Hungry for their next meal.
And Remiel did not know if he had the strength left to defeat them.
The old black woman struggled in his grasp as Malachi peered through the thick jungle foliage at the battle raging before him.
This Seraphim , he thought, watching as the angel Remiel finally dispatched the Shaitan. There is something different about him now, something that wasn’t part of his original design. Something new is present.
Something deadly.
The Shaitan’s death screams spurred him to action. He began to drag the woman away, but she fought him.
“I know that one,” Eliza Swan cried. “That’s my Remy,” she said, voice trembling with emotion. “That’s my Remy Chandler.”
Malachi savagely pulled her away. All he needed was for her to draw the attention of the Seraphim—especially that Seraphim.
The ground still moved beneath each footfall, trees swayed, and plants reached weakly to snag them as they passed. The Garden was dying, but she still tried to stop those she believed had harmed her. He wondered how long she had before all the life left her.
A wall of thick vegetation blocked the opening to his cave, but the scalpel of light was more than sufficient to gain him entrance. The vines squeaked in death, and wilted away as the blade cut through their tubular bodies to expose the gaping cave mouth.
Eliza planted her feet, not wanting to enter, but the elder had little time for the human monkey’s games. He dragged her with ease, the grip upon her wrist so powerful that he could feel the frail old bones grinding together as he pulled her along.
The chamber was just as he’d left it, and he headed toward his workstation, tossing Eliza aside. The old woman fell to the ground, stunned.
Malachi ignored her, his mind abuzz. He found a deep bowl made from the bottom portion of a gourd, and plucked it from the table. Turning, he focused on a section of wall and recalled the forbidden piece of angel magick he would recite, and the sigils he would have to draw, in order to make his escape.
Now all he required was the blood to draw with.
Malachi turned toward Eliza and brought forth the ever-soversatile blade of light. “One last chore before . . . ,” he began, only to stop short when he saw that they were no longer alone in the cave.
A figure knelt beside the woman, tenderly touching her face as she lay stunned upon the floor of the cave. At first he did not recognize him, clothed as he was in a dark three-piece suit, but as he rose there was no mistaking the former Guardian angel.
“Fraciel,” Malachi said excitedly. “How nice it is to see you again.”
“Yeah,” Francis said, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket so the white of his shirt showed just below the cuffs. “And it’s Francis now.
“Bet you didn’t see this coming.”
Francis could practically hear the gears turning inside the old angel’s skull as he slowly approached.
“This day is just full of surprises,” Malachi said, dark eyes shining in the weak light of the cave. “Surprises and revelations,” he added.
The elder stopped halfway to Francis, who continued to stare in stony silence.
“The surprise, of course, being that you’re still alive,” Malachi said with a chuckle. “And the revelation that we are somehow linked, you and I.”
Francis was mildly interested to see where this would go.
“Ever since I first partook of the fruit from the Tree,” the ancient angel explained, “you have been part of the future that I foresaw. . . .”
Malachi paused.
“I had thought your part at an end with my escape from Hell, but now . . . seeing you here, I realize that our lives—our futures—are far more intricately entwined than that.”
“You gutted me like a fish,” Francis said, still feeling the excruciating pain.
“I did,” Malachi agreed. “And yet here you are. Don’t you see, Francis? We’re supposed to be together.”
Malachi was inching closer, and Francis let him come.
“The survival of this reality—of all realities—is our responsibility,” the elder stressed. “We are the future.”
“ I have a job for you ,” Francis heard Lucifer Morningstar say, as he balanced on the precipice of death. “If you are so inclined.”
There must have been something in his eyes, something that told Malachi he wasn’t about to buy into his bullshit. And that was when the ancient being made his move. The scalpel was out, slicing through the moist, stagnant air of the cave, as Malachi darted forward to try to kill him again.
But Francis had been expecting as much, willing the golden pistol from where it waited in the ether, to his hand, pitilessly firing a single, Hell-forged bullet into the center of Malachi’s forehead.
The elder’s head snapped violently backward, the glowing scalpel flying from his open fingers, an amusing look of surprise frozen upon his ancient features.
“Always wondered what would happen if I fucked with the future,” Francis said, watching his victim fall backward to the floor.
He walked over to where Malachi lay, surprised to see that he was still alive, even with a bullet of Hell metal lodged inside his skull.
“ I have a job for you ,” he heard the Morningstar speak again.
The golden peacemaker was still in his hand, and he held it above the angel’s chest, firing another round into Malachi’s black heart.
The angel twitched as the bullet entered his body, and then went still.
“If you are so inclined.”
Francis closed his eyes, recalling the offer, and the answer he gave, as he was yanked back from the edge of death.
There was a scuffling sound somewhere behind him, and he spun around, finger twitching on the trigger of the deadly pistol.
But it was only Eliza Swan.
Eliza Swan . Even thinking her name brought a smile to his lips.
Willing the gun away, he went to the woman.
She was leaning up against the cave wall, and it was then that Francis noticed how incredibly old she had become. He tried to do the math, and gave up. She was of Eve’s bloodline, and would live much longer than the average human woman, but even by those standards, she was pretty damn old.
Francis approached the woman, whose love he had remembered only a short time ago, and knelt down beside her.
“How are you, girl?” he asked, emotions that he would never admit to bubbling to the surface.
Eliza lifted her head to look into his eyes. “Pearly,” she whispered. “I never forgot you.”
She lifted a hand to stroke his face, and he leaned into it, reveling in the affection, but suddenly taken aback by the scent of blood.
“Eliza?” he questioned, taking her hand and staring at it. Her fingers were stained red. “Are you hurt?”
“You told me to leave the writing where it was,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “That if I didn’t, I would put myself in danger . . .”
Francis began to panic; the smell of blood was stronger.
“Why is it that I never listened?” she asked him. “Why did I always ignore the people I loved? My parents . . . you . . . I guess I was always bad news, wasn’t I?”
“You were never bad news. . . .”
She began to cough, and that was when he saw it.
Malachi’s scalpel protruding from her belly.
He gasped and reached to pull it free, but she caught his wrist, demanding that he look at her.
“I did this,” she told him. “If I had listened . . . if I had listened, none of this would have happened. Figured I’d best put an end to it . . . before I messed up anything else.”
He was about to tell her that she would be fine, that he would find a way to fix her, but he didn’t want to lie, not to her.
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