Filthies swarmed around Remy, and he tried unsuccessfully to summon wings, only to feel a searing pain and an overwhelming sense of loss.
But there was no time to ponder these sensations. Instead, Remy tapped into the pool of anger and frustration that he had been feeling since awakening in this nightmare place.
It was good to give it somewhere to go, good to have something to lash out against.
The Filthies were upon him, their combined weight driving him to the floor. One held a bent and jagged piece of metal that glowed with the remnants of divine fire, and was attempting to shove the blade into Remy’s neck. With a surge of strength, he managed to toss off one of the scrawny warriors that clung to his arm. He reached up, shoving his thumb deep into the eye socket of the wretched creature above him. The angel went rigid, and the blade dropped from its grasp as it fell away. Remy retrieved the weapon and immediately went to work, jabbing and slashing at those who attempted to take him down.
He drove the blade of his knife into the neck of a Filthy, nearly severing its head from its shoulders, and retrieved that dying angel’s short sword. That was much more to Remy’s liking, giving him more distance and striking power. There were flashes of memory amongst the screams, and spurts of black blood, flashes of another time when he was forced to slay those who had once been his brothers.
He remembered the war and Heaven and the lives he took, how he’d walked away when all was said and done, swearing never to return or to be that deplorable creature again.
And here he was.
The realization was like being doused with cold water, and he was suddenly paralyzed by the carnage he had wrought.
“No,” he screamed at the hacked and bloody bodies that had piled up around him, trying to force back the howling rage that wanted him to continue the carnage he’d started.
That moment of hesitation was all that the Filthies needed. The tip of a burning knife slid into his flesh, the heat of its weakened Heavenly fire searing him from the inside out. Remy opened his mouth in a silent scream as he fell, his own body cushioned by those he had already struck down.
He fought to shrug off the electrifying numbness that rendered his limbs nearly useless. He could see more Filthies continuing to pour in through the ceiling, and now through the door, a tidal wave of poisoned divinity seemingly hell-bent on bringing them down. Samson’s children fought well, but many had fallen beneath the Filthies’ weaponry. Remy’s eyes darted about the carnage, looking for Leila, but he did not see her.
A deafening roar filled the room and Remy watched as Baarabus was brought down by a net infused with the remnants of divinity draped around his body and cinched tight.
“No need for any more of the rough stuff,” he heard the Fossil say and saw him raise his scab-crusted arms in surrender. The Filthies beat him over the head with the pommels of their swords until he crumpled to the floor.
Remy fought to rise to his feet and managed to get to his knees, kneeling upon the slain Filthies, swaying as his still living enemies encircled him, brandishing their weapons eagerly.
“Let’s get this over with,” he croaked, ready to die despite the fact that there was still so very much he did not know.
Maybe, said a part of him, that is for the better.
The Filthies appeared to be about to pounce on him, when there came a sudden buzz, voices of the angels at the far back of the gathering speaking in harsh whispers that spread throughout the crowd.
Then the crowd parted like the Red Sea in the old Cecil B. DeMille classic to reveal a hunched figure slowly making its way toward Remy.
“Does my eye deceive me?” asked a voice as dry and seemingly encrusted as the flesh of the Filthies. Yet there was something familiar about it.
The figure stood before Remy, and he felt his blood become like ice as he recognized the angel.
The Archangel Michael was a shell of his former glory: his perfect skin covered with puckered scars; only one of his once glorious golden wings left upon his back; his luxurious hair, at one time like spun gold, merely stubble upon a pocked and scarred skull.
Michael leaned closer, focusing his single good eye on Remy.
“Ah yes, it is a familiar face,” said the archangel with a chilling smile of black and jagged teeth. “So very nice to be reunited with family.”
And with a barely perceptible nod from their master, the Filthies reacted, swarming upon Remy, fists and weapons raining down upon him, driving him into a bed of corpses.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She felt as if they were gathered to say their good-byes, but that wasn’t the case at all. At least that’s what Linda kept telling herself.
“So this will save him?” she asked, pulling her gaze from the paleness of her dying lover.
The angel Assiel was standing at the foot of the bed. “There is a chance, yes,” he said, but his tone didn’t quite give her the boost of confidence she was looking for.
“If there’s any chance at all, I say we do it,” Ashley said, nervously petting Marlowe’s head as he sat beside her.
“I’m still not a hundred percent on what you’re asking them to do,” Mulvehill said. He and the ugly little man named Squire were standing in the doorway. “Could you run it by me again?”
“Jesus,” Squire said with an eye roll. “He’s going to send them into Remy’s psyche to anchor his life energies before they’re completely drained away. Do you need me to draw a fucking diagram?”
“Y’know what? A fucking diagram might be helpful,” the police detective snapped, the tension in the room beginning to show its effects.
“They are the three closest to his heart,” Assiel said.
“Three?” Linda asked.
“Yes, three,” the healer confirmed. “Ashley, you, and him.” The angel pointed to Marlowe, whose tail had begun to wag.
“Marlowe? Are you serious?”
