He couldn't fool Marlowe. The dog could read his moods with ease, and he had nailed it once again. Remy wasn't crazy about going to see the Grigori, especially with all the weird stuff that had been going on lately.
It was anybody's guess what he might be walking into.
“Okay, I'm a little nervous, but it should be okay,” Remy explained. “I'm just going to talk to some special people,” he said, using their code name for anybody of a supernatural nature. “Ask them some questions, that's all.”
“Who?” the dog asked. “Specialpeople? Who?” “You don't know them,” Remy replied. “The Grig-ori...they're angels.”
He opened the door, then turned back, ready to remind Marlowe to be a good boy.
“Angels,” the dog said, sitting attentively by the door, smiling as only a Labrador could. “Like you.”
“No,” Remy said with a serious shake of his head. “Not like me at all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Western Asia, 9000 B.C.
Remiel drifted down from the star-filled night sky, his golden wings gently beating the chill desert air, slowing his descent.
He could sense them, others of his kind, and was drawn to their presence like a thirsty animal to water. He did not recall exactly how long it had been since he last communicated with others of his ilk, but he longed for the special rapport that only others of the Heavenly host could share.
The angel touched down upon coarse desert sand that mere hours before had burned like fire, but was now cool beneath his bare feet. He reveled in the sensation, enjoying the feeling of the damp granules between his toes, hiding the memories away with the many other experiences he had sampled since abandoning Heaven, and coming to the world of the Almighty's most sacred creations.
Remiel remembered Heaven sadly, how it used to be before the war – before the fall of the Morningstar.
A howl of excitement, followed by the sounds of primitive music, drifted across the desert toward him, pushing away the memories of how things had been but would never be again.
Remiel gazed across the drifting sands toward what seemed to be a settlement of some kind; the multiple structures made from piled stone and bricks of mud and hay. The angel smiled at the simplicity of the buildings, seeing, perhaps, an attempt by man to duplicate some divine, barely accessible memory of Heaven's glorious edifices.
Withdrawing his wings beneath his robes, the angel crossed the sands toward the encampment and the sounds of life, the music growing louder as he was drawn to the revelry.
His sense of others like himself grew stronger as well, and his curiosity was piqued. Since the Great War, angelic presence in this world had been frowned upon, and he wondered who of his kind would dare risk rousing the ire of the Lord.
A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the encampment, the inhabitants performing some kind of strange dance around the roaring fire. Remiel took note of the humans' bodies, their exposed flesh – men and women – adorned with colorful markings, and upon their backs, the strangest of things, crude representations of wings woven from local vegetation.
Remiel continued to watch the strange ritual that seemed to depict the act of flying. He was mesmerized, moving closer to the performance, oblivious to everything except the bizarre ceremony.
Their feet pounded the dirt to the rhythmic beating of drums. Trilling flutes made from the hollowed bones of livestock added a voice to the primal cacophony.
And then the rite stopped abruptly – the world going to silence as the participants froze, glinting eyes locked upon the flames leaping skyward. One by one they tore the makeshift wings from their backs, tossing the mock appendages into the hungry fire. Then each and every one of them fell to their knees, crying out in a display of crippling despondency.
What does this mean? the angel wondered, the intensity of his curiosity almost causing him to forget the niggling, angelic presence that had first brought him here.
Almost.
Remiel looked across the writhing bodies of the desert settlers locked in the grip of hysteria, and saw them. They sat alone, away from the humans, and at once he knew their breed.
Remiel approached, stepping over the bodies of those who cried and writhed as if in the embrace of some invisible torment.
The eleven of his brethren stood as he drew closer, their solid black eyes shining in the firelight, faces distorted in such a way as to bare their teeth at him. A show of emotion, he knew, but was not sure which. Happiness? Sadness? Anger? There was still so much he did not know about this inhospitable place he had chosen above the kingdom of God.
So much still to learn.
“Welcome, brother,” the obvious leader of the eleven proclaimed, his voice booming above the cries of the humans still in the throes of emotion. They all bowed to him, and Remiel returned the gesture, shedding his human guise to reveal his true form to those who addressed him.
“Greetings, my brethren,” he stated, his wings of golden yellow unfurling majestically, their movement stirring the dust of the desert around his bare feet. “I am Remiel of the most holy host Seraphim.”
“Of course you are,” said the leader, his hands folded before him. “We've anxiously awaited your coming.”
Remiel looked upon the eleven with curious eyes. None had assumed their true forms, as was the proper response to his own revelation.
