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Remy put his shoulder against the door, and using only a portion of the strength that he possessed, pushed upon it, breaking the lock and a bit of the jamb. "I'll pay for that," he said, as she joined him in the doorway.
Remy allowed her to enter first. She reached up to pull a chain hanging from a fixture in the ceiling, illuminating the tiny room.
"There isn't much to see," she said, looking around the cramped space.
And she was right. The room was small, with an old metal desk the dominant piece of furniture, squatting in the room's center. There were no pictures on the walls, no shade upon the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The room was coldly sparse.
"Do you mind?" he asked her, pointing at the desk.
"Go ahead."
Even the top of the desk was bare, except for a single ballpoint pen resting upon the flat surface, as if waiting to be used.
Used for what? Remy wondered. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. There were two drawers on either side. He opened one and found it completely empty. Not holding out much hope, he checked the larger drawer below it.
"Hello there," he said with surprise, reaching down and lifting out a stack of notebooks. "Do you know what these are?" Remy asked Casey as he placed the books on top of the desk.
She shook her head, moving to stand beside him. She reached down and opened one. The notebook was filled with writing, page after page of writing, but not in a language she could understand.
"What is this?" she asked, flipping the pages, as if hoping to find something that she could decipher, but Remy knew it would be impossible, for there were very few who could still read angelic script.
"Is this… Latin?" she asked, frowning in confusion.
"It's older than that," Remy said. "You can read this?" she asked him. He nodded. "What's it say?"
Remy took the last notebook from the bottom of the stack.
And he began to read.
Chapter eleven
Remy found himself sucked down into the ancient script — Israfil's thoughts and feelings in his own words. And the angel's worst fears about what was happening became realized.
It's even more than I suspected. Sensations and stimulations that threaten to overwhelm me every waking moment.
How do they deal with it? How do they function? The sights, sounds, and smells; the bombardment is both terrifying and exciting all at the same time.
If this is how it is for them even a fraction of the time, my admiration for them and for what the Almighty has created grows with leaps and bounds.
The human species is even more remarkable than I originally believed.
The body that I assumed for my experiment is now free of illness, and I can feel my new physical form growing stronger every day as I become acclimated to this new state of being.
Jon Stall was a good man, afflicted with an incurable illness; he sought to live out the remainder of his existence attempting to understand the meaning of life… and of death.
How many times did I listen to him as he spoke aloud of his condition, and how much he despised his affliction? He cursed the Creator for what was happening to him, but soon came to accept his inevitable fate, blaming no one and choosing to make what remained of his fleeting existence as rewarding as he possibly could.
For a reason that I still do not fully understand, I was drawn to this example of humanity, grew more co
The human experience; how attractive it had become. Jon Stall's life force was nearly expended, thanks to the disease that wracked his human frame. All he could do was wait for the inevitable… wait for me to release him.
And he was ready, oh yes. He was waiting for my touch when I had the most ridiculous of ideas. Even as I write these words now, I ca
I would take his body, wear it like the finest of garments, and I would live as both human and angel, experiencing all that humanity had to bestow upon me, while still maintaining my function as God's Angel of Death.
Oh, what an experiment that would be, I imagined, thrilled as I had never been before in my long years of being.
And I was right. I was so right.
Remy flipped through more of the journal, finding entry after entry about Israfil's experiences with being human. There was something frighteningly familiar about the words the angel had written; if Remy had kept journals during his time on earth, they would — he imagined — have read very much like these.
But there was a difference. Israfil had appropriated a preexisting human body, merging with the dying college professor. Quite literally, Jon Stall's form, and everything that defined him, had been assumed by the Angel of Death.
Remy had stifled his true nature, basically forcing his angelic essence to configure to a more human form. Yes, he was still an angel, but mostly all that defined him as such had been locked away deep inside.
What Israfil had become was something altogether different, something unique, something both human and angelic attempting to live within a single form.
It seemed like a recipe for disaster.
And as Remy read through more of Israfil's journal entries, he began to see that his suspicions were right.
I've assumed Jon's life… his job as a teacher of life functions… of biology. Tapping into his memories, I've found everything I need to continue his existence.
Every day is more and more fascinating. I have even met a woman. Her name is Casey.
Not long before the begi
As far as humans go, I find her more outstanding than most.
I think Jon would have liked her.
I've become… involved. Romantically involved.
I did not intend for it to happen, but it did.
They are the strangest of things, these emotions and desires. I can barely contain them. Sometimes I wonder if I am actually in control.
It's absolutely irrational, I know this, but I'm feeling a nearly overpowering need to apologize to her — for performing my purpose — for taking her mother.
There appears to be a sort of conflict developing between my new humanity and my angelic function. This bears watching.
I would hate to see it evolve into something unmanageable.
Remy closed that journal and removed the last from the pile. Even the condition of the notebook gave a chilling insight into Israfil's deteriorating state. It was tattered and wrinkled, as if something had been spilled on it. A part of him did not want to open it, afraid of what he might find.
Tyger padded into the study, hopping up onto the desk and sniffing at the various journals.
"Where's your…?" Remy almost said owner before changing his mind midsentence. "Where's Casey?"
"Couch," the cat said, rubbing the side of his face and neck against the corners of the stacked notebooks, marking them with his scent.