Assiel nodded. “The animal shares a special bond, similar but unlike the connection you two share with him. Marlowe’s link will serve to reinforce each of your own.”
Linda knelt before the dog and gave him a hug as he licked her face. “I always knew you were a special boy,” she said. “Of course you’ll be part of saving Remy.”
“And us?” Squire asked. “Should we be part of this Vulcan mind-meld pajama party?”
“Unnecessary,” Assiel said. “I think these three will be more than sufficient. You two will need to stand guard over us, for as long as we are connected to Remy, we will be unable to defend ourselves.”
“See, that’s something I can understand. We’ll hold down the fort while you guys are fixing him up.”
Mulvehill was staring at Remy, and Linda could see the concern in his eyes.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” he said with a nod. “I think it’s going to work.”
“Yeah, linking up two women and a dog to the dwindling life energies of a Seraphim—what could go wrong?” Squire asked sarcastically.
Mulvehill slapped the top of the ugly little man’s head. “We don’t need that right now,” he said with a snarl.
“Watch it, Detective,” Squire said, rubbing the sparse hair of his oddly shaped head. “We aren’t that close.”
Linda had had enough. “What do we need to do?” she prompted Assiel, nervously rubbing her hands together.
“Get on the bed with him,” Assiel ordered, motioning with his long fingers.
Linda sat next to Remy.
“Closer,” the angel corrected. “I need you all as close to him as you can get.”
“Like this?” Linda asked, crawling up onto the bed and lying beside her lover.
Assiel nodded. “Closer if possible.” The angel looked at Ashley. “You as well—close.”
Ashley moved around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside Remy. “This is a little bit uncomfortable,” she said, giving Linda a quick, embarrassed look.
“It’s all right, Ash,” Linda said. “Get closer.” She had put
Remy’s arm around her and was snuggling closer.
Ashley reluctantly did the same.
“Marlowe?” Assiel addressed the dog.
“C’mon, boy,” Linda said, patting the area between Remy’s legs.
The Labrador obliged, jumping up onto the bed and plopping himself down with a grunt between his master’s legs. The dog sighed as he rested his chin on Remy’s thigh.
The angel looked them over and seemed satisfied.
“I will be the means by which you are connected,” he explained. “The anchor that keeps you rooted to Remiel’s psyche.”
The healer hopped up onto the bed and positioned himself as close to them as he could up near the wooden headboard.
“Is this going to hurt?” Ashley asked nervously. “I’m okay if it does; I just want to prepare myself.”
“You will find the experience . . . jarring,” the angel told them. “Each of you—each of your souls—will connect to the specific aspect of his psyche that has made you so important to him, hopefully providing Remiel with the strength to remain.”
He paused to let it all sink in.
“Are we ready?”
Linda held on to Remy as tightly as she could, seeing that Ashley was doing the same. Marlowe still rested his chin upon his master’s leg and was snoring loudly. Maybe the Labrador had already made the journey inside.
“Ready,” Linda said.
“Me, too,” Ashley confirmed.
“Then let us begin.”
Assiel lifted his hand and held it out before him. Linda could not help but look, and she could have sworn that the lighter-colored flesh of the angel’s palm had started to glow.
“Good luck,” Mulvehill called from the doorway, while Squire remained silent.
Linda was sure that the strange little man knew more about things like this than he was letting on. But there was no turning back now.
Assiel lowered his hand to Remy’s bare chest.
Linda’s eyes became incredibly heavy, and as they closed, she felt the bed—the very world—disappear from beneath her.
And she began to fall.
• • •
Mulvehill watched the group on the bed, expecting something dramatic. “Is that it?”
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Squire answered.
“They just look like they’ve gone to sleep.”
“What were you expecting?”
Mulvehill shrugged. “I don’t know, just thought there would be a little more to it.”
“There’s plenty to it already,” the hobgoblin replied. “If they can’t stop Remy’s life force from draining away—”
“He’ll die.”
“Bingo.”
They stood there, staring at the five forms crowded upon the bed.
“What should we do? Do you think we can leave them?” Mulvehill asked.
“Don’t see why we can’t.”
“Will they be all right?”
“Can’t answer that,” Squire said. “But there’s nothing we can do anyway, with us out here”—he pointed at Remy—“and all of them in there.”
“Yeah,” Mulvehill agreed. He continued to watch them, making sure that they were all still breathing—they were, but it didn’t stop him from worrying.
“I need a drink,” Squire said.
“I’m sure you do; it’s been, what? Twenty minutes?”
“Are you always this big of an asshole, or are you just tense on account’a the situation?”
“I’m an asshole,” Mulvehill said, following Squire as he left the room and headed for the stairs.
“Thought so.”
Mulvehill stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back into the room, just in case. . . .
“Are you coming?” Squire asked, already halfway down.
Mulvehill tore his gaze from the doorway and started down.
“I could use a sandwich, too,” Squire added.
“That doesn’t surprise me, either. You haven’t eaten in an hour.”
“Has it been that long? Maybe I’ll make a meal instead.”
Mulvehill had stopped again, looking back up at the top of the stairs.
