Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Why are you sitting here?” Mavis asked.

  He didn’t answer her right away, instead focusing on the churning fire.

  “Hey!” she said impatiently.

  “I heard you,” Simeon replied, tossing another piece of wood onto the fire. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I was hoping one of you would come and talk to me.”

  “You’re that guy,” Mavis announced. “The guy that comes to speak with Prosper.”

  Simeon attempted another smile, nodding. “I am that guy.”

  “You scare him, you know?” Mavis said. “We can tell when you’re coming because he acts all different . . . nervous.”

  “I have that effect on some people,” Simeon answered. “As you might someday.”

  He threw that last bit out there; a baited hook, fishing for a response.

  “What do you mean?” Mavis asked. “Why would anybody be afraid of me?”

  She stepped closer to him—as if curiosity compelled her.

  A piece of wood popped and snapped, tumbling from the pyre he had built. He moved it closer to the burning mass with the side of his shoe.

  “I spoke with your friend not too long ago,” Simeon said.

  “What friend?” she asked with caution.

  “Gareth.”

  Simeon looked up in time to see a certain amount of excitement showing in her dark green eyes, which she quickly attempted to suppress.

  “He did something very bad . . . didn’t he?” she asked.

  This young woman didn’t know the half of it. Simeon had had plans in motion for a very long time, plans that had been affected by this young man’s actions. “Yes, he did.”

  “Has he been punished?” Mavis asked.

  “Not yet,” Simeon said, slowly shaking his head.

  “Will he be?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Simeon picked up a piece of wood from the stack next to him. A beetle, its shell glistening in the firelight, emerged from a knot in the wood, as if suspecting it was wise to leave. And it might have been, if only it had made the decision to act a little faster. He dropped the wood on the fire, watching the death throes of the insect.

  “When I spoke with Gareth, I learned that he had developed special . . . talents.”

  Simeon tore his gaze from the fire to look at the girl. She had moved even closer to him now, and the look in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “An incredible talent that allowed him to leave the island without anyone knowing,” he continued. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that . . . would you?”

  Mavis shook her head quickly.

  “No?” Simeon asked. “I was afraid of that.” He rubbed at his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Hmm, then I guess poor Gareth is a freak,” he said. “An aberration.”

  “Aberration?” Mavis repeated, uncertainty in her tone.

  “Something unlike all the others,” Simeon explained.

  “Is . . . is that bad?” she asked. “To be an aberration?”

  “In this case, my child, it is. You see, Gareth did something very bad, and to be sure that something like that doesn’t happen again we must—”

  “What if there are more?” Mavis interrupted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if there are more . . . more aberrations? Would that keep Gareth safe?”

  “More aberrations?”

  From the ruins of the mining town stepped the other orphans. They were of all ages, some having been on this world no longer than a few years, while others were older—like Mavis and Gareth. Simeon suspected that they were the ones who should generate the most concern.

  They walked through the rain toward Mavis. Then he saw their eyes grow cautious, and turned to find that his own demon servants had emerged from their hiding places.

  “Who are they?” Mavis demanded, ready to flee if necessary.

  He motioned for his servants to stay where they were. “Only those who help me with my day-to-day,” Simeon said.

  Mavis turned, telling the others that it was all right with just a glance. He wondered if that might be her special gift, to be able to communicate with others of her ilk without making a sound.

  She turned back to Simeon. “Gareth isn’t the only one,” she admitted, looking down at the ground.

  “Then there are others like him?” Simeon asked. “With special gifts?”

  She nodded quickly. “It’s the older kids,” she explained. “Though some of the younger ones can feel something coming.”

  “What is your gift, Mavis?” Simeon asked.

  The girl looked embarrassed, rocking from side to side as her fists clenched and unclenched within the long sleeves of her leather jacket.

  “Don’t be shy,” he encouraged. “It’s all out in the open now.”

  “It hurts,” she said. “It hurts when I use it.”

  He continued to stare at her, his gaze demanding that she show him despite the discomfort.

  Mavis closed her eyes. Almost immediately, the air around her began to shimmer. Then flames grew from her body, forming a pair of fiery wings that fanned the air, throwing intense amounts of heat. The rain hissed as it attempted to land upon her, creating roiling clouds of steam that billowed across the ground toward him.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, Mavis tossed her head back, raised her arms and unleashed gouts of white-hot fire from her hands, fire that burned so intensely that it caused concrete to burn.

  Yes, the situation was exactly as bad as he’d originally thought.

  She settled down, her breath coming in labored gasps. Simeon noticed that the flesh of her hands had been charred black, but was already beginning to heal.

  “Am I an aberration?” she asked, her chest heaving from the exertion.

  He noticed that some of the older children in the background were now showing off as well; one floated above the ground on invisible wings, while another levitated stones, some far bigger than even Simeon.

  He had seen enough. He stood up from the bucket upon which he sat, and stepped forward, exposing himself to the elements.

