A Hundred Words for Hate

  Jon moved to help her, but the ground beneath him turned to watery mud. He sank instantly to his waist, clawing at the ground for purchase, but wherever he touched, the ground turned to insubstantial muck.

  Pulling him deeper, until he felt the cold touch of wet earth beneath his chin.

  Ready to swallow him whole.

  Taranushi dispatched the tigerlike beast with cold, deadly efficiency, wrapping his pliable body around the great cat and snapping its bones one at a time, slowly crippling it, before he began to consume its still-warm flesh.

  The great cat had sprung at them from the thick underbrush as they fought their way through the living jungle, another example of how much the Garden had changed.

  These changes disturbed Malachi, a seed of worry germinating in his mind. Something was amiss.

  Thick, serpentine roots erupted around them, attempting to snatch Adam and Eliza from where they lay upon the ground. Malachi brandished his scalpel, lunging at the vegetation, cutting the tentacle-like growths in half before they could do any harm.

  “It is obvious that the Garden does not want us here,” the angel said, brushing the signs of conflict from the fabric of his robes. “It too must sense the end of the old, and the inevitable approach of a new beginning.”

  Malachi paused, waiting for Eden to respond, as Taranushi finished his snack and rejoined the group.

  “Though a wonderful thing, birth can always be so . . . traumatic,” Malachi continued.

  The jungle again began to tremble, shifting and moving as it readied to resume its attack on them.

  “Tear it down,” Malachi said with a wave of his hand. “We do not have time for this.”

  Taranushi did as he was ordered, his liquid form flowing toward the thickening wall of vegetation, bolts of magickal power erupting from his hands, reducing the jungle before them to drifting particles in the air, and cutting a swath of destruction into the very heart of Eden.

  The old woman moaned, her face pale and flushed, damp with sweat and tears.

  Malachi studied the humans; he hoped they would stay alive long enough to help him fulfill his plans.

  “Bring them,” he commanded the Shaitan as he turned and strode down the blackened path.

  The jungle surrounding him grew steadily darker, the growths more perverse and mutated. He was getting closer—closer to the seeds he’d planted so very long ago, the seeds that would now bear the fruit of his supremacy.

  Malachi stopped before a wall of vines adorned with ebony flowers. The flowers hissed menacingly, blowing puffs of some noxious, organic poison into his face. Annoyed, he slashed at the growths with his glowing scalpel, burning and cutting the thick vegetation, the stink of poison in his angelic lungs reinvigorating his determination to see Heaven reduced to smoldering ruins.

  And from the ashes, a new beginning would emerge.

  He had no idea how long he went on, his anger blinding him to time’s passage, stopping only when he was summoned by his servant.

  “Master,” Taranushi called tentatively.

  The elder whirled, blade clutched tightly in his hand and murder in his eyes.

  “We are here,” the Shaitan said, pointing behind him.

  And Malachi turned to see what he had endured so much, for so very long, to reach.

  “The Tree,” he exclaimed, clambering over the remains of Eden’s last defense.

  With a cloud of buzzing insects swarming around his head, Malachi finally stood before the Tree.

  And was horrified by what he saw.

  The Tree was withered, its branches sagging with the shriveled remains of fruit once filled with the knowledge of God.

  Something’s wrong, Malachi thought, and then his eyes fell to the ground surrounding the base of the great Tree.

  The grass was brown—dead—and the ground roiled as something stirred beneath it.

  Something that he had placed there.

  Something ready to be born.

  For a moment, Izabelle Swan ceased to exist, and there was only the Garden.

  Izzy and Eden were one. Izzy felt the Garden’s yearning, her desire to be complete again, to have her children returned to her.

  But she also felt her sickness.

  Something had been planted within her, something that fed upon her. It was beyond hungry . . . voracious, and it wanted the knowledge.

  God’s knowledge.

  And it would not be sated until it had consumed it all.

  And as it grew, it fed upon the tree, suckling upon its roots, using the enlightenment of God as its source of nourishment.