“What now?” Squire asked, annoyed.
“Nothing,” Mulvehill said. “I think I’m just going to sit here for a little while.” He lowered himself down onto the step.
Squire continued down to the hallway below. “Do you want anything?” he called over his shoulder.
“No, I’m good,” Mulvehill answered.
“Suit yourself, but don’t think you’re going to have any of my sandwich.”
But Squire’s words were lost on Mulvehill as he tuned in to the bedroom above, listening carefully for any sounds that might be out of the ordinary.
• • •
Ashley wanted to scream. It all happened so fast.
One second she was on the bed, huddled up close to her dying friend, and the next . . .
Her brain was telling her that she was falling, but she couldn’t see . . . anything. There was no up or down, nothing to show her what was happening, other than her every instinct screaming that she was about to die, but if that was the case . . .
When?
The falling sensation seemed to go on and on, and soon it became almost old hat, like something she was completely used to, just the way things were, plummeting forever into the darkness.
And then she wasn’t.
Ashley had arrived—somewhere. As suddenly as she had disappeared from the bed, she was now standing in a field of tall golden grass.
As she tried to acclimate to her new and unfamiliar surroundings, the field of grass suddenly erupted in fire, and all around her were the screams and smells that could only herald death.
It was pure survival instinct that drove her to run. She had no idea where she was going, only knew that she had to get away.
Smoke writhed up into the sky as the golden grass burned. Ashley’s gaze followed the snaking trails, and what she saw in the perfect sky caused her mind to freeze. She fell to her knees, eyes fixed on the sight above her.
The war that she thought was being fought in the golden field around her was actually taking place in the sky above. Mesmerized, she watched the winged and armored figures, brandishing weapons of burning metal, clashing in savage battle. Swords came together with a clamor so powerful that she felt it in her chest, sparks of divine fire raining down to set the fields aflame.
Ashley found her cheeks wet with a steady stream of tears as she watched the war of angels unfold, wincing as if injured herself as some of the magnificent beings were struck down, their cries as they fell the most heartbreaking sounds she had ever heard.
Winged bodies were falling like rain, landing in broken heaps, most of them dead, but some . . .
Ashley could not move, paralyzed by the sights. She wanted to close her eyes and wish herself away, but she fought the impulse, knowing somehow that this was part of helping her friend.
Of helping Remy.
An angel, one of his beautiful wings of white and speckled brown charred black with divine fire, landed in a broken heap not two feet away. She watched the figure as he lay there, his ornate armor spattered with the blood of battle. With a grunt, the figure pushed himself to his feet. His wing was still burning, and he beat the feathered appendage upon the ground in an attempt to put the fire out. But the angelic warrior did not have time to complete the task.
An ear-piercing cry filled the air, and the angel threw himself toward the ground in search of the sword he had dropped. He grabbed it up and spun toward the shrieking cry. Another angel, his features hidden by a helmet of gold and red, dropped down from above to confront him, relentless in his assault, swinging a sword that seemed to burn brighter—hotter—than all the others, driving back the injured warrior.
Ashley wanted to scream at them to stop, but she knew they would not have heard her, imagining that she was only a ghost in this strange, psychic landscape.
The battle was furious. S
he could see that the injured angel was tiring, his own blade’s brightness diminishing the longer they fought. The injured angel feigned a slash across his opponent’s midsection, but instead wiped what remained of his still burning wing across the attacker’s eyes, perhaps hoping to blind him.
But his adversary was too fast, capturing the smoldering appendage in his gauntlet-covered hand and twisting violently. The angel cried out and pulled away, but that served only to rip the fragile wing from his body.
Ashley felt her heart breaking over and over again as she watched the hopeless sight.
The wounded angel pathetically tossed his sword at his enemy and turned to flee. His foe was like a machine, capturing the cold blade—a blade that at once again burned to life as he held it. In a burst of energy, the injured angel dashed away, pushing through the burning golden brush in an attempt to escape.
Ashley watched with growing horror as the angel attacker simply stood there, holding two blades now that burned white in their intensity, his eyes unblinking through the holes of his helmet as he stared at the fleeing angel.
For a moment, she thought that maybe the attacker would have pity on his injured foe. But then wings exploded from his back, lifting him from the ground in pursuit.
Again, she tried to look away, but found that she couldn’t—she was seeing this act for a specific reason, and it was to help her friend in dire need.
The wounded angel continued to run; he did not turn around even though Ashley was certain he could hear the sound of pounding wings behind him.
Death at his back.
She rose and followed them, as if drawn, both horrified and desperate to experience the outcome.
The injured angel tripped over the corpse of another warrior and fell to the ground in a clamor of metal, but he did not stay there long, fighting to climb to his feet.
Ashley expected him to run again, but he must have known that it was too late, his fate inevitable.
Instead, the angel turned to face his pursuer, who now floated in the air above him, his wings pounding the air feverishly to hold him aloft. It looked as though the injured angel was about to say something, to proclaim some powerful last message, before . . .
A Deafening Silence In Heaven Page 16