A Hundred Words for Hate

  Leaning over in the driver’s seat, he looked out the passenger window at the house across from him.

  He’d received his friend’s message after a particularly grueling day on a Charlestown double homicide with no witnesses, or at least that was what they were saying. The folks of that particular Boston neighborhood had their own ideas on justice and how to handle things. He’d seriously considered ignoring Remy’s text, but realized that his alternative—at least three hours of paperwork—wasn’t any more attractive.

  Remy had talked about this Fernita Green and what a hot shit she was a few times, and Steven had even said that he would get a kick out of meeting her, but the real reason he didn’t say no was because of who was asking the favor.

  How could somebody say no to an angel of Heaven?

  It sounded fucking stupid even as he thought it, but there was some semblance of truth even with the stupidity.

  To most, Remy Chandler was just a guy, a relatively good-looking middle-aged private investigator. Nothing more than that.

  But Steven knew otherwise.

  He knew some of the details: that Remy had left Heaven after some war, fed up with all the bullshit that was going down as a result of the conflict, and ended up here. He’d been hanging around Earth for a really long time, eventually becoming a private eye, falling in love with an amazing woman, and losing her to cancer.

  Mulvehill was sure there was more, all kinds of details connected to what Remy actually was, and the reality of the kind of world in which Steven was living where a warrior angel every so often had to deal with a situation like the impending Apocalypse, or that the Devil was taking control of Hell again.

  Yeah, weird shit happened, but it was the kind of shit that Mulvehill would rather not know about. Just being privy to the knowledge that Remy wasn’t really human was more than he cared to know, a peek into a reality that, because of his friendship with Remy, he now knew existed, and wished that he didn’t.

  The pair had a rule when they were together. The weird shit was kept to a minimum. Steven believed that this rule was a good thing, helping to keep Remy grounded in his attempt to be as human as the next guy, and it also prevented Steven from knowing things that he shouldn’t.

  Things that weren’t meant for someone like him to know.

  So he had driven all the way from Boston to Brockton in rushhour traffic, no mean feat, out of respect for what Remy was, and the things he had done in service to humanity, but mostly he did it because Remy was his closest friend.

  And, of course, he’d been promised dinner at the Capital Grille, and a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Macallan.

  Score one for the homicide cop!

  Steven left the warmth of his car and walked up to the house. It was a nice place, a Dutch Colonial, but it was starting to look a little run-down.

  Remy had mentioned that he thought Fernita might be showing the first stages of Alzheimer’s. He could understand why Remy had asked him to check up on the woman. Steven wasn’t entirely sure of the connection between the old woman and the private eye, vaguely recalling something being said about her hiring him to find something that she had lost, but that was all Steven could remember.

  He walked up the wooden steps onto the porch and wondered if Fernita knew that he was coming. He had called Remy about an hour ago to ask that very question, but the call hadn’t gone through.

  Standing in front of the door, he hoped that Remy had mentioned him in passing to the old gal, so that he was at least vaguely familiar to her. Raising a knuckle, he rapped on the glass panel. Steven waited a little longer, pulling the collar of his winter coat up tighter around his neck, before knocking again. There was still no response, so he leaned into the door, listening, and heard movement from inside.

  “Fernita?” he called out, knocking again a little louder. “Hi, I’m Steven Mulvehill . . . Remy Chandler’s friend? He asked me to stop by.”

  The sounds inside grew louder, more frantic.

  “Fernita?” he called again. “Is everything all right?”

  Steven was reaching for the doorknob when the door came suddenly open, and Steven stood face-to-face with an older black woman who could only have been Fernita Green.

  “Hi,” he said again. “I’m Steven. . . .”

  And then he noticed the look on her face, and the wild glint in her eyes behind her thick glasses—never mind the fact that she was wearing green rubber gloves.

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” she said furiously. “Everything’s coming together and here I am at the door talking with the likes of you. Get offa my porch or I’ll call the police,” she snarled, ready to slam the door in his face.

  Mulvehill was startled. This wasn’t the nice old woman Remy had talked about; this lady was crazy with a capital C.

  “I am the police, Fernita,” Mulvehill told her, placing a hand on the door to keep her from closing it. “And Remy Chandler . . . You remember Remy, right? He asked me to stop by . . . to make sure you were . . .”

  She abruptly turned her back, leaving the door open as she disappeared inside the house muttering to herself.

  Steven had no idea what to do. He stood there for a moment, then took a deep breath and followed her in, carefully shutting the door behind him. “Fernita?” he called out. “Hey, Fernita . . .”

  He immediately noticed the stacks of magazines and newspapers just inside the door. Remy had hinted that she was a bit of a hoarder, and from what he could see he had to agree.

  “Hello?” he called again, moving tentatively down the hallway, turning slightly to the side to avoid knocking over any piles.

  “Remy was worried, and asked me to . . .” Mulvehill came to the archway into the living room and found his voice immediately stolen away.

  The amount of stuff . . . Boxes and bags and stacks and piles were everywhere, making it look as though she were packing her things to move, but he knew that wasn’t the case.

  He couldn’t see Fernita, but he could hear her.

