, watching with rapt attention as their leader brought the steaming cup to his lips and gulped the scalding fluid.
“Careful, that's hot,” Remy cautioned.
Then he watched the angel's expression turn from fascination to sudden pain and confusion as the hot liquid burned his throat. Coffee dribbled from the corners of his mouth, leaving angry red welts.
“You're supposed to sip it,” Remy said shortly. “Coffee is for sipping.”
“I do not see the enjoyment in this,” Nathanuel said coldly, gently touching the seared flesh with his unusually long fingertips.
He set his mug down on the desk, ignoring the coaster, as the others hovered over him, studying his burns and nodding their agreement with his assessment.
Remy took a sip from his own cup. The angels now studied his every movement. “Practice,” he said, savoring the hot refreshment.
Then he set his mug down and met Nathanuel's black, soulless gaze. “So, what are you doing here?” he asked. “I'm smart enough to know that this isn't a social call. Heaven doesn't work like that – or it least it never used to.” He picked up a pen and tapped it impatiently on a notepad before him.
Nathanuel squirmed, the burns already starting to fade. “The experience of being human – it is not to my liking.”
Remy shrugged, leaning back in his chair.
“It's not for everybody. What do you want?”
The angel leader smiled. It didn't look right; far too many teeth. It reminded Remy of a trip to the New England Aquarium, where he was given the opportunity to take a good, long look at a shark. He remembered staring at the gray-skinned beast as it gracefully cut through the water in search of prey – an animal to fear.
Nathanuel's smile was suddenly gone. “Masquerading as one of the Creator's special monkeys brings you pleasure. I do not see it.”
Remy leaned forward again, his eyes blinking angrily. “I'm not asking you to. What I am asking, for the last time, is what you want.”
The Seraphim leader seemed taken aback by Remy's open hostility, as he looked to his brothers and then back to the detective. “We have need of you, Remiel, not as an angel, but as what you pretend to be.”
Remy didn't like the sound of that and quickly rose from his seat. He definitely needed more coffee. The Seraphim were silent, their heads turning smoothly, following his every move. He poured himself another full cup, set the half-empty container down, and took a sip.
“You need what I pretend to be? Explain,” he demanded.
Nathanuel again tried a smile. It was equally as horrible as his first try. “Do not pretend that you have not felt something amiss in the natural world. You have not so completely disconnected yourself from your true origins.”
The detective thought of the bizarre events of the past few days, his visit to the hospital that afternoon weighing especially heavily on his mind.
“You feel it as we do,” Nathanuel continued. “You see it with your faux human eyes.”
Remy placed his cup on top of the refrigerator and leaned back against an old steam radiator. “People aren't dying,” he said quietly. “Souls aren't being claimed. Is that what this is about?”
“Israfil is missing,” Nathanuel answered in a flat, emotionless tone. “The Angel of Death has disappeared.”
; Remy had already suspected the truth, but hearing it come from the mouths of creatures such as these made it twice as disturbing.
“The scrolls are missing as well,” Nathanuel added, interrupting Remy's thoughts.
He didn't think it was possible, but the situation was actually getting worse.
“From the expression on your face, we see that you understand the magnitude of this problem,” the Seraphim leader said.
Remy returned to his desk with his drink, not sure of how to respond.
“The scrolls – have any been opened?” he asked.
Slowly, Nathanuel shook his head. “But the forces that will be called down upon the world if they should be opened have already sensed that something is amiss. They are restless.”
Remy looked down at the star shape he had doodled on his notepad earlier. He picked up his pen and drew a circle around it. He could feel the eyes of the Seraphim upon him, and looked up into their dark gaze. He knew why they had come – what they wanted from him.
“You want me to find Israfil.”
Nathanuel brought his hands together in a silent clap and then pointed at Remy with a long index finger. He noticed the Seraphim leader's fingers had no nails, another unimportant feature of the human design.
“That is what your God wants, Archangel.”
“Why me?” he asked. “Last time I checked, I wasn't quite in favor with the Heavenly powers.”
Nathanuel thought for a moment, cocking his head, birdlike, to one side. “You are the best of both worlds, so to speak. You are of Heaven, but you also know the ways of man.”
Remy laughed nervously, tapping the notepad with his pen.
“You mean to tell me that with all your power, you can't find one of your own?”
