Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Michael listened, the coal going up, and then down.

  “The situation between Heaven and . . . my employer is nothing short of volatile, and now that the general’s death has been revealed, we’re dancing on the cusp of what my companions and I feared would happen.”

  Dardariel must have been feeling brave, because he interrupted the grown-ups talking.

  “He lies,” the angel proclaimed. “This one was untruthful to the Lord God Himself; do you seriously believe that—”

  Michael flicked the coal away, striking Dardariel in the forehead.

  “Silence,” the Archangel commanded.

  Dardariel scowled, but he did as he was told.

  “Your companions,” Michael said to Francis. “The angel Montagin, the human sorcerer, Heath . . . Am I forgetting anyone?”

  “There was a hobgoblin, but he had some things to do and couldn’t stick around for all the fun.”

  “Anyone else?” Michael prompted.

  Francis smiled, realizing what the Archangel was getting at.

  “Yeah, Remy’s involved in this,” he said, watching as Michael’s expression changed from bored to interested.

  The Archangel stepped closer to Francis, his mere presence making him feel as though he was being crushed against the stone wall.

  “What part does he play?”

  Francis tried to suppress his smile, but he couldn’t. He looked up into Michael’s eyes. “The most important part of all: He’s trying to keep it all from turning to shit.”

  * * *

  Remy took point, moving down the corridor as quickly and as carefully as he could, Malatesta at his heels. His first instinct was to get the hell out of Dodge, but to come this far, with still so much unanswered, he decided that he was going to go for broke.

  Besides, there was far too much at stake to stop now. For the briefest of moments, he imagined what the world would be like as Heaven went to war with Hell. It was all a little overwhelming.

  He turned to make sure that the Vatican magick user was keeping up.

  “You with me?”

  “Unfortunately,” Malatesta said, leaning against a plaster wall.

  They were in a lower part of the charnel house. It wasn’t very fancy, and Remy guessed that this was some place the customers seldom saw.

  He suddenly tensed as he heard the sound of multiple voices coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. He motioned for Malatesta to follow him and cautiously moved forward.

  The voices were female, and they were coming from behind a heavy wooden door to their left. Remy stepped closer to the door, and listened. One of the voices was definitely the woman who had questioned him about Aszrus’ photo.

  The woman who still had answers that Remy wanted to hear.

  “We’re going in,” Remy told Malatesta.

  The magick user looked as though he was about to protest, but Remy was already turning the knob, and quickly darted inside.

  The women stopped talking immediately, all five of them looking toward the door as Remy and Malatesta stepped in, closing the door behind them.

  Remy recognized Natalia, who had gone off with Malatesta, Morgan, and the older woman.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan asked, a look of shock on her beautiful face.

  “I’ll call security,” one of the others said, heading for an old-fashioned phone on the wall.

  A blast of magickal energy struck the woman in the side, hurling her backward into the wall, where she dropped to the floor unconscious.

  Remy turned to Malatesta, seeing his hand crackling with the residue of the spell he’d cast.

  “No security,” the magick user said, and Remy had to consider if it was the Larva or the man who was with them now.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Remy said, as much to Malatesta as the women. “We just need some answers.”

  “I’ll give you answers,” Natalia said, holding up her hand as the bright red fingernails began to grow longer.

  “Knock it off, Nat,” the older woman said.

  Remy noticed then that older woman was still holding the baby photo in her hand.

  “But, Bobbie . . . ,” Natalia started to protest, before a cold look from the woman silenced her.

  “I think this one might have some answers to our own questions,” Bobbie said, shaking the photo.

  Morgan snatched the picture from the woman and advanced on Remy.

  Malatesta looked as though he might be getting ready to let loose again, when Remy turned to him.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Where did you get this?” Morgan demanded. Her eyes were shiny and wet, most likely from crying.

  “I’m sure Bobbie already told you,” Remy said.

  “You tell me,” she demanded.

  “I found it in Aszrus’ place. Hidden . . . as if he didn’t want anybody to see it.”

  Morgan was staring at the image again.

  “It means something to you.” Remy stated the obvious.

  Her moist eyes locked on his. “Yeah, you might say that.”

  “That’s a picture of her child,” Bobbie announced. “She’d know it anywhere. . . . I’d know it anywhere. . . .”

  “I was told my baby died at birth,” Morgan said, not taking her eyes from the photo. “Does this look like a dead baby to you?”

  Remy shook his head. “No, it does not.”

  It was Natalia’s turn now. “What’s it mean?” she asked, her nails having receded back to their normal length. “We’ve all been knocked up by angels, given birth to corpse babies. . . .

  “If this one is alive,” Natalia said, reaching for the picture held by Morgan, “could my baby be alive, too?”

  Morgan let Natalia have the photograph for a moment, but then quickly took it back.

  “Do you know, angel?” Bobbie asked.

  “All I know is that Aszrus is dead . . . murdered,” Remy told them. “And I think whoever was responsible is somehow connected to this.”

