Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER THIRTEEN England 1349

The Seraphim soldier was ecstatic to be free.

Remiel flapped his powerful wings, hovering over the marshland, in the midst of battle with the animated corpses that had once rested beneath the muddy mire.

They came at him in force, gliding atop the spongy surface as if insubstantial, but they were far from that. Remiel dropped down, snatching one up from the gaggle, and carrying it above the fray.

The mummified corpse struggled in his grasp, and Remiel stared deeply into sockets that had once held windows to the soul, but now only contained cold, oozing mud. He needed to be sure there was nothing there, that there wasn’t some fragment of God’s spark still residing within the animated corpse, before he unleashed his power.

Before he unleashed the full fury of the Seraphim.

There was nothing inside these things but dark magick, and Remiel felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him as he allowed the divine fire of Heaven to flow through his body and into his hands, to set the sodden flesh and rags of the struggling corpse aflame.

Remiel waited until the flailing body was fully engulfed, before casting it down to the other monsters below. The burning corpse exploded on contact with the others of its kind, God’s fire leaping hungrily from one bog mummy to the next.

Remiel dropped among them with a predator’s cry, ripping into the moving corpses with the zeal of a warrior long devoid of purpose.

There were far more of them than he had imagined; for every single one that the Seraphim destroyed, three more rose up from the wetland to come at him.

But Remiel did not mind, for it had been too long since his penchant for battle had been satisfied. He destroyed them with abandon, one after the other, animated flesh turned to so much ash by Heaven’s fire.

The marsh was alight with burning bodies, and Remiel gave an eagle-eyed search through the fog and smoke for the location from which the next assault upon him would come. He saw some of the Pope’s men struggling to pull themselves from the clutches of the mire, but they were not his concern. He turned his nose to the fetid wind; it stank of dark magick, making the hair at the back of his neck stand erect.

“Is it done?” asked the Holy Father from somewhere in the shifting fog.

“Stay where you are!” Remiel commanded, catching sight of Tyranus as he left the safety of the carriage.

He spread his wings to their fullest, readying to return to the Pope’s side, but the muddy ground began to seethe as something larger than a mummified human body surged up from beneath. His instincts at full attention, Remiel pushed off from the soft surface. But he wasn’t fast enough.

A massive vine unfurled from the bubbling mud, lashing out to entwine the angel’s ankle, preventing his escape. Remiel cried out as thorns like teeth punctured his divine flesh. Wings pounding the air frantically, he struggled in its grasp, but the thorns bit deep, holding fast to his skin. Remiel hacked at the unholy growths with his sword of fire, but another vine, and then another, shot up from the swamp to wrap around his wrist and arm, preventing him from swinging his burning blade.

The Seraphim strained against the multiple tendrils of biting vine. He let the fire come, oozing from his skin to burn away the intrusive vegetation, but the dark magick was strong, and even more of the vines whipped out from beneath the muddy ground.

Though he struggled mightily, the angel was gradually pulled to the ground. Filth-encrusted corpses lifted their heads from the bubbling mud, waiting to aid the accursed vegetation in taking him down.

His wings restrained, Remiel had little choice but to fall, the frothing surface beneath him now opening like a hungry mouth to pull him inside. The viscous fluids hissed and bubbled with the intensity of the heat thrown from his body, but the bog knew no pain, steadfastly continuing its purpose of disposing of the angelic threat he comprised.

The muddy water was freezing against his white-hot flesh, and Remiel continued his struggle to keep his face above the swamp’s clutches, but his labors appeared to be for naught.

He was going down.

The sound that preceded the blast was like something emitted from Gabriel’s horn. The clamor moved the very air, and caused the mud that was attempting to draw him down to tremble. There was magick in that tremulous sound, and it moved across the swampland with purpose.

Remiel felt himself wrenched from the hold of the vines and mud, picked up like a child’s toy and tossed away. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did, he found himself lying upon solid ground.

Solid ground, dry and smoldering.

Through the dissipating haze, Remiel saw it before him, looming and ancient looking: a castle, once hidden by powerful magicks but now revealed.

The angel climbed to his feet, fluttering his wings to remove the dust and remains of the muck and vines. He turned to see those that remained of the Pope’s men also standing upon the solid surface. Pope Tyranus was there as well, stooped, and holding on to the side of his carriage as if tired.

“Go,” the Pope said, eyes fixed upon Remiel. “Go and bring me back what is rightfully mine.”

And the angel Remiel had no choice but to do so.

Malatesta’s question lingered in the air like an offensive smell.

“Did you hear me, Remy Chandler?” the Vatican magick user asked, his voice raised over the roar of the sports car’s engine. “I said, perhaps after this situation is remedied, you might reconsider the Keepers’ invitation to . . .”

“I heard you just fine,” Remy said as he shifted the fire-engine red Ferrari into a higher gear, the engine’s powerful whine growing louder as the car surged forward.

“And?” Malatesta persisted.

Remy did not answer, hoping that his silence would speak for him. But from the corner of his eye he saw the sorcerer smile slightly, nodding his head.