There was a flash of something in Nathanuel's black eyes. Anger, perhaps. The angel did not care to be questioned. He never had.
“Israfil is one of our most powerful. For reasons unknown, he has chosen to hide his presence from us.”
Remy was getting close to the meat of the problem.
“Why?” he asked. “Why is the Angel of Death hiding? Why has he forsaken his responsibilities? You must know something more.”
Again there was a spark in those horrible, incomplete eyes. The corners of Nathanuel's mouth began to twitch. The others watched their master, alert to the growing intensity of his mood.
“As you are well aware, this world has an adverse effect on certain members of our kind. It makes them take leave of their senses.”
The other Seraphim again nodded in agreement with Nathanel's words.
“We believe that Israfil has grown too enamored with this place and the human animals that populate it. There is a chance he may have gone so far as to don human form and move amongst them.”
Remy smiled, but there was little humor in it.
“Heaven forbid.”
“There are even rumors that he may have become romantically involved with one of the natives,” Natha-nuel said, a look of disgust spreading across his long, pallid features. “It's almost more than I can bear.”
A spark of anger ignited in Remy.
“The way you talk and look at me, Nathanuel, it's as if you blame me for Israfil's actions.”
The Seraphim chief slowly rose from his seat. The others stepped back, allowing their leader his space.
“In Heaven, you are looked upon as a rebel, Remiel of the host Seraphim. And for reasons unbeknownst to me, some find what you have done... attractive.”
Remy stood as well, placing the tips of his fingers on the desktop and leaning forward.
“What if I were to tell you that I don't want anything more to do with our kind, now or in the future? What if I told you to find the Angel of Death yourself?”
Nathanuel smiled yet again. There may have been progress there, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
“You play the part so well, Remiel, so full of righteousness and anger. You must be enjoying yourself.”
The detective had had enough. “Get out,” he told them. “You and the news you bring have nothing to do with me. I'm not part of that world anymore. I'm sorry, but I can't help.”
Nathanuel's stare grew more intense, the wet surface of his shiny black eyes seeming to roil. “And what world will you be part of when the seals are broken, the scrolls unfurled, and the Horsemen rain death and destruction down upon this one? Will you then seek the forgiveness of Heaven? I'm curious.”
Remy bit his tongue as he attempted to keep his anger in check. Nathanuel turned and slowly made his way toward the door. The other Seraphim followed. At the door, he stopped and looked back at Remy.
“Find Israfil or don't – it matters not to me. The Creator dispatched us with this message for you, and we have performed our appointed task. He always did have a soft spot for this miserable ball of dirt and its filthy inhabitants.”
The door had not opened, but the other Seraphim were suddenly gone.
“Hey, Nathanuel,” Remy called, taking his seat again.
There was genuine annoyance on the angel's human countenance.
He certainly is learning quickly.
Remy picked up his coffee mug and drained the last of its contents. It was cold, bitter. Similar to how he was feeling. He gestured to the angel chief with the empty mug.
“We didn't discuss my fee. You don't expect me to work for nothing, do you?”
“Fee, yes,” Nathanuel answered thoughtfully, slowly nodding his head. “Is averting the Apocalypse not payment enough?”
Remy leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. “Sounds fair to me,” he said with a wry smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
The afternoon was shot.
Remy still sat at his desk, chair pushed back as far as it could go. Hands behind his head, he gazed up, deep in thought, at the cracked plaster ceiling. Everything that had happened since yesterday now made a twisted sort of sense.
The Angel of Death was missing. It explained everything: Mountgomery and Carol Weir, the cries of the trapped souls at Mass General, pleading to be set free.
He thought about how huge this was, how everything that lived upon the planet, everything that exhibited some form of sentience, human or not, had a soul and would be affected. Without Israfil, nothing could die; no matter the level of suffering, the solace of death would remain unattainable.
And then it hit him like a ton of bricks dropped from the Prudential Tower.
“Shit,” he said, putting his hands over his face as he sat forward in the chair, the enormity of what had been dropped into his lap finally sinking in. “Shit. Shit.
Shit.”
Remy grabbed his mug and stood, heading to the coffeepot for a refill. His hand was shaking as he picked up the carafe, and it took a concentrated effort for him to keep from spilling the hot drink.
A Kiss Before the Apocalypse Page 6