Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

Jon was staring at him, trying to read the expression on his face.

“What is it?” he started to ask, but was interrupted by Izzy, who was handing another photograph to Remy.

“This is the only one I have of my dad,” she said. “I don’t know what it was for, or who even took it, but one of the Daughters gave it to me to remember him by.”

The picture was old and grainy. It looked as though it might have been taken inside some sort of club. All the patrons were black, and Remy recognized a young Fernita Green—Eliza Swan—singing on a stage.

“Daddy’s the one in the front row staring at Mama as if there wasn’t another living person on the planet,” Izzy said proudly.

The photo was black-and-white, and the man whom Izzy pointed out as her father was a tad blurry, but he looked pretty much the same as the last time Remy had seen him, other than having a little bit more hair—and being black.

Remy knew Pearly Gates by another name.

He knew him as Francis, and suddenly things became a whole lot more interesting.

And dangerous.

“We have to leave,” Remy said, standing quickly. “We have to get back to Massachusetts right away.”

Hell

The memories actually helped to lessen the pain.

Francis let his mind go, allowing the buried recollections to float to the surface as they attempted to squeeze themselves between what he did remember, changing the past to something altogether new.

Brockton, Massachusetts: 1953

Eliza was crying.

She understood why it had to be this way, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“How much will it take from me?” she asked softly.

Pearly knelt at the base of the wall, drawing strange symbols with a black paint that he’d made from crushing hard-shelled beans grown inside a dead man’s skull, and mixing the powder with a bit of blood from each of them.

“Most,” he said, working on the symbols from memory. They had to be laid out just right, or they wouldn’t work.

“You?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Izzy?”

The mention of their child just about broke him. He had never imagined he could feel such pain.

“I’ll mostly be gone,” he said, feeling as if the blade of his Enochian dagger had been thrust through his heart. This whole situation was killing him, but he kept telling himself over and over again that it was for her own good—it would keep her alive.

If he didn’t . . . if they stayed together . . . she was as good as dead.

“You’ll remember me as somebody you knew . . . but little more than an acquaintance.”

The forces of Heaven wanted Eliza Swan dead, and Pearly was going to do everything in his power to see that they didn’t get their way. The magick originally used to hide her from the Thrones would work on beings of that power level for only so long, which was why Malachi had suggested something more . . . permanent.

Eliza began to sob, and Pearly had to fight the urge to go to her, to take her into his arms and tell her that everything would be all right.

Because then he’d be lying.

Everything wasn’t going to be all right.

When he finished this spell, her memory would be incomplete; huge gaps of her past would be missing; characteristics that defined her as who she was as a person, gone.

In effect, she would be somebody else.

The elder had told him to take her away, to hide her from the eyes of those who would do her harm. He still wasn’t sure why Malachi was so keen to protect her, other than the fact that he had said she was special . . . and important for the future. It made Pearly a little uncomfortable, but he would do anything to protect Eliza.

Massachusetts was as good a place as any. The former Guardian angel had always had a fondness for New England. And he had met somebody very special here once, one of his own—an angel of Heaven—and his being here, in the same state as Eliza, made Pearly feel that much safer about leaving her.

He stopped his work momentarily, wiping his hands upon a rag before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He removed a business card—the Seraphim’s business card. He lived among the humans, as a human. This angel—this Remy Chandler—helped them as a private investigator. A detective.

“Take this,” he told Eliza, handing her the business card.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice still shaking with emotion as she read the card.

“If there ever comes a time that you need help,” he assured her, “this man will help you. That’s what he does . . . he helps people.”

Her lips mouthed the name.

“I don’t understand,” she said as the tears flowed from her eyes.

“You will if it’s necessary,” he said. “He’s a good man. . . .”

“Like you?” Eliza said, reaching out to touch his face, but he stepped away to avoid her tender touch.

“Not like me at all,” Pearly said, the faces of the angels and the men that he’d killed in service to the Thrones flashing before his mind’s eye.

He returned to his work, finishing the last of the sigils before climbing slowly to his feet.

Eliza had become strangely quiet. Pearly turned toward her and found her simply standing, staring off into space, not noticing him, the angelic magick already going to work on her.

He hated this more than anything he’d ever experienced in his very long existence, but Malachi had said that it was necessary to protect her. And Pearly would do anything in his power to keep her safe.

Even if it meant losing her forever.

He watched her as she stood there, her eyes glazed as they traced the symbols drawn upon the wall. And as her eyes finished their review, the marks gradually faded away, blending with the paint of the wall.

She wouldn’t even know they were there, keeping her hidden from those who wished to do her harm.

Pearly stood beside her, resisting the urge to reach out to her, resisting the urge to take her into his arms and hold her for one last time. She would be safe here in the life he had created for her. The house was paid for, and there was money in a special bank account, the residuals of his being on the Earth for so many years, and having such a knack for killing. Somebody always wanted someone dead, and he was more than happy to oblige—for a price—when not kowtowing to the Thrones.

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, and that he was sorry. . . .

But she didn’t even know he was there.

Eliza blinked her beautiful brown eyes, and then went about her business, humming a tune, strangely off-key, as she assumed the functions of her new life. Even her talent for song had been taken away.

Pearly stopped at the door for one final look. She was in the kitchen, putting some glasses away in the cabinet.

“You take care of yourself, Fernita Green,” he called out, using her new name.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the New England cold. He liked this part of the world, the change in seasons. He hoped that Eliza . . . Fernita . . . would like it too.

Francis took one final look at the house in the quiet Brockton neighborhood as he stood upon the walk.

He had never imagined that he could feel such pain, and not even have a sword plunged through his chest.

Malachi had been very specific that they meet after he had hidden Eliza away. The abandoned church in Italy’s San Genesio seemed just as good a place as any.

Francis pushed open the door and stepped into the run-down structure to see the elder sitting in one of the pews, gazing up to where a crucifix had once hung. There was a stain against the yellow wall over the altar in the shape of the cross.