  Mulvehill gingerly stepped into the room, careful not to disturb anything as he searched. He found her in a far corner, on her hands and knees, a bucket of dirty, soapy water beside her. She was using a brush and scrubbing at a section of wall in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes going to the strange writing in black that she was working hard to erase. Mulvehill stared at the writing, his eyes tracing over the unknown alphabet, certain that he had never seen anything quite like it before, and he felt the hair at the back of his head begin to stand up, and he realized that this wasn’t just a case of him being asked to check in on a potentially sick old woman.

  No, this was more than that.

  This was one of those other cases . . . the cases that he preferred that Remy not talk about.

  It was one of those weird-as-shit cases.

  “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Mulvehill muttered beneath his breath, watching as the old woman continued to furiously scrub at the bizarre writing on the wall.

  Desperate to make it go away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Arkansas, 1932

  Fraciel drove the blade of the Enochian dagger through the angel’s heart, closing his eyes as he listened to the final cries of the once-Heavenly creature.

  The angel tried to escape him, spreading its powerful wings and flapping wildly in a futile attempt to take flight, but Fraciel held him tight as he twisted the blade, stealing away the angel’s last bit of strength.

  “Nothing personal,” he said softly as he lowered the body of the angel to the wet ground of the alley—a soft Southern rain falling upon them.

  The angel, who had taken the human name of Luke, looked up at him with wide dying eyes.

  “F . . . Fra . . . Francis,” he said in a strangled voice as dark blood oozed up from somewhere inside him and ran from the corners of his gaping mouth. “Why?”

  Fraciel—Francis—did not respond. Instead, he removed a handkerchief from the inside p
ocket of his suit coat and cleaned the angel’s black blood from his blade. But the question echoed inside his troubled mind.

  Why? It was something he’d asked himself a lot recently.

  Why? Because God said so. That was why.

  Francis was a killer for the Allfather, ending the lives of those who ran afoul of Heaven, penance for his own terrible sin.

  He watched as Luke died on the filthy ground, his last breath trailing off in a whistle as the light of life left his eyes.

  He had found this particular angel in the tent of a traveling church revival on the outskirts of Oak Bluff, Arkansas, preaching to those who believed that the Lord God was actually watching them.

  Francis had been amused; as far as he knew, the only ones being watched were those humans who posed some sort of threat to Heaven and angels who had escaped to Earth after the Great War to avoid punishment. But the country was in the grip of a depression, and people were desperate.

  Desperate for God to notice them.

  Francis had attended the revival meetings, participating in the fervent praise to God, waiting for the opportunity to carry out his mission. Finally, at the end of a particularly zealous meeting, he had approached Luke, and although he was able to mask his true identity, even to other angels, Luke must have sensed a kindred spirit.

  For some reason, Francis had allowed friendship to blossom, breaking his own cardinal rule. Though it was painful to admit, he had enjoyed having a friend, and hated to see it end in such a way.

  But there was no choice.

  Francis could sense his Masters’ impatience, and knew it was time to finish the job. He and Luke had been passing out flyers announcing a special meeting dedicated to asking for God’s forgiveness, and were on their way back to the revival tents when Francis saw his opportunity, suggesting they take a shortcut through the alley.

  Luke had been so happy, brimming with excitement at the chance to preach God’s mercy to such a large gathering. Francis could practically feel the energy radiating off of him.

  God’s mercy indeed.

  Briefly, Francis wished it didn’t have to end this way, but he had no choice. He too awaited forgiveness, and if that was ever to happen, he had to kill this angel, and any other deemed an enemy of God.

  It was the price he had to pay.

  The act itself had been quick, as merciful as Francis was able, but it didn’t stop the questions.

  What had Luke done to deserve this?

  Francis returned the dirty handkerchief and blade to his inside coat pocket and waited; it usually didn’t take them very long to respond after one of the divine had met his fate.

  The Thrones appeared in a blinding flash, followed by a sound like all the keys on the world’s largest pipe organ being played at once. The Thrones resembled balls of fire . . . six balls of fire covered with eyes, spinning in the air before him.

  “It’s done,” Francis said, glancing at the corpse at his feet.

  The angelic beings remained silent, rolling in the air, sparks of divine fire spewing from their awesome forms to sizzle in the puddles that had formed on the alley floor.

  Francis wanted nothing more than to get as far away from them, and what he had done, as possible. A couple of stiff drinks are in order, he thought. Even during Prohibition there was always a way to get good and drunk if one really wanted to; and after the night he’d had, Francis wanted to.

  “What took you so long?” the Thrones asked as one, their powerful voices ringing inside his head like the bells of Notre Dame.

  Francis was quiet, not sure how to answer. He didn’t want to tell them that he had actually grown fond of Luke, and had enjoyed having a friend. He could just imagine how that would have gone over.

  “I was waiting for the right time,” he finally said, refusing to look into their many eyes. “It took longer than I expected.”

  “Is that all?” the balls of roiling fire asked suspiciously.

  “That’s all,” he answered, keeping his anger in check.

  The Thrones watched him for what seemed like forever, then finally glided through the air to hover above the body of the angel. Tendrils of white flame trailed down from their revolving bodies, wrapping around the dead angel and drawing him up into their fire.