  The evil grew within the soft, dark womb of her earth. She tried to kill them, to abort this dangerous life inside her, but it was too strong, and the longer it was inside her, the weaker she became.

  She did not how much longer she had, but Eden would fight until there was nothing left of her but dust.

  Izzy threw back her head and sucked in a mouthful of air and annoying insects, gasping for breath as the thoughts of the Garden receded in her mind.

  “We want to help you,” she cried out, her hands still buried deep within the soil. “Please let us help you.”

  The Garden shivered, a noticeable tremor passing through the lush vegetation as the woman’s words reached the sentient jungle surroundings.

  She heard the sound of coughing, and turned to see the muddy form of Jon, climbing out of a deep pool of muck, roots snaking across the ground allowing him to pull himself free.

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling suddenly joyous, but that joy was short-lived as there came an explosion from somewhere above them, and something dropped to the Garden floor, still burning.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Izzy said as she watched the angel slowly stand, his body burning as if doused with gasoline.

  “Remy,” Jon called out as he stood, dripping thick mud.

  But Izzy wasn’t quite sure it was Remy he was calling to.

  The angel stood there, flaming sword in hand, a sneer of contempt upon his burning face.

  “Jon, you might not want to get too close,” she warned.

  The Son of Adam stopped short as the angel’s gaze fell upon him.

  “Remy?” the man asked again.

  The angel’s fire seemed to burn brighter, and for a moment Izzy feared for the man’s life, but the angel’s expression suddenly softened, and the fire around his body extinguished.

  “Yeah,” Remy said.

  “She didn’t want to hurt us,” Izzy explained, as she pulled her hands free of the twining roots and joined her friends. “Eden’s sick. . . . Something very bad is growing inside her, something evil. . . .”

  Remy looked at her, and for a moment she sensed that he might have been replaced again by something far colder, and more angelic.

  “Then I suggest we help her,” he said, holding out his burning sword. “And cut this cancer from her womb.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The sword burned in Remy’s hand.

  The heat of the weapon radiated internally, amplifying the rage of the Seraphim, drawing it out like an infection from a wound.

  Remy held on to his control, but didn’t know if he had the strength to continue. Wrapped within the constricting embrace of the thorny vines, he had let his defenses down, allowing the Seraphim to emerge without restraint.

  There had been something horribly liberating about the experience, and yet terrifying. To think of the Seraphim—to think of this being of divine power filled with rage—unleashed upon this holy place . . . it scared his human side.

  But their options were few, for he knew that he didn’t have the power to face the Shaitan without the unbridled fury of the Seraphim.

  He could feel the scions of Adam and Eve staring at him. They were looking to him for guidance, unaware of the struggle going on inside him. It was taking everything he could muster to hold on to the leash. . . .

  “What now?” Jon wanted to know, nervously looking about him. The jungle was moving, writhi
ng as if in pain.

  “We find the nest of the Shaitan, and kill them before they can be born,” Remy answered as the Seraphim howled for blood, testing his resolve at every turn.

  “Then we’d better find them fast,” Izzy said. She was leaning against a nearby tree, her complexion wan—sickly. “I’m not feeling so good since hooking up to the Garden,” she explained. “Think I might be sharing how Eden is feeling . . . and it isn’t good. I don’t know how much time we have left.”

  The flaming sword began to vibrate in Remy’s hand, and as if the blade had a life of its own, its tip suddenly pointed toward the earth.

  Jon jumped back as Remy struggled with the unwieldy weapon.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, afraid.

  “I don’t know,” Remy answered, fighting the blade. The pull was incredible, his muscles straining to keep the sword from stabbing the ground.

  “Let it do what it wants,” Izzy hollered. “It has a connection to this place. . . . I think it might be trying to help.”

  Remy did, allowing the burning blade to drop, stabbing into the soil of Eden with a sibilant hiss. Images from the Garden began traveling through the sword and into his mind.