  “Prosper said that he was fine after that business the other night,” Bobbie said. “Which is why I wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d shown up tonight.”

  “Prosper seemed pretty upset that we were here poking around,” Remy said. “I don’t know about you, but I think somebody might have a guilty conscience.”

  One of the other girls who’d been silent until then spoke up.

  “He told me that my baby was dead,” she said, holding back tears.

  “Prosper?” Remy asked.

  She nodded. “He held my hand, talking all sweet to me,” she said, sounding as if she were there again. “He said that she was just like all the others, born dead—just too damn different to live.”

  They all seemed to be listening to the woman, as if they could feel her pain as well.

  “What if he was lying?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  “I think we need to find out,” Malatesta said, leaning against the door.

  “Yeah,” Remy agreed, looking at the women.

  “So, who wants to take us to Prosper’s office?”

  * * *

  The demon sat alone, at the far back of Methuselah’s tavern indulging in its fourth libation of fermented basilisk blood and grain alcohol.

  He exuded a cloud of menace, only the bravest of waitresses coming over sporadically to see if he wanted another of the foul drinks. Normally he would have had something to eat as well, but when he thought of his stomach, and what he could fill it with, it just made him remember how he had ended up this way.

  The memory of how he’d lost face with his clan.

  The incident had happened there, at Methuselah’s. The day had been no different from multiple others, the demon locating a passage to the tavern to slake his thirst and fill his hungry belly.

  He hadn’t even noticed the Seraphim or his beast, and why should he? They were no matter to him.

  That was how his species had managed to survive as long as they had: stick
ing to the shadows, keeping to themselves, drawing little attention to their actions.

  It was a practice that would serve them well when their kind was ready to emerge and reclaim what had been stolen from them.

  He had ordered a libation and an appetizer—something he had grown to love called a blooming onion. He had been about to take his first bite of the delicious, fried onion treat, when the angel’s beast had approached his table. It had looked upon him hungrily, its eyes demanding food.

  The demon had no intention of sharing, and had ordered the beast go away. However, it appeared to have no intention of leaving, and had demanded that he share the blooming onion.

  The demon brought his drink to his mouth, taking gulps of the thick fermented blood, as he continued to recall that troubling evening.

  He had insisted the beast go away as peaceably as he was able, but the black-furred animal remained.

  Eventually bringing its master to the table.

  The Seraphim appeared, the light of the divine nearly blinding the demon. He’d had no quarrel with the angel, and had attempted to shy away, but the Seraphim would not have it, belittling the demon in front of the tavern’s patrons, causing him to lose face.

  News of the event had traveled like the most virulent of plagues, and those of his tribe were aware of what had occurred within hours.

  His entire reputation was destroyed in a matter of days.

  Because of what the Seraphim had done to him, he was deemed unworthy, ostracized. Tribal law dictated that he should kill the Seraphim and his beast, but he knew it was an impossible task, his own hunger for survival canceling out any desire to attack the divine creature of light.

  But in not slaying the angel, he was shunned by his kind, as if dead.

  The demon had some more of his drink, mulling over the decision that he had made.

  It had taken all the wealth that he’d squirrelled away to hire the assassins. But the Bone Masters were well worth the price, for once they had completed their task, he would be resurrected.

  Reborn in the eyes of his people.

  The demon raised a pale hand to summon a waitress. He was suddenly feeling a bit hungrier at that moment, and decided to take a chance on a blooming onion.

  Before the moment of optimism could pass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Just being in the presence of the angel had made Prosper’s hands begin to shake.

  The owner of Rapture took a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. He’d been around all kinds of angels before—for fuck’s sake he was one himself—but he hadn’t been affected like this by any other.

  Images sparked inside his brain, flashes of events that he hadn’t thought about—hadn’t remembered—in centuries. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all, and for making him suffer, he decided to make Remiel and his little friend suffer as well.

  The thought of the indignities that would be heaped upon the Seraphim in the bowels of Rapture made Prosper smile as he leaned back in the leather chair behind his desk. Some of his customers were real sick fucks.

  The memory came unbidden, like a rock thrown through a piece of frosted glass to reveal the images behind it. He saw a scene of war, and all the horrors it entailed. He had been part of the battle, fighting just as much for his life as for the cause of the Morningstar.

  He hadn’t yet become Prosper; his name was Puriel, and as his compatriots had died around him, he’d wanted nothing more than to run and hide until the madness abated.

  Prosper steeled himself against the flood of memories, trying to keep them back. He didn’t want to remember what had been.

  How it used to be before . . .

  He was attempting to get away, the air thick with an oily black smoke that rose from the burning bodies of his comrades. Puriel had been wrong in siding with the Son of the Morning, and just wanted this to stop . . . wanted it to be the way it had been.

  Blindly he had leapt into the air, his tattered yellow wings carrying him over the battlefield. Something hissed as it sliced through the air, cutting into one of his wings and sending him spiraling down to the corpse-littered ground.