  Francis had seen them do this so many times, and still didn’t know exactly what they were doing with the bodies. Maybe they were storing them for transport back to the City of Light, or maybe they were burning them—not a trace of anything to show that the angels had ever existed.

  Or maybe they were just being eaten.

  Whatever the case, they weren’t offering any explanations, and Francis wasn’t about to ask.

  “Am I done here?” he questioned, eager for the taste of gin in his mouth.

  “You will be done when we tell you,” the Thrones admonished as the last of the angel Luke was drawn up into their burning bodies.

  Not a trace of anything to show that he had ever existed.

  Francis felt his ire rise, but knew better than to let it show. He reached up, removed the fedora from his head, and slicked back his dark, thinning hair before putting the hat back on. He would wait; he had all the patience in the world.

  Especially if that patience would someday lead him to redemption.

  “This is done,” the Thrones said, and Francis turned to leave, until the words, “But there is another,” stopped him dead in his tracks.

  Once again, he faced his Masters.

  “Another? So soon? Usually there’s some time between them.”

  “This time there is not.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Do you grow tired, servant?” the Thrones asked him. “Should we relieve you from your duties? Perhaps you’d prefer to serve out the remainder of your penance in a cell deep within Tartarus?”

  Just the mention of the hellish prison, where angels were made to relive their sins over and over again, was enough to set him straight. Francis couldn’t think of a worse torture.

  Worse even than dealing with the Thrones.

  “Sorry, I meant no disrespect,” Francis said, averting his eyes. “I’m just surprised that—”

  “Surprised that the Lord God has many enemies?” the Thrones interrupted, their color becoming darker—fiercer—with anger. “The Almighty cannot . . . will not rest until all who oppose His glory are a threat no more.”

  Francis didn’t respond, knowing he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

  “There is another,” the Thrones repeated.

  “Where?” Francis sighed, the taint of death still lingering around him like a bad smell.

  One of the fiery orbs was suddenly in his face, a thick tendril of burning matter emerging from its body to touch the center of his skull. It was excruciating at first, and he was certain that they enjoyed his pain immensely, a little payback for disrespecting them.

  It was done before he could scream, the tentacle of flame disappearing back into the spinning ball, as it returned to hover with its brethren.

  Francis’s head was now filled with images: images of where he would go, and whom he would kill in the name of the Lord.

  “Go,” the Thrones ordered, as they disappeared with another searing flash and a sound that could have been mistaken for thunder; the puddles that had been beneath them bubbled and steamed.

  Francis cleared his throat and spit into one of the boiling puddles. Then he lifted a hand and began to utter an incantation that would take him to his next assignment. It was a little bit of magick bestowed upon him by the Thrones, since he had lost his wings after siding with Lucifer during the Great War.

  He moved his hand in the air before him, opening a tear in the fabric of time and space, a passage to where he’d find the next to die. The only consolation was that he’d be going to a speakeasy.

  And he could finally get his drink.

  Located on the edge of Beauchamp, Louisiana, the Pelican Club didn’t even have a sign.

  For all intents an
d purposes, it was an abandoned general store, but that was only for folks who weren’t in the know.

  The Thrones were in the know, and knew where the latest offender of Heaven could be found, and now Francis knew as well.

  Strolling up the quiet, rain-swept street, he took note of the building, and the large black man sitting on the front porch, a meanlooking dog of many breeds seemingly asleep at his feet. But Francis knew otherwise. That dog would be up with fangs bared as soon as it sensed even the slightest inkling of a threat.

  He observed mostly folks of color strolling up to the building.

  He stood in the shadows and willed his flesh a darker shade, then fell in behind a group of four men as they drew near the club. One at a time they climbed the steps, greeting the big man with a nod and a “good evening,” then sticking out their hands for the monstrous beast to sniff. The brave ones went as far as to pat the animal on top of its large head.

  It was his turn.

  “Nice dog,” Francis said to the big man.

  He grunted. “Huh. See if he thinks you’re nice.”

  Francis held out a brown hand. The beast ignored the offered appendage, choosing instead to look up into the fallen angel’s eyes. A communication passed between them, a sharing of information about each other. Francis learned that the dog was a good dog, a faithful dog, but if he felt like it, he could do some serious damage. And the dog learned that Francis was a good person, a faithful person, but that he too could do some serious damage if he wanted.

  In seconds they came to an understanding, and the dog extended his snout and licked Francis’s hand with a thick pink tongue.

  “Thattaboy,” Francis said, scratching behind his ears. The dog rolled over onto his back, allowing Francis to rub his dark, fleshy belly.

  He glanced up at the large man, noting the surprise on his face.

  “Guess I am nice,” Francis said with a grin.

  “Huh,” the man said as he hooked a thumb, gesturing for Francis to head inside.

  It was dark in the Pelican Club, the room lit by a few bare bulbs on a wire that stretched across the wooden ceiling. It was more crowded than Francis expected, as folks were standing around in small groups and others sipped refreshments from jelly jars at tables positioned in pockets of shadow throughout the room. There was a makeshift bar—three two-by-fours laid across two cracker barrels—and it called to him.