Besides, there were far more important things that required his attention. And who knew, within days there might not even be a Vatican—or a world, for that matter—to work for.

Finding the charnel house that Aszrus had visited the night before his death was a piece of the puzzle that they desperately needed.

“This place we are going to,” Malatesta began. “This . . . charnel house, did you call it?”

“Yeah,” Remy said, keeping his eyes on the road, as well as the speedometer. The Ferrari Enzo was probably the fastest thing he’d ever driven, the ride so smooth that it was easy to go over the speed limit without even realizing it. Since he had never been to the address that Marley had given them in her trancelike state, he’d had to borrow one of Aszrus’ many cars, the Enzo being the fastest choice.

“Charnel houses,” Remy explained. “They’re like houses of ill repute—whorehouses. This particular one is named Rapture.”

“Why would a place of pleasure be called a charnel house?” the sorcerer questioned.

“I’m no expert, but from what Francis tells me, these houses exist on multiple planes. The magick that keeps them hidden attunes to a specific kind of negative energy in order for them to manifest themselves in a specific place, and that energy happens to be the kind left behind in locations where pain, sadness, and misery were the norm.”

Remy glanced over at the sorcerer.

“Places of hopelessness and death,” he said. “Metaphorically speaking, charnel houses.”

Malatesta stared straight ahead.

“And why would a creature of Heaven feel the need to frequent one of these sad places?”

Remy wasn’t sure if he wanted to open that can of worms—especially to someone in the service of one of the largest religious organizations on the planet.

“Let’s just say your perception of divine beings, and what they are like, might be a tad off,” he said, hoping to leave it at that.

“What is there to mistake about beings who serve the every whim of the Lord God Almighty?”

Here we go, Remy thought. He was going to have to maneuver this one carefully.

“That they might be a bit more self-serving than you realize,” he explained carefully. “That the Lord God might not always fit into their plans. They might say that He does, but that’s just a good excuse to do something they want to do.”

“Are you saying that God might not be aware of what His divine creations are doing?” The sorcerer chuckled with disbelief.

“I’m saying that He has a tendency to be a bit lax when it comes to holding on to His dogs’ leashes.”

Malatesta looked horrified.

“What can I say?” Remy said. “From what I’ve observed over the millennia I’ve been here, He really doesn’t appear to be paying attention a lot of the time.”

The sorcerer fell silent then, likely pondering Remy’s words and their meaning for the faith that he served, wondering whether the angel could be believed.

And wasn’t that what it always came down to? What to believe, and what not to.

Remy watched the speedometer climb past ninety, and took his foot from the gas. He was tempted to turn on the radio, but was afraid he might hear that the war between Heaven and Hell had begun.

Instead, he focused on the things that were currently in motion, things that would prevent what he feared most from transpiring.

“Why did you need me to come with you?” Malatesta asked, breaking the silence. “I would think that your fallen friend, Francis, would have been a far superior choice to enter a charnel house than I.”

There was no one on Earth, or any place else, that Remy would rather have watching his back than Francis, but the former Guardian had special skills that were best used elsewhere.

“Aszrus’ body needs to be watched over by somebody who can handle a potentially explosive situation,” Remy explained. “Francis is the right choice for that job.”

“And I am the right choice for this one?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Remy said. “You’ve handled yourself quite well. And that glamour you pulled to send those angels looking for Aszrus packing is exactly what I’ll need once we reach Rapture.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head. “Hopefully I won’t disappoint.”

“I hope so, too,” Remy said, steering toward their exit.

It was going to be interesting, especially when the imposter Aszrus tried to bring a guest to the party.

The Bone Master sat quietly in the tree across from the brownstone on Pinckney Street, watching the front entrance for signs of his prey.

He was cloaked in patches of black, having used the existing shadows from the trees to weave a quilt of darkness to hide in. The Master had been up there for quite some time, witnessing only the comings and goings of his prey’s female and his four-legged pet.

The angel had not yet returned.

The Bone Master rested his weapon across his legs, gently running the tips of his fingers along the curves of its ribs. A psychic response of pleasure vibrated in his mind, telling the assassin that his weapon was content, but would not know its own full potential until its current task was fulfilled.

Until death was delivered to their quarry.

He’d heard that one of the other Masters had met their fate—that the angel was proving to be a far more competent adversary than originally believed.

The Bone Master recalled his meeting with the client who wished the angel Remy Chandler killed. There was much rage in that one, and when asked why the angel needed to die, the client simply explained that the angel had insulted him, causing him to lose face.

Remy Chandler’s death would be an attempt to reclaim this honor. And the amount of honor lost must have been great indeed, for this Master knew that others of his assassins’ clan had been hired by this same client. But it was no matter, for he knew that he would be the one to take the angel down.

The Bone Master had accepted this venture, not really caring why he was killing the angel, only that he and his weapon would be allowed to do what they had been born to do.

Memories of his youth, when his weapon was still a living and breathing thing, flashed through his mind. Even then he knew that their bond was something special, that there would be nothing to stop them from achieving a special place in the history of the Bone Masters.

