Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

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 immediately 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.