  Mavis stared at him intensely, waiting for her answer.

  “Hey, you didn’t answer,” she said. “Am I?”

  He stood there in the rain, his demon followers coming to stand with him.

  “Yes,” Simeon told her. “Yes, you are.”

  The girl seemed to accept that, as she’d likely accepted every other indignity that had been heaped upon her since she’d been born into this cruel world.

  “Will this help him?” she asked. “Will it help, now that Gareth’s not the only one?”

  “Yes,” Simeon said, and she smiled briefly.

  “For now,” he added, as he turned and walked away, leaving Mavis and the others to decide whether something good had occurred.

  Or bad.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Remy glanced nervously toward the door and wondered how Malatesta was holding up.

  He had a bad feeling. With the two of them separated, the potential for disaster was pretty damn high.

  The woman, Morgan, emerged from the bathroom where she’d gone to freshen up. She had relieved herself of her black leather jumpsuit, and was dressed only in a lacey bra and panties.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I changed,” she said with a sexy smirk. “That jumpsuit can be a bit warm.”

  Remy took a sip from the glass of scotch she had poured for him, as she padded barefoot across the room.

  “So,” she continued, sitting beside him on the leather couch, curling her bare legs beneath her. “I know pretty much all I need to about your friend, but what do you like, Remiel?”

  Remy shifted to face the beautiful woman. He was reading something from her, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. There was something different about her.

  “Tell me about my friend,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as he took another drink of his scotch.

/>   “Oh, you’re like that,” she purred. “Well, let’s just say that the general likes his playtime rough,” Morgan told him.

  “Really,” Remy said. “How rough?” He was goading her on, trying to make her think that this sort of thing was a turn-on for him.

  “Very,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Very, very rough.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She nodded vigorously as she unfurled herself and crawled atop Remy. “Would you like to hurt me?”

  Remy didn’t want this, but to reject her advances might destroy his opportunity for information.

  She straddled his lap, facing him. “I asked you a question, Remiel,” she urged, as she removed her lacy bra.

  He could see the deep scarring in the flesh around her nipples as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest.

  “Did he do that to you?” Remy asked her.

  “Uh-huh,” she whispered softly in his ear. “But that’s all right, I heal quickly. Would you like to leave your own scars?”

  She leaned back, and dug one of her long, scarlet fingernails into the flesh above her left breast, causing the blood to flow.

  “You can if you like,” she told him.

  She began to grind her hips against Remy’s lap, as she dipped her fingertip in her blood and brought it to his lips. He tried to move his head, but she was insistent, smearing her blood on him. As soon as it touched his lips, as soon as the coppery scent of it filled his nostrils, Remy saw what she actually was.

  The blood triggered an explosion of images in his mind; Morgan’s life-stuff telling the story of a mother’s interaction with divinity, the conception and abandonment of a half-breed child, and the life that she—the child—had been forced to lead in the wake of her rejection.

  Remy tried to shake his head clear and reached up, gripping the writhing woman by the shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes.

  “You’re Nephilim.” He watched surprise register on her face, then her expression quickly changed to one of pleasure.

  “Of course I am,” she said. “How else could I survive the kind of shit you guys like?”

  In the eyes of the various angelic hosts that served the whims of God, the Nephilim were considered a blight. The offspring of angel and human were the trickiest of things. Most of the time they appeared perfectly normal, until puberty, and then the end result was usually anything but. An actual human form imbued with the power of Heaven was a recipe for disaster.

  Now here was one of those children, forced into this kind of life, a sexual plaything for the unearthly.

  “What, you have something against Nephilim?” Morgan asked. “If that’s the case, you’re in the wrong fucking place. All the playthings here are Nephilim.”

  Morgan’s blood still engulfed Remy’s senses; the smell and taste, and the images continued to bombard him as he twitched upon the couch beneath her. He saw Aszrus in this very room, wrapped in the throes of passion with multiple Nephilim. Suddenly, the women were cast aside; Aszrus cried out as a knife plunged into his chest. And then Remy could see the attacker, a young man with shaggy blond hair. His attack on the angel general was vicious—relentless—as he drove the blade into the angel’s chest again and again.

  And then he began to cut, slashing and digging with his fingers, trying to reach the still-beating prize inside.

  “Are you all right?” Morgan asked. She climbed off of him, and stood in front of him, staring. He could see that her breast had already healed. “Are you having a bad trip or something?”

  It took a moment for Remy to pull his wits together, and then he asked her, “Did something happen to Aszrus here?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about other—”

  Remy flew from the couch and grabbed the girl by the arm.

  “This is very important, Morgan,” he said with the intensity of the Seraphim.

  “Yeah,” she said quickly. “A few nights ago . . . some crazy got in and came at the general.”

  “A crazy?”

  “Yeah, Prosper didn’t know who it was.”

  “Prosper?”

  “Rapture’s owner.”

  “So Aszrus was attacked?”

  “Yeah, guy came out of nowhere with a knife, started screaming and trying to stab the general.”