  And what he saw filled him with horror.

  The Tree of Knowledge, withered and dying, the ground beneath it churning with unholy life—as Malachi and the Shaitan looked on.

  It was more than he could stand, and the Seraphim raged, charging forward to wrest away control.

  Let me out, the divine power demanded.

  And Remy knew he had no choice.

  He let the Seraphim come.

  The angel Remiel considered the humans before him.

  And, finding them of no importance to the coming conflict, he stretched his golden wings and leapt into the sky.

  There was evil to be vanquished.

  Blood to be spilled.

  Battles to be won.

  All in the name of Heaven, and the Lord God.

  The Tree was nearly dead.

  “Master, what is wrong?” Taranushi asked with concern.

  It’s been drained, Malachi thought, as he placed a hand against the dark, dry bark. The fetal Shaitan have feasted upon the knowledge of the Almighty.

  They should never have been capable of such a task. They were never supposed to do something such as this.

  They were not designed to do something like this.

  All that knowledge, the elder thought, eyes turned to the soil around the base of the Tree. The ground bubbled as the Shaitan stirred.

  And he began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.

  He looked up as the fearsome form of Taranushi approached. Malachi recalled the ferocity of this first Shaitan, the violent acts he had mercilessly performed throughout the ages in Malachi’s name.

  The knowledge of God contained within such a vessel . . . perhaps it wasn’t the best of his ideas.

  He revisited his vision of a future plagued by a war that would bring about the end of all things. He saw the Shaitan in this vision, believing at one time that they were fighting under his command, but now . . .

  “What is wrong?” Taransuhi asked again.

  “Nothing,” Malachi lied. He looked to the writhing ground again and felt nothing but disgust.

  “They’re not ready,” he stated flatly, turning his gaze back to his servant. “It is not yet time for them.”

  Taranushi’s expression was one of confusion. “I do not understand. I can feel my brothers and sisters . . . desperate . . . wanting . . . ready to be born . . . unleashed into the world.”

  Eden trembled angrily beneath them, and Malachi lost his footing, stumbling to one side. Taranushi caught his arm and their eyes locked.

  “Finish what you have started with me,” the Shaitan pleaded. “I no longer wish to be alone.”

  Malachi could hear the desperation in his creation’s voice, and considered what it would be like to be the only one of your kind. God had created him first, mere seconds before Lucifer, and he remembered that feeling.

  The intimacy between creator and creation. It was something that could never be forgotten. Fleeting, but so powerful.

  If only the Lord had stopped there, what a reality they could have shaped.

  “Sometimes alone is best,” Malachi said, pulling his arm away, already considering alternatives to his future. A future that did not include the Shaitan. “There’s a cave nearby that I used for my work,” he began. “We’ll go there before we leave Eden and—”

  “No,” Taranushi roared.

  The symbols on his pale skin began to flow, like the warning of a snake’s hiss just before the strike.

  Malachi reared back, startled—but not surprised by the creature’s insolence.

  “You will do as I say,” he ordered, exerting his will over his creation.

  The markings upon the Shaitan’s skin slowed, and the creature backed down beneath his gaze.

  “Remember that there are even worse fates than being alone,” Malachi warned, a sudden niggling thought entering his mind as he looked upon the powerful beast. Am I strong enough to defeat the Shaitan?

  And as if the beast could sense his sudden inkling of weakness, Taranushi’s body became like smoke as he emitted the most bloodcurdling scream.

  “I have waited long enough!” the Shaitan proclaimed, swirling around the Tree of Knowledge, flowing past to reconstitute before the two humans.

  “You will do as I command,” Malachi ordered.

  But it was too late; the Shaitan was beyond all that.

  “I hear them,” the creature said, breathing rapidly. “They are calling out to me . . . questioning why they are still beneath the cool, damp earth of this place, while there are kingdoms and worlds to conquer.

  “Gods to usurp.”

