Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER SIX

The clock was ticking, and since Montagin didn’t have any information as to where the general had been the previous night, Remy figured that it wouldn’t hurt to ask some of the house staff if they knew anything.

Montagin had pissed on the idea, but Remy knew better, insisting that the angel would be surprised at how much was known by people who supposedly didn’t know a thing.

They locked up the study and proceeded through the labyrinthine corridors of the estate to a huge kitchen, where a squat old woman sat at a table peeling potatoes, the filthy skins dropping from her knife onto a spread-out newspaper.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.

“This is Mr. Chandler,” Montagin announced as they entered the kitchen, and Remy watched as the old woman jumped at the sound of his voice. “He has some questions to ask you, and I would appreciate if you answered them.”

Montagin then looked to him. “I will be in the study if you should need me,” the angel announced before turning to go back the way they’d come.

“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Chandler?” the woman asked, pushing back her chair as she started to stand.

Remy watched her, and knew at once that she was blind. It was no surprise to him; Angels who functioned on Earth had a tendency to surround themselves with the sightless. There was something about the affliction that lent itself to the service of Heavenly beings.

Some said it had something to do with the sightless being able to see—sense—angels as they truly were and not as their human alter egos.

“That would be very nice, Ms. . . . ?”

“Bridget will suffice,” she said with a pleasant smile, fingers gently laid upon the tabletop as she moved around the furniture to get to the stove, where a pot of coffee sat.

She poured him a steaming cup of the dark liquid and carefully set it down in front of him without spilling a drop.

“Cream and sugar?” she asked. “Or would you prefer milk?”

“This is fine,” Remy said, picking up the cup and taking a careful sip. It was some of the best coffee he’d had in ages. Madeline would have called it rocket fuel it was so strong, but that was just the way he liked it.

Bridget continued to stand there, fingertips resting atop the table.

“Excellent coffee, Bridget,” he told her, expecting her to find her way back to her chair; but she continued to stand before him, sightless eyes gazing off into the kitchen.

“Glad you like it,” Bridget said, again with a tender smile. “It’s one of my special talents.”

Remy wholeheartedly agreed and took another drink of the scalding brew, the older woman still standing in front of him. He was about to ask her if there was something wrong, or something that he could do for her, when she began her question.

“Would it be forward of me to ask to touch your hand?” Bridget asked.

For a moment he didn’t understand, but he quickly came to realize that she wanted to see him as he truly was.

“Normally I have far better manners than this, but in you I’m sensing . . .”

Remy did not wait for her to finish. Instead, he reached out, gently taking her hand in his.

“How’s this?” he asked, watching the expression upon her face change.

“Oh my,” Bridget whispered, her cheeks beginning to flush pink. “You’re lovely.”

“Why, thank you,” Remy said with a laugh.

The old woman then lovingly patted his hand and returned to her seat.

“And why haven’t I seen somebody like you around here before?” she asked as she lowered herself down into her seat, and felt out a potato to begin peeling again.

“Let’s just say your master and I don’t run in the same circles,” Remy said.

She seemed to accept that, nodding in understanding.

“Mr. Montagin said that you have some questions for me,” she said, her knife expertly separating the skin from the body of the potato.

“I do,” Remy said. “When was the last time you had contact with Aszrus?” he asked.

She stopped her work, thinking about the question.

“Last night, before supper,” she said. “I was going to make a roast chicken, but he told me not to bother—that he was going out for the evening.”

“And that was it?” Remy asked. “You didn’t speak with him again?”

“Only briefly, when he asked if I would make him shepherd’s pie for tonight.” Her smile was beaming. “He loved my shepherd’s pie.”

“I’m sure it’s something amazing,” Remy responded, finding all of this absolutely fascinating. Here were angels of Heaven, creatures not known for their love of humanity’s ways, embracing many of the habits for which he himself had been ostracized by his kind.

“Perhaps if you and the master could put aside your differences—at least long enough to have a good meal—you might be able to see just how amazing.”