“I am Sariel,” the leader informed, motioning to the others who loomed attentively behind him. “And we are the host Grigori.”
Remiel's wings spread wide, carrying him away, repelled by the accursed name of Sariel's host. “Pariahs!” he spat, drawing a sword from a sheath hidden beneath his robes. “Defilers of God's most holy trust!” He stared down the blade forged in the center of the sun, that glinted even in the darkness of night.
The Grigori were outcasts, defilers of the Almighty's holy word. They had been charged with the guardianship of the human species, to watch over God's flock and protect them from sin, but it was they – the Grigori – who had become seduced by the ways of mankind.
The human settlers began to scream at the sight of Remiel. The Grigori fell to their knees, bowing to an authority that he no longer possessed.
“Soldier of Heaven,” Sariel said, lifting eyes his toward him. “We knew that it would be only a matter of time before you returned, that our prayers for forgiveness would be heard.”
Assigned the task of protecting His prized creations from evil, it was, in fact, the Grigori that shared with the fledgling species secrets that God believed they were not yet ready to know. They were taught about the constellations and the resolving of enchantments, of agriculture and the refinement of metal, which led to the creation of weapons for war.
And for this wicked behavior they were banished to live among the young race, and to never lay eyes upon the glory that was Heaven again.
The humans had gathered around the Grigori, as if shielding the defilers of the Creator's wishes from His wrath.
“They remember the first time. . . . When the Archangels came,” the Grigori leader explained, the humans now surrounding the eleven, pawing at their robes, pulling them down to expose the angels' pale, almost translucent flesh.
“Our wings . . . our beautiful wings torn from our backs as punishment for our transgressions.”
The Grigori turned, showing him how they had been defiled by God's wrath. The scars where wings had once sprung were red and angry, tears of yellow infection dribbling down their exposed backs. The humans swarmed around the Grigori's wounds, using their own garments to wipe away the running discharge.
“Imprisoned in these fragile, human bodies of skin, blood, and bone.” Sariel gazed over his shoulder.”But now you have come. Our prayers have been answered, and we will at last be allowed to beg His forgiveness.”
Remiel descended, furling his wings as he touched down upon the earth. “You are mistaken, watchers of humanity,” the Seraphim said, sheathing his heavenly blade. “I have not the power to grant you absoluti
on.”
Sariel appeared startled by this revelation. “Have you not been sent by the Almighty?”
The other Grigori began to murmur among themselves, angrily pushing away the inhabitants of the settlement who now groveled about them.
“I no longer represent Heaven or my host,” Remiel said sadly, feeling the distance between this world and the world that he had known before the war yawning ever wider. “I am alone now.”
The Grigori leader looked to his brothers and then back to Remiel. “Then why are you here?”
The Seraphim looked to the sky, hoping to find an answer there. But the night and the multitude of twinkling stars remained silent, keeping their secrets to themselves.
“I once believed that serving Heaven was all I needed for fulfillment,” Remiel said, his thoughts filled with the images of the Morningstar and those who followed him as they were cast down into the fires of the abyss. “But I learned that wasn't true.”
Four human women clung to Sariel's legs, gazing up at the angelic being with adoration in their eyes, their hands stroking his legs through his flowing robes.
“And you have come to this place . . . to this world, seeking answers?” the Grigori asked, looking about in disbelief. He turned to his followers and began to laugh. “Shall we attempt to provide him with what he seeks, brothers?” Sariel asked.
The Grigori laughed, and Remiel could hear the madness there. Denied the light of Heaven and the glory of God, the angels had succumbed to insanity, he feared.
Sariel looked back to Remiel, eyes wild. “There are no answers here, brother Seraphim,” he snarled. “This world of man is a cruel and harsh place, populated by beasts not much better than primates, but for some reason, they have been given the gift of His love.”
The Grigori leader reached down to one of the women lying at his feet, holding her chin in his hand as he lifted her to stand beside him. Sariel gazed deeply into her eyes as if searching for something.
“He gave them something,” Sariel purred. “A gift denied to us – His Heavenly servants – the first of His creations.”
The woman squirmed in the leader's grasp, attempting to pull away, but it was for naught.
“Into each of them He put a bit of Himself. . . . A divine spark that marked them as His chosen ones. Why, Seraphim? Why do you think He did that for them?”
Remiel knew not the answer to that question either.
“We thought we'd learn the answer – my brothers and I – by living amongst them. . . . Living as them. But they can tell us nothing.”
