Read Online A Kiss Before the Apocalypse by Thomas E. Sniegoski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thomas E. Sniegoski
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what you have done . . . attractive.”
Remy stood as well, placing the tips of his fingers on the desktop and leaning forward.
“What if I were to tell you that I don’t want anything more to do with our kind, now or in the future? What if I told you to find the Angel of Death yourself?”
Nathanuel smiled yet again. There may have been progress there, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
“You play the part so well, Remiel, so full of righteousness and anger. You must be enjoying yourself.”
The detective had had enough. “Get out,” he told them. “You and the news you bring have nothing to do with me. I’m not part of that world anymore. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”
Nathanuel’s stare grew more intense, the wet surface of his shiny black eyes seeming to roil. “And what world will you be part of when the seals are broken, the scrolls unfurled, and the Horsemen rain death and destruction down upon this one? Will you then seek the forgiveness of Heaven? I’m curious.”
Remy bit his tongue as he attempted to keep his anger in check. Nathanuel turned and slowly made his way toward the door. The other Seraphim followed. At the door, he stopped and looked back at Remy.
“Find Israfil or don’t—it matters not to me. The Creator dispatched us with this message for you, and we have performed our appointed task. He always did have a soft spot for this miserable ball of dirt and its filthy inhabitants.”
The door had not opened, but the other Seraphim were suddenly gone.
“Hey, Nathanuel,” Remy called, taking his seat again.
There was genuine annoyance on the angel’s human countenance.
He certainly is learning quickly.
Remy picked up his coffee mug and drained the last of its contents. It was cold, bitter. Similar to how he was feeling. He gestured to the angel chief with the empty mug.
“We didn’t discuss my fee. You don’t expect me to work for nothing, do you?”
“Fee, yes,” Nathanuel answered thoughtfully, slowly nodding his head. “Is averting the Apocalypse not payment enough?”
Remy leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. “Sounds fair to me,” he said with a wry smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
The afternoon was shot.
Remy still sat at his desk, chair pushed back as far as it could go. Hands behind his head, he gazed up, deep in thought, at the cracked plaster ceiling. Everything that had happened since yesterday now made a twisted sort of sense.
The Angel of Death was missing. It explained everything: Mountgomery and Carol Weir, the cries of the trapped souls at Mass General, pleading to be set free.
He thought about how huge this was, how everything that lived upon the planet, everything that exhibited some form of sentience, human or not, had a soul and would be affected. Without Israfil, nothing could die; no matter the level of suffering, the solace of death would remain unattainable.
And then it hit him like a ton of bricks dropped from the Prudential Tower.
“Shit,” he said, putting his hands over his face as he sat forward in the chair, the enormity of what had been dropped into his lap finally sinking in. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Remy grabbed his mug and stood, heading to the coffeepot for a refill. His hand was shaking as he picked up the carafe, and it took a concentrated effort for him to keep from spilling the hot drink.
He replaced the pot on the burner and slowly brought his hand up to his face to gaze at the still-trembling digits. He could feel his heart rate quicken, the blood pound through his body. It was times such as this when he truly felt like them.
When he believed that he really understood what it was like to be human.
But this . . . this is all so much bigger than that.
Remy carefully picked up his mug, leaning forward for a large, slurping sip so as not to spill coffee on himself. He returned to his desk, mind racing. The more thought he put into it, the worse the situation became.
As if it
Remy stood as well, placing the tips of his fingers on the desktop and leaning forward.
“What if I were to tell you that I don’t want anything more to do with our kind, now or in the future? What if I told you to find the Angel of Death yourself?”
Nathanuel smiled yet again. There may have been progress there, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
“You play the part so well, Remiel, so full of righteousness and anger. You must be enjoying yourself.”
The detective had had enough. “Get out,” he told them. “You and the news you bring have nothing to do with me. I’m not part of that world anymore. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”
Nathanuel’s stare grew more intense, the wet surface of his shiny black eyes seeming to roil. “And what world will you be part of when the seals are broken, the scrolls unfurled, and the Horsemen rain death and destruction down upon this one? Will you then seek the forgiveness of Heaven? I’m curious.”
Remy bit his tongue as he attempted to keep his anger in check. Nathanuel turned and slowly made his way toward the door. The other Seraphim followed. At the door, he stopped and looked back at Remy.
“Find Israfil or don’t—it matters not to me. The Creator dispatched us with this message for you, and we have performed our appointed task. He always did have a soft spot for this miserable ball of dirt and its filthy inhabitants.”
The door had not opened, but the other Seraphim were suddenly gone.
“Hey, Nathanuel,” Remy called, taking his seat again.
There was genuine annoyance on the angel’s human countenance.
He certainly is learning quickly.
Remy picked up his coffee mug and drained the last of its contents. It was cold, bitter. Similar to how he was feeling. He gestured to the angel chief with the empty mug.
“We didn’t discuss my fee. You don’t expect me to work for nothing, do you?”
“Fee, yes,” Nathanuel answered thoughtfully, slowly nodding his head. “Is averting the Apocalypse not payment enough?”
Remy leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. “Sounds fair to me,” he said with a wry smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
The afternoon was shot.
Remy still sat at his desk, chair pushed back as far as it could go. Hands behind his head, he gazed up, deep in thought, at the cracked plaster ceiling. Everything that had happened since yesterday now made a twisted sort of sense.
The Angel of Death was missing. It explained everything: Mountgomery and Carol Weir, the cries of the trapped souls at Mass General, pleading to be set free.
He thought about how huge this was, how everything that lived upon the planet, everything that exhibited some form of sentience, human or not, had a soul and would be affected. Without Israfil, nothing could die; no matter the level of suffering, the solace of death would remain unattainable.
And then it hit him like a ton of bricks dropped from the Prudential Tower.
“Shit,” he said, putting his hands over his face as he sat forward in the chair, the enormity of what had been dropped into his lap finally sinking in. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Remy grabbed his mug and stood, heading to the coffeepot for a refill. His hand was shaking as he picked up the carafe, and it took a concentrated effort for him to keep from spilling the hot drink.
He replaced the pot on the burner and slowly brought his hand up to his face to gaze at the still-trembling digits. He could feel his heart rate quicken, the blood pound through his body. It was times such as this when he truly felt like them.
When he believed that he really understood what it was like to be human.
But this . . . this is all so much bigger than that.
Remy carefully picked up his mug, leaning forward for a large, slurping sip so as not to spill coffee on himself. He returned to his desk, mind racing. The more thought he put into it, the worse the situation became.
As if it
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