He wanted to be the greatest of them all, as did his weapon. They would be legendary in the annals of their demon sect. Their number of kills would be in the multitudes, and they would remember each and every one, each death a step in achieving the greatness for which they had been born.

But the Bone Master was getting ahead of himself; there were still many kills in his future, and his journey would continue with this latest.

There was movement from the dwelling, and the Master quickly changed his position, weapon at the ready.

The female stepped out from behind the door, the four-legged pet on a leash, tail wagging excitedly as they headed out on another walk.

The Bone Master’s eyes were following the pair, when the animal suddenly stopped, turning his snout to the air and beginning to sniff. It growled and barked, trying to pull the female across the street toward the tree where the assassin waited, concealed.

The Bone Master tensed, his weapon vibrating with the potential to deliver death. He reached up to his mouth, gripped one of his pointed teeth, and with a vicious twist and pull, removed the ammunition. He did this, again and again, loading the weapon. Finally he slid the last tooth into the weapon, and feeling its acceptance, waited to see whether its use would be necessary.

The woman spoke harshly to the animal, yanking him back to the other side of the street and reining him in. They then continued down the street, the dog trying to turn back, until they rounded the corner and were gone.

The weapon’s disappointment buzzed in his mind, and he reassured it that the chance to inflict death would be awarded soon enough.

It was just a matter of time, and patience.

And to achieve the greatness that was to be their destiny, they would have to have plenty of both.

Remy moved farther away from the car so he could have some privacy.

“I don’t have a clue. Maybe he saw something in the tree?” Remy suggested into the phone. He was speaking to Linda, who was complaining about Marlowe’s bad behavior on their walk.

“Well, tell him that you’re going to bring him to the pound if he gives you any more trouble,” Remy told her jokingly. “And tell him that I told you to do it.”

Remy chuckled as he heard her do just that, and then heard the sound of Marlowe barking wildly in protest.

His eyes wandered around his surroundings, and he felt his momentary lightheartedness quickly dispelled by the grim pall that seemed to hang over the dilapidated factory structure.

Linda then told him that Marlowe was mad, laughing as she did this. And then came the inevitable question of when he was coming home. Remy wanted to be there with her and Marlowe right then, would have loved to say fuck it to the whole current situation, but he knew that he could do no such thing.

A timer was ticking away, and it was attached to something akin to an atomic bomb, only worse. At least an atomic bomb would be quick.

“I’m really not sure,” he told her, glancing over to the car, and at Malatesta, who was leaning against it, watching the building with an unwavering eye, waiting for something to happen.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”

Suddenly they weren’t alone. More cars approached, headlights blazing as they carefully made their way down the severely damaged stretch of road that would bring them to the factory.

Malatesta had turned, and was looking toward him. It must have been time.

“Listen, I have to go,” Remy told Linda.

She told him to be safe, and not to worry about them, that they were doing just fine.

He then joked about what might have been hiding in that tree. They had a good laugh, and she told him that his dog was likely insane.

“All right, I gotta go,” he said, not wanting to, but knowing that he must. His only consolation was that the quicker he figured out who was responsible for killing the general, the faster that he could get back to her.

They both ended the call with “I love you,” and Remy tucked those feelings away for when he could appreciate them. For love would be seriously out of place where he and Malatesta were going.

“Everything all right?” Malatesta asked, standing beside the car.

Remy opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and placed his phone in the glove compartment. He doubted that he would need it where they were going, and didn’t want to lose yet another phone.

They had parked in a deep patch of shadow, away from the fence that had been erected around the abandoned factory grounds.

A quick Google search back in Rhode Island had shown that Prometheus Arms in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had been one of the biggest producers of guns on the East Coast for at least twenty-five years before eventually shutting down in the early eighties.

The place had a history of safety violations that spanned most of its existence. The old place had seen a lot of death and pain in its day.

It was no wonder that it was the chosen location for the charnel house to appear.

“It seems that we are not the only ones to use this particular entrance,” Malatesta said.

They watched from the shadows as figures left their vehicles, walking toward the fence that surrounded the abandoned building.

“We might want to get ready,” Remy said, watching as the first of the individuals reached the padlocked, chained gate. Within moments, the rusted chain had fallen with a loose jingle to the ground, and the gate had swung wide to allow all of them access.

Malatesta had closed his eyes, and was mumbling something entirely alien sounding beneath his breath. Remy took notice of the fact that the flesh of his face had begun to tremble violently, so violently that the movement created a kind of blurry aura that began to spread from his neck, to his shoulders, and downward.

Within minutes the Vatican sorcerer had transformed himself into the angel, Aszrus.

“Impressive,” Remy said, walking around the sorcerer to see the entire package. “It would fool me.”

“Let’s just hope that it’s good enough to get us inside,” Malatesta answered, straightening his suit coat, and adjusting his tie.

“We’ll never know until we try,” Remy said, gesturing for the magick user to proceed.

The two of them walked toward the doors of Prometheus Arms, and into the arms of the unknown.