The woman began to cry as Sariel's grip on her face tightened. She struggled feverishly in his grasp as he pulled her face closer to his, and then she lashed out at him, clawing bloody furrows into the pale, delicate flesh of his wrists.
Sariel drew in a hissing breath, sounding like a serpent preparing to strike. Savagely, he twisted the female's head sharply to one side, breaking her neck with a muffled snap.
“So special, and yet so fragile,” he said softly, letting the woman's broken body slump to the ground.
Immediately, it was picked up and carried away by others of the settlement.
“You come here seeking answers, Seraphim,” the Grigori leader snarled again. “As you can see, we have none to give.”
The cold drizzle turned into a downpour as Remy drove slowly down LaGrange Street in what was once lovingly known by the residents of Bean Town as the Combat Zone.
Centered on Washington Street between Boylston and Kneeland streets, extending up Stuart Street to Park Square, the Zone, so christened by a series of newspaper articles published in the 1960s, was once Boston's thriving adult-entertainment district. Of course they'd be here, Remy thought as he pulled into a metered space in front of an adult bookstore. The Grigori gravitated toward the old and abandoned – deconsecrated churches, closed-down movie palaces from days gone by, decrepit factory buildings.
He locked his car and headed up LaGrange in the hissing downpour. The streets were deserted, and he remembered a time when even the rain wouldn't have kept the perverts away.
The Zone had come about when city officials razed the West End and former red-light district at Scollay Square, near Faneuil Hall, to build the Government Center and revitalize the area. Urban renewal, they'd called it. Remy smiled as he pulled the collar of his raincoat up over his neck against the cold touch of the weather. Places such as this grew up like weeds; tear it down to the ground, and they'd just spring up somewhere else along the road.
The Combat Zone was dying now. It had been since the early eighties, as rising property values made the downtown locations all the more attractive to developers. Most of the strip clubs and adult bookstores had already been replaced by shiny new office buildings and hotels. It would be completely gone soon, and Remy had to wonder where it would turn up next.
But there were still some places, here and there, that belonged to the older time. Remy stood in front of one such place at the end of LaGrange Street, between Washington and Tremont. It used to be a factory of some kind, and it looked abandoned, but Remy knew better.
Even after all this time, he could still sense them. They were inside, the Grigori. The Watchers.
Remy pulled open the heavy metal door, the stink of urine wafting out to say hello. An old man wrapped in a filthy comforter stared up at him from the bottom step of stairs that climbed into shadow.
“Rainin' like a son of a bitch,” the old-timer slurred, his glassy eyes blinking repeatedly, as if he were having a hard time focusing. A filthy hand appeared from inside the flowered cover holding a bottle of cheap whiskey. He leaned back his head, sucking on the bottle, the golden liquid contents sliding down his thirsty throat.
“Though I hear tomorrow is supposed to be nice,” Remy responded.
The man belched wetly, and the bottle disappeared again beneath the comforter.
“Tha's good,” the man slurred. “Got things to do tomorrow.”
Remy moved toward the staircase, the old-timer's head following him jerkily. “You goin' up there?” he asked, his eyes flashing briefly toward the darkness at the top of the stairs.
“Yeah.”
The whiskey bottle appeared again. “I wouldn't if I was you,” he said, before having another drink.
“And why's that?” Remy asked.
The man shrugged. “Jus' doesn't feel right,” he said. “Whole place don't feel right. If it wasn't so fuckin' wet I'd be out on the street instead'a in here.”
“Thanks for the concern, but I've got some things I need to take care of,” Remy said, taking the first two steps toward the pool of blackness.
“They know you're comin'?” the man asked, suddenly sounding more sober.
Remy turned on the second step to look down at him. “No, they don't,” he said. “I thought I'd surprise them.”
The drunk made a noise that Remy guessed was a laugh. “Yeah, tha's good,” he gurgled, bringing the bottle up to his mouth once again. “They jus' love fuckin' surprises.” The man held the whiskey in one hand while his other snaked out from beneath the cover, waving Remy on with a dismissive flourish.
Without further hesitation, Remy climbed the stairs into the darkness, holding on to the greasy metal banister. Floor after floor he ascended, feeling himself getting closer.
Closer to them.
His stomach roiled with the thought of being in their presence, and he would rather have been just about anywhere else at that moment, but he knew that this was necessary.
The Grigori knew things about the city and its more unique residents, and he was willing to bet that they could give him something that would start him on the road to finding Israfil and his scrolls before things got even more out of hand.