Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

Malachi admired the glint of his blade.

The information he had been seeking for so very long, extracted from the brain of the fallen Guardian, dangled wetly from its tip.

“Hello, lovely,” he purred.

How long had he waited for this moment? The elder truly couldn’t say. The time spent confined within an icy cell in Tartarus had seemed like an eternity. But he’d had his transgressions to keep him company, and his plans for the future of the universe, while he patiently waited for the inevitable to occur.

The fruit of the Tree had shown him a possible future; he just needed to have the patience to wait for it to happen.

“Eliza,” Francis hissed from the stone table below him.

Malachi glanced down at the former Guardian, whose gaze was locked upon the drop of hidden knowledge hanging from the edge of the scalpel.

“Oh, yes,” the elder agreed. “It’s all about the lovely Eliza . . . without whom I would never be able to enter the Garden.”

Francis struggled to speak. “Hidden . . .”

“Yes . . . yes, she was, but now she is found,” Malachi said happily. “I would thank you for keeping this for me, but I seriously doubt you’d accept my gratitude.”

He watched as Francis’s mouth moved fitfully as it attempted to shape more words.

“What is it?” Malachi asked. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

“K-kill you,” Francis managed, eyes blazing with a repressed rage.

“You would try, wouldn’t you,” Malachi told him. “The only hope for the future and you would see it dead.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s how we have come to this,” Malachi proclaimed. He motioned toward the passage from the cave. The howls and rumbles of Hell were all the louder.

“The Morningstar is free, and here we are at the precipice of war once more . . . all of creation hanging in the balance. It’s time for a level head to prevail.”

Malachi held the scalpel up to his face and studied the thread of knowledge, careful not to let it fall. His servant in the world beyond needed it. With a quick jab, he plunged the razor-sharp instrument, and the retrieved information resting on the tip, through the flesh of his forehead and on into his skull.

Malachi gasped aloud as he felt the scalpel blade—and the prized knowledge—enter his mind in a heated rush that was not too far from pleasurable.

“There,” the elder said, yanking the surgical tool from his head with nary a drop of blood. “He should have everything he needs.”

He returned his attention to Francis.

“And we are that much closer to success.”

The former Guardian glared up at him weakly, hate shooting from his eyes. Malachi hadn’t expect him to understand. Francis was part of the old ways, averse to change, even though it was all for the better.

Malachi leaned closer, the dim light of the cave reflecting off the scalpel in his hand. He could see Francis tense, but instead of cutting his flesh, Malachi cut through the leather straps that bound the fallen angel.

Malachi stepped back, watching as Francis slowly—painfully—sat up.

“I—I don’t understand,” Francis squeaked, his voice dry.

“Of course you don’t,” Malachi told him. “You’re really not supposed to.”

Francis carefully slid his bare legs over the side of the stone platform, letting his feet dangle.

“What now?” he asked, far too weak to do much of anything else.

“Now, that’s the proper attitude,” Malachi said with a nod and a grin. “There is actually one more thing you must do for me.”

Mulvehill wasn’t at all familiar with the back roads of Brockton, but that didn’t prevent him from driving like a bat out of hell.

He thought about asking the old woman where they were, but doubted that she was in any mental state to tell him.

Christ, I’m barely in the mental state to drive.

The road was empty, and that was good. He hated to think his speed would hurt anyone. He risked a quick glance at Fernita, buckled into the passenger seat next to him. She appeared to be in a kind of catatonia, staring ahead through the windshield, mouth slightly agape. He considered asking her whether everything was all right, but figured he already knew the answer to that.

The image of something huge dropping from the sky and crashing through the old lady’s roof flashed before his eyes again, and he got that awful tickling sensation in his crotch that told him if he wasn’t such a big boy, he would have been pissing himself.

It was nice to see that he at least had control of that.

There was a turn up ahead and Steven took it—big mistake. It turned out to be a private drive, leading to what appeared to be an unfinished housing development.

“Ah, shit,” he grumbled, bringing the car to a complete stop, and then throwing it in reverse. He thought about giving Remy a call again, but decided that he didn’t want his blood pressure getting any higher. When— if —Mulvehill ever saw him again, Remy would be buying the homicide cop twenty-five-year-old Scotch every week for years, taking him out to Morton’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and then to the nearest Kappy’s for more Scotch just for good measure.

That would fix him.

Mulvehill backed out of the dead end and slammed the car into drive, hitting the gas just as the sky—or at least a piece of it—fell into the road in front of them.

It landed with an explosion of asphalt and dirt, but it didn’t slow him down. It couldn’t. Mulvehill knew deep in his gut that he had to keep going forward, to get them out of there before . . .

His thinking stopped. It had no experience with things like this, so it had nowhere else to go. All he knew was that they had to escape or something very bad was going to happen to them.

“Hold on,” he told Fernita, trying to sound calm, as if this were something he did all the time, but he was sure it came out high and squeaky, like some fucking cartoon character.

The air was filled with thick, choking dust, but Mulvehill swerved to the left and drove right through it—only to come to an abrupt stop. Both he and Fernita pitched forward before their seat belts snapped them back. Mulvehill’s foot was still on the gas, and he could hear the engine screaming—feel the tires spinning, but they weren’t going anywhere.

Eyes darting up to the rearview mirror, he tried to see through the dust behind them. Something—something huge—had the bumper in its grip and it wasn’t going to let them go.

Mulvehill put the car in reverse and gunned the engine, sending the car rocketing backward to hit something horribly solid. He snapped the gear to drive and stomped on the gas pedal. This time the car shot forward, but the damage to the back end made it difficult to control and they fishtailed off the road and careened down an embankment.

Fernita screamed as branches whipped at the windshield and boulders tore at the underside of the car, their out-of-control descent coming to an abrupt and violent stop when they hit the base of an old oak tree. The front of the car crumpled like an accordion.

Now Remy owes me a fucking car , Mulvehill thought just before his forehead bounced off the soft center of the steering wheel, making the horn toot briefly and his brain vibrate painfully inside his skull.

He thought he might like to grab a little nap, but frantic hands were shaking him.

“Hey,” Fernita called. Mulvehill was going to tell her to leave him alone, but the sound of sheer panic in her voice roused him more fully, and he remembered their situation.

“I’ve got it,” he said groggily, having no real idea what that meant, but he was already on the move, undoing his seat belt and pushing open the driver’s-side door. The ground was at an incline, and he dropped to his knees, sliding a bit toward the front of his car before regaining his footing. Steam hissed from the obliterated radiator, and he again cursed the name of Remy Chandler as he hauled himself up and around the back of the car to get Fernita. Pulling open the door, he leaned inside to help her undo the seat belt.