"I…," Sariel grunted, stabbing the blade of his sword into the ground to halt his progress.
"Hear…" He fought the gravity of sorrow pushing down upon him, to struggle to his feet.
"Nothing!" And he sprang across the floor, murder in his gaze as he raised his tarnished blade to strike at those who would keep him from achieving that which he most desired.
That which would keep him from the gates of Heaven.
Remy sprang into Sariel's path, grappling with the fallen angel and driving him to the cold, hard ground. The Grigori flailed, lashing out with the pommel of his sword, striking Remy across the temple with a savage blow.
There was a searing flash of pain and color as Remy felt the Grigori squirm out from beneath him. He fought back the descending curtain of oblivion, flapping his powerful wings to rise to his feet.
The Chimerian babes had ceased their song as they watched the scene unfold with wide, frightened eyes. They hissed, baring razor-sharp teeth as Sariel loomed, sword raised above his head, ready to fall.
The Seraphim emerged with a roar, pushing aside the fragile shell of humanity Remy wore, burning it with the fire of Heaven. And Remy let it. He was tired of all the pain and death, tired of being manipulated in others' pursuits of Heaven.
With hands burning white with divine heat, he grabbed the Grigori leader, pulling him back away from his objectives.
Away from his children.
Sariel struggled in the grasp of the Seraphim, and his fine suit and the flesh beneath it burned with the supernatural fire. He spun on Remy, swinging his sword with a cry of fury and pain.
But the Seraphim was not impressed, capturing the blade in midswing, causing the weapon to warp and bend, and finally to melt. Sariel's screams were entirely of pain now as his immortal flesh blackened and smoldered, but the Seraphim held him tight, refusing to set him free.
Allowing the power of God that seethed at his core to flow through him and into the fallen angel.
"You wanted to see Heaven again, brother?" the Seraphim spoke in the language of God's first creations. "See it now."
The Grigori leader still lived, but his body had begun to crumble, pieces of charred angel flesh breaking away to drift on the air like black snow.
"See it and burn."
And soon the angel Sariel was no more, as the last of him was consumed by the voraciousness of Heaven's fire.
The Seraphim flapped his powerful wings, dispersing his fallen enemy's ashen remains, and turned his attention to the others. They had risen to their feet, weapons in hand, staring at him with intense hatred.
And the Seraphim's mouth twisted in a cruel smile that told he was ready to share their master's fate with them. None moved.
Having no fear of them, — the Seraphim Remiel turned his back on the Grigori to face the children of the deluge. They looked away from him with a hiss, the intensity of his light searing their sensitive eyes.
Diminishing his holy glow, he knelt upon the ground, opening his arms to them. Without hesitation they came to him, the three orphans crawling into the safety of the angel's embrace.
Its penchant for violence more than satisfied, Remy was able to usurp control from the Seraphim, putting the genie back into the bottle for another time.
He didn't know how much longer he could continue to do this, for the essence of the divine grew more powerful each time it was called upon. But that was a worry for another time.
He had the safety of the children to concern himself with now.
Walking through darkness in the bowels of the ark, he held the quivering offspring tight, consoling them with words that everything would be all right, having no idea if he was lying to them or not.
Stopping, he allowed the fire to burn from his hand again to see how far they'd come. To say that he was shocked by the sight of dead Grigori bodies strewn about the ground was an understatement.
Even more shocking was the sight of Francis, and Armaros.
"Hey," the former Guardian angel said. He clutched what looked to be a Bavarian Warhammer in one hand, while supporting Armaros with the other. "Sorry I'm late, didn't think they'd start the party without me."
Armaros pulled away from Francis and opened his arms to the Chimerian orphans.
"You saved them," he said as the three children leapt from Remy's arms to go to the Grigori.
"But they're the only ones," Remy said sadly.
Francis was staring at the Chimerian children, and by the look on his face, he clearly was not sure what to think.
"How does Sariel feel about that?" he asked.
"Sariel's dead," Remy said coldly.
Francis nodded, then reached out a tentative hand to pat one of the bald Chimerian heads. The child growled, swatting at the offending hand with its razor-sharp claws.
"Cute," Francis said as he quickly pulled his hand back. "He has his daddy's charming disposition."
"He was going to kill them," Remy said, speaking of Sariel. "Because they had the audacity to survive."
Francis nudged one of the Grigori corpses with the toe of his shoe.
"And he wasn't the only one with that bad attitude."
The wayward Guardian then sighed, and slung the medieval weapon over his shoulder. "So what now?" he asked. "Anything else that needs to be killed?"
Remy looked to Armaros for an answer.
"Sariel is dead, but the Grigori still live," he said, holding the Chimerian children. They were falling asleep, their large heads bobbing. "They won't give up that easily. We're going to need a safe place until some of this dies down."
"Troublemaker," Francis said from the side of his mouth, his comment directed at Remy.
"You know me," Remy responded with a shrug.
Francis nodded, rolling his eyes.
"Where will you go?" Remy asked Armaros, who had already started to turn away from them.
"Perhaps it is better that you don't know," the fallen angel said, carrying the sleeping orphans farther into the darkness. "Perhaps it's time for the Chimerian to again become lost to the world."
To be swallowed up by the gloom.
FOURTEEN
Remy returned to the cottage in Maine, not really sure why; it seemed as good a place as any at the moment. He wasn't ready to resume his life, to pick up where it had left off with Madeline's passing.
It was all too fresh. He didn't know if there would ever come a time when it wouldn't still be too fresh.
There had been a few inches more of snow, the winter's flailing last attempts to hold on before the inevitable.
He knew the feeling.
Sitting in the wicker chair on the front porch, Marlowe lying beside him, he tried to imagine life without her. She had been his hold on the world, the thing that kept him from becoming like the Grigori, and the others of his heavenly ilk.
She was his soul. And now, with her gone…
Remy tried to think of something else—anything else.
A few days past, as much as he was loath to admit it, the fallen angel Sariel had provided him with something he desperately needed. Something that took him away from his thoughts and pain.
Distraction.
If there was one thing for which he owed the Grigori leader, it was that. He had temporarily taken Remy from his sadness, and he had liked how it felt.
He crossed his legs, pulling the cuff of his jeans down below his ankle, covering the top of his work boot. From the porch he stared out over the driveway, into the dark woods at the snow-covered trees, and beyond.
Staring into the future.
"What?" Marlowe asked, suddenly alerted, following Remy's gaze, probably hoping that his master had seen some food attempting to escape.