  Malachi knew he had to do something. Things were spinning rapidly out of control. Carefully, he approached his creation.

  “Taranushi, please,” he pleaded in his calmest tone. “Trust me. Your species will be born; they are just not yet ready.”

  “You lie!” the monster bellowed. “I can feel that they are ready.”

  “A tragic miscalculation on my part,” Malachi said, closer now. He palmed his dagger from within the folds of his robes. “They need more time.”

  He was closer now, and Taranushi seemed to be listening.

  “If we were to complete the process now, they would be deficient. Imperfect.”

  Malachi was close enough to strike. At least he’d been smart enough to build in a weakness for the Shaitan. He would strike at the monster’s heart; even though it wasn’t often in the same place as the beast shifted its shape, the elder could sense—could hear—where it was at that moment.

  “And we wouldn’t want that.”

  Malachi lunged, his burning blade plunging into the solid flesh of his creation’s chest, and into where its monstrous heart beat.

  The elder’s eyes met Taranushi’s, and he expected to see the light of life failing, but the Shaitan only snarled.

  “What you seek is no longer there,” Taranushi growled.

  Malachi attempted to pull back, but it was too late. The Shaitan’s flesh bulged outward to engulf his hand, trapping him.

  “Perhaps it is a cycle,” Taranushi said, his form shifting to resemble Malachi.

  “You betray your Creator, and I betray mine,” the monster spoke with Malachi’s voice, a sinister smile appearing on his bearded face.

  The Shaitan struck, dark energies flowing through his form and into the elder. Malachi screamed out in pain as the force of the energies ripped him from Taranushi’s clutches and sent him flying to land at the base of the Tree of Knowledge.

  He lay for a moment, stunned, feeling the Shaitan in the ground below him moving toward the surface.

  “You dare,” Malachi said with great indignation, as he slowly climbed to his feet. He summoned the remnants of his divinity, and even though he had been stripped of most of his angelic power w
hen sentenced to Tartarus, he was an elder, and the power that still remained was awesome.

  Heavenly energies flowed from his body; Malachi was ready.

  Taranushi crouched at the edge of the jungle, the black markings upon his pale form flowing again, forming larger and bolder shapes, in his attempt to distract his opponent.

  The Shaitan moved, but not in the way the elder expected.

  Malachi had counted on a full-on attack, the servant versus the master, but the monster moved quickly to the left, toward the humans cowering on the ground.

  “If you will not bring them forth, I will,” the Shaitan proclaimed, snatching up the cadaverous form of Adam and heading for the Tree. The old woman screamed, leaping to her feet, trying to drag the man from Taranushi’s muscular tentacle, but the monster was too fast.

  Malachi tried to block his way to the Tree, but Taranushi was fury incarnate, moving with incredible speed, dodging the elder’s pathetic attempts to strike him down. Multiple limbs, flowing with their own arcane energies, lashed out, and the elder was tossed aside, tumbling from the base of the Tree to lie upon the trembling ground.

  Taranushi stood beneath the Tree, Adam’s limp and naked form before him.

  “A sacrifice,” the Shaitan cried to the Garden. “Let the blood of the first feed the hunger of a new beginning.”

  And as Eliza Swan screamed, Malachi watched, helpless, as Taranushi brought Adam toward his mouth of razor-sharp teeth, biting into the old soul’s withered throat and letting his ancient blood ooze from the gaping wound onto the soil.

  What have I done? The question reverberated through Malachi’s mind as he watched the horror unfold.

  Adam’s blood rained down upon Eden’s flesh, the disease beneath her surface becoming more active as it fed upon the ancient life stuff. The ground began to tumble and roll as if in the grip of convulsions. And from the cold, dark womb of dirt, a new life started to emerge.

  Taranushi let the limp and bleeding body of Adam fall to the ground, as pale, childlike hands shot up from the soil, like some perverse fungus. They attached themselves to the ancient one’s body, sinking tiny claws into the withered flesh and tearing pieces away.