  “What happened then?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t hang around to find out—security came. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see Aszrus tonight and know—”

  The door to the room suddenly slammed open then, and the zombie that had been checking IDs at the door stormed in with a group of five other walking dead.

  “What the fuck, Charlie?” Morgan shrieked, just as he backhanded her across the face.

  The six zombies then turned toward Remy, who allowed his true nature to emerge. He sprang from the couch and plowed into the first of the walking dead, driving him back into the others and causing them to tumble like bowling pins. Then he grabbed an ashtray from a nearby side table and infused it with the fire of Heaven, until it glowed like a tiny star, tossing it at the first zombie to rise to its feet.

  The burning ashtray bounced off the zombie’s chest and landed on the floor, hissing like a giant snake.

  It took a second for Remy to grasp what had happened, which was just long enough for the zombies to reach him. As he struggled with the mass of living dead men, he caught sight of the jewelry around their necks, confirming his suspicion that they were magickally protected against beings such as him.

  Of course they are, he thought, as they pummeled him with fists like cinder blocks, driving him to the floor. Remy dropped to his knees, struggling against multiple blows. His gaze fell on the doorway, where he saw more zombie security guards entering the room; Malatesta was in the hallway, no longer wearing the guise of the angel general, his face swollen and bloody, his hands bound behind his back.

  There were far too many now, and Remy’s wild swings landed harmlessly on flesh that had been dead for some time. As he fell to the floor beneath a sea of fists and kicking feet, he caught sight of Morgan, now in a silk robe, watching the beating with a certain amount of interest.

  It was all he could do to stay conscious, and he was just about to give in to the sweet arms of oblivion when he saw Morgan reach for something on the floor. It took him a moment to realize it was the picture he had found in Aszrus’ secret room—the picture of the baby with the thumbprint burned into it.

  She looked at it, and then to him.

  Her look told him that it meant something to her.

  And then everything faded to black.

  * * *

  Montagin couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Not only had some foul abomination from the depths emerged from the conjured passage of shadow, but it had now claimed the corpse of his master as its own.

  “No!” Montagin roared, shucking his human shape to assume the form of the angelic warrior that had fought alongside the brave general during the Great War against the legions of the Morningstar.

  “Let it go!” Squire was screaming. “It’s more trouble than it’s fucking worth.”

  “I will do no such thing!” Montagin extended his arm, imagining his weapon, and suddenly it was there, traversing the planes of reality to find its way into his waiting hand.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt the grip of a Heaven-forged weapon in his hand.

  Aszrus’ feet had reached the edge of the shadow patch, and he was about to be drawn over the edge, when Montagin attacked. Wings spread to their fullest, he leapt into the air, sword of crackling fire raised to strike.

  The blade came down upon the mouth-covered flesh, severing a thick limb just above the point where it entwined the general’s ankles. From the darkness of the patch, a wail from a thousand mouths resounded throughout the room, and the warrior angel reveled in the cries of his enemy.

  The sword disappeared as Montagin knelt to pull the general’s body away from the edge with both h
ands, but the attack suddenly intensified. Multiple tentacles of different sizes, shapes, and widths squeezed their way up through the opening, splintering the floor, and bending back pieces of the floorboards as they eagerly sought their prize, and more.

  “I fucking told you to let it go!” Squire screamed from behind the couch.

  One of the limbs lashed out, slapping Montagin and sending him sprawling across the apartment.

  “Keep away from the TV!” he heard Squire yell, and seriously considered killing the hobgoblin before dealing with the tentacles that hungered for his master.

  Three of the damnable limbs had wrapped themselves around Aszrus’ waist, and were already dragging his body back toward the passage, while another larger, thicker limb—this one adorned with a shiny, black claw—was slithering across the floor toward Montagin.

  The angel scrambled to his feet as the tentacle reared up, the claw already beginning its descent. He was fairly certain that the foul appendage could slice through his battle armor from stem to stern, and disembowel him. He spun around, saw the television, and tore it from the wall, using it as a shield. The tentacle descended and the claw slashed through the monitor, cutting it nearly in two.

  He could hear Squire screaming, and took a certain amount of pleasure from his pain, as he launched himself atop the writhing appendage, staying clear of the slashing claw. Holding on to the bucking limb, Montagin again called forth a weapon from the armory of Heaven. A burning dagger appeared in his grip, already beginning its descent down into the muscular, orifice-covered surface.

  The angel stabbed the limb again and again, the divine fire leaking from the blade finding its way beneath the accursed flesh. The tentacle flailed all the wilder now as it burned.

  Montagin leapt from the dying arm, looking toward the body of his general, saw that Squire and Heath were doing their part to keep it from being taken into the darkness. Each had hold of one of the general’s arms, Aszrus the prize in a bizarre game of tug-of-war.

  “Can you close the passage?” Montagin asked, rushing toward them as even more tentacles began to force their way up from the holes in the floor.