Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

“What is all this?” Remy asked.

“This is what I do,” Garfial said. “I was kind of like the biologist of the Grigori. I was to keep tabs on the various life-forms that the Almighty had seeded the planet with, making sure that everything was going along as planned.” The angel paused, looking around his makeshift lab.

“Which it was. Which is why I became bored and…”

“You did something stupid,” Remy finished.

Garfial snarled. “You should talk. I’m not the one who killed Sariel and got us into the mess we’re currently in.”

Remy leaned against a table.

“Why don’t you fill me in on what my stupidity has supposedly done,” he said.

Garfial was staring at him now.

“There’s something off about you,” the angel said. “You’re different… There’s usually a scary vibe that isn’t there now.”

“Let’s just say I’m a bit under the weather.”

“Well, let’s just hope you’re functioning with all cylinders firing by the time things hit the proverbial fan,” Garfial retorted. He went to one of the steamed jars and carefully picked it up.

Remy watched as the fallen angel unscrewed the top of the jar and reached inside.

“I should have known killing Sariel would come back to bite me,” Remy said.

“And then some,” Garfial agreed, pulling something from the jar between his fingers. Whatever it was hung limply for a moment, dripping with a slimy substance, and then it began to move.

“This is one of the stupid things that I did when I got bored with the world of man,” the fallen said. “I learned how to create life.” The object dangling from Garfial’s fingers started to struggle, tiny arms and legs thrashing about, a faint squeal drifting in the air as the life-form showed its displeasure. “And then teaching humans how to do it was my next big mistake.”

Garfial placed the squirming, artificial life-form back inside the jar and screwed on the lid. “That one isn’t even remotely ready,” he stated. Setting the jar back down beside at least ten others, he wiped his hands on his black pants.

“You’re losing me,” Remy said.

“Believe it or not, this all has something to do with what’s going on,” Garfial said. “I learn how to produce artificial life, I teach some humans, the Lord gets pissed about that and some of our other dalliances, and the Grigori are condemned to Earth. And here we’ve been ever since.”

Remy had started to walk around the lab, only half listening as the Grigori continued to speak, until he noticed a large pile of damp-looking clay on a nearby table, and something clicked into place.

“Artificial life,” Remy said aloud, looking at him.

“You’re gonna have to keep up with me,” Garfial chided.

“You showed them how to make golems.”

“I did at that.” Garfial nodded. “And they got pretty good at it, too… Not as good as me, but still not so bad. Many human magick users put their own spin on these creatures.”

“Life-energy collectors,” Remy stated flatly.

Garfial smiled. “Now you’re catching up. So here the Grigori are, living among the humanity they corrupted, trying to make amends for what they did so they could someday go home.”

Remy would have smiled at the perversion of the facts, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“We were doing everything we could to get Heaven to notice us again, trying to make things right,” Garfial went on. “Sariel promised us that one day God would see us and how sorry we were, and welcome us back through the pearly gates with open arms.”

Remy couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“You guys worked with widows and orphans, right? Helped the homeless and unwed mothers? You make it sound like you were all playing on Mother Teresa’s team. I’ve seen some of the parties you guys threw.”

Garfial chuckled. “They were pretty intense, weren’t they?” He smiled at the memory. “Some of us really did believe that we were going to be forgiven… Personally, I like it here and couldn’t care less if I ever see the Golden City again. The Golden Banana on Route One was just as good to me, if you know what I mean.”

Sadly enough, Remy did. Living among humanity had done pretty much the same thing to him, minus the perversity and decadence.

“But like I said,” Garfial continued. “Some of us were actually working toward going home, but all that got thrown into the wood chipper when Sariel was killed.”

“He murdered Noah,” Remy said.

“Yeah, I know,” Garfial said. “But he was still our leader, and without him, many of us were lost.”

The fallen angel grew quiet, starting to move beakers of strangely colored fluid around, seemingly neatening up the space.

“After Sariel’s death, I kind of lost track of you guys,” Remy said.

“We became lost,” the fallen said. “More lost than we had ever been. You thought the parties we had before were wild… Days blended into weeks, into months… Without Sariel, we lost our purpose…our direction.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t last,” Remy said.

“No, it didn’t,” Garfial agreed. “A new leader rose in our ranks, and his name was Armaros…Sariel’s lover.”

Remy sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a table.

“And let me guess: He wants revenge.”

Garfial brushed off his table with the side of his hand. “You killed our shining star…our guiding light…”

“He was a murderer,” Remy stated.

“And Armaros loved him.”

“So now he wants the world to suffer for what I did?”

“Armaros wouldn’t admit that, but I’m sure it’s there, writhing beneath the surface,” Garfial said. “What he’s telling us is that he wants to make God notice the Grigori again…to really recognize how sorry we are.”

“And how does he intend to do that?” Remy asked.

Garfial’s eyes drifted to the television in the corner of the room, distracted by the frantic movement of what appeared to be The Price Is Right.

“I love this show,” the fallen angel said dreamily.

Remy waved a hand in the air. “Hello? World on the brink of something disastrous?”

“Sorry,” Garfial apologized, collecting his thoughts once more. “Sariel always believed that humanity was in such a state because of the path we led them down, and Armaros shared that belief.”

Remy waited for all the pieces to present themselves, forming an image he could understand.

“He believes that most of humanity has become godless, forgetting who’s responsible for their very existence. Armaros has concocted a plan to make humanity remember God…to fear Him as we know He should be feared.”

Tension started to form across Remy’s brow and at the back of his neck; a sign that he was about to learn something that wasn’t going to make him the least bit happy.

“This is where I come in to the picture,” Garfial said. “Even though I gave them the knowledge, it was the human magick users that perfected the artificial-life process, nudging and tweaking their creations to a whole new level.”

Remy waited silently for the head butt he was sure was coming.

“Armaros wanted me to join with one of these sorcerers, the most powerful of them all, to design and create a flawless piece of work-a tool to drive the faithless back into the Lord God’s arms.”

“A tool,” Remy repeated, confused.

Garfial snatched up a leather-bound journal, opening it and holding it out toward Remy. He saw exquisite drawings of two human figures, older women, and recognized them as the knitter and Clara.

“Golems.”

“Tools,” Garfial corrected. “Like the ladies upstairs who protect my workshop from prying eyes. Tools with a specific purpose and function.”