  He landed upon an angel named Celiel, who had once boasted that he would tell the Lord God Almighty how wrong He had been about humanity, and if He didn’t like it, he would spit in His eye. Celiel was now quite dead, blackened flesh showing through the gash in his armor that stretched from his neck down through his shoulder.

  Rolling from atop the corpse, Puriel realized that he could no longer fly—a large portion of one of his wings having been cut away. He struggled to stand, eyes searching the roiling black smoke for a sign of the one that had struck him from the sky.

  He remembered with sorrow how he had stood there, waiting for the inevitable.

  Prosper let out a short scream, the glass of bourbon slipping from his hand and falling to the floor. The picture inside his head was as clear as day: an armored warrior of Heaven emerging from the billowing smoke, a sword of fire held tightly with purpose.

  How could he ever have forgotten that face? The face of the one who spared him his life allowing him to be imprisoned in Tartarus.

  The face of the angel Remiel.

  “Son of a bitch,” Prosper growled, leaning over to pick up the glass that he’d dropped. His hand was still shaking, and it took more than one try to finally snatch up the tumbler and place it on the corner of his desk.

  Prosper stood, breathing heavily through his nose, attempting to calm himself. It was no wonder that he’d reacted in such a way to the angel.

  Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, he began to pour himself another finger’s worth. Maybe I’ll pay the angel a visit myself, he considered, downing the drink in one huge gulp. It would be something special for Remiel to remember his face this time.

  The door into his office swung open then, and Prosper turned to see Bobbie coming in.

  “Don’t you fucking knock?” he asked, his rage suddenly inflamed. Then he saw that she wasn’t alone, and once again the glass fell from his hand, this time shattering as it hit the floor.

  The angel Remiel came into his study.

  “I think you and I need to have a little chat,” the angel said.

  It took all that Prosper had at that moment not to drop to his knees and pray for his life.

  * * *

  Remy saw Prosper begin a desperate dive for the phone on the corner of his desk, and met him halfway, knocking him to the floor with a solid slap across the face.

  “Lock the door,” Remy said to Malatesta, who had entered behind him. “We don’t want anyone interrupting our discussion.”

  The magick user stepped away from the door and lifted his hands, muttering beneath his breath as he sealed the door with a spell.

  Prosper scrabbled across the floor away from Remy. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked. “The forces that I could call down upon your sorry ass?”

  “I know, I know,” Remy said, humoring him. “You’re a very important person.” He casually sat on the corner of the desk.

  “We can do this one of two ways,” he began. “You can answer all of my questions, truthfully, or you can fight me every inch of the way and I will take a certain amount of pleasure in breaking every bone in your body, starting with your hands.”

  Prosper was now standing, moving toward the leather chair behind the desk. “Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he said with an idiot’s grin.

  “What are you talking about?” Remy asked, confused.

  “Look at you,” Prosper said. “The champion of Heaven, now nothing but a fucking thug. Guess it can happen to the best of us, too.”

  Remy wasn’t sure exactly what he was getting at, but he got a sense that it had something to do with the old days.

  He chose to ignore the comment, instead asking, “So, what’s it going to be?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Prosper declared with a cocky smile, leaning back in the chair
, as if daring Remy to do something.

  At one time Remy would have thought his own reaction troublesome, that the often violent angelic nature that he worked so hard to contain was getting stronger, and perhaps even out of control.

  But now he looked at it as something that happened when he needed it to.

  His wings were out in an instant, launching him over the desk, where he landed atop Prosper, sending them and the chair upon which they struggled backward onto the floor. His hand was around the fallen angel’s throat.

  Prosper was trying to scream, but Remy squeezed tightly, refusing to let anything out except a frightened-sounding squeak.

  “You want to be a badass, you do it when the world isn’t on the verge of being burned to a cinder.”

  Remy allowed a small amount of the divine fire that was so eager to come out into his hand, burning Prosper’s throat. Then he released his grip, and loomed above the choking fallen angel.

  “Now are you ready to talk to me?” he asked.

  Prosper looked as though he might continue to fight, but appeared to think better of it when he touched the reddened flesh around his throat.

  “Good boy,” Remy said. “Tell me everything you know about this.” He pulled the wrinkled photo from his shirt pocket, and tossed it into Prosper’s lap.

  The fallen angel picked it up, staring at it. “Cute,” he said with a smirk just begging to be swatted from his face. “Isn’t that how you’re supposed to react to human offspring?” He tossed the photo at Remy with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t know shit about it.”

  Remy’s wing suddenly lashed out to savagely smack Prosper’s hand as he drew it back.

  The fallen angel cried out, grasping his injured wrist.

  “Fucking hell!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Remy said, feigning compassion. “Reflex action toward douche bags. Didn’t even know I was going to do it.”

  He smiled. “Tell me about the picture.”

  “I told you,” Prosper began again.

  Remy advanced, wings fanned out around him threateningly. “If I have to ask again . . .”

  Prosper cradled his arm to his chest, eyeing Remy fearfully. Remy was pretty sure that the fallen angel’s wrist had been broken. There was no better an incentive than broken bones.