“That certainly is something to consider,” Remy said, finishing up the most excellent cup of coffee, and rising from his chair. He reached across the table to touch her hand again. “Thank you so much for your time, and the coffee.”

She told him that he was most welcome, but as Remy pulled his hand away, she grabbed hold of his fingers in a passionate grip.

“Why exactly are you here, Mr. Chandler?” Bridget asked. “Is everything all right?”

Remy could sense her rising concern, and did everything in his power not to let on. It was still too early for the fate of her master to be revealed.

“I’m helping Mr. Montagin with an investigation,” he told the concerned old woman. “As soon as we’ve gathered all the facts, I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”

Remy felt bad that he couldn’t tell her more, but was afraid that if he did, things would soon spiral out of control.

She released his hand without another word, and he left her there, staring off into space, alone with her curiosity and concern.

Remy found Montagin in the foyer of the home, finishing up his talk with the remaining staff.

“And if you should remember anything out of the ordinary, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

The random assortment of men and women, young and old, all sightless, responded that they most assuredly would, and proceeded to slowly go about their duties.

As Remy watched them he could see that there was some hesitation there, that some of them were attempting to get up enough courage to ask what this was all about. He used the opportunity to inject himself into the scene, canceling out their opportunity.

“Mr. Montagin,” Remy said aloud, announcing his presence.

He watched those who had not yet left rethink their next action, then disappear into the house along with their curiosity.

“Anything?” Remy asked.

“If they did hear something, they’ve chosen not to talk about it,” Montagin answered. “Was Ms. Worthington any help?”

“Bridget?” Remy asked. “No. She had a brief exchange with the general last night before he went out.” He kept his voice low in case there were any ears close by.

Remy took hold of Montagin’s elbow, steering him back toward the study and the scene of the crime.

“What now?” Montagin asked. “If we report this to the proper authorities, you know what the outcome will be.”

Remy knew exactly what would happen; it was as sure as dropping a lit match into a bucket of gasoline.

War.

The forces of Heaven were looking for an excuse, any excuse at all, to begin another war with the legions of the Morningstar.

“We need to keep what’s happened a secret as long as we can,” Remy said as they stood in front of the heavy wooden doors leading into the study.

“I’m not sure how long that might be,” the angel assistant said. “Aszrus had certain responsibilities.”

“They’ll need to be canceled,” Remy stated.

“Canceled?” Montagin protested. “Aszrus was a leading general of the Heavenly legions here to assess the situation brought on by the reemergence of the threat of Lucifer Morningstar. His responsibilities cannot just be canceled.”

Remy’s eyes darted around the hallway, making sure that no one was around before he spoke. “Well, guess what? They’re going to have to be, unless our friend in there is going to show up at one of his meetings sporting a lovely hole where his heart used to be.”

They glared at each other, the immensity of the situation weighing on them both.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t unfold like we think,” Montagin suggested. “Maybe if we stress your belief that the Morningstar wouldn’t—”

“You know as well as I do that’s exactly how it would unfold,” Remy interrupted. “War would be declared as soon as they saw the body—and since when would any of the Heavenly host have anything to do with what I have to say? They can’t fucking stand me.”

“True,” Montagin agreed. “But I don’t know how I’m going to keep this secret for very long.”

Remy looked at the doors. “First, we have to seal this up,” he said.

“Seal it up?”

“Nothing gets in there,” Remy explained. “We’re better off if no one knows he’s dead.”

“A locked door will not keep a being of Heaven from getting inside,” Montagin informed him.

“True, if we’re going the traditional route,” Remy said.

Montagin stared, unsure of where this was going. “Go on.”

“Magick,” Remy said. “We’ll find a magick user strong enough to weave a spell around the study, to keep anybody from getting in. Hopefully that will buy me enough time to come up with something to keep the dogs of war on their leashes.”

“And how do you suggest we locate this magick user?” Montagin questioned. “Should I look him up in the phone book, or use one of those computing devices and find him on the interweb?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Remy said. “I think I know enough to find somebody that should be able to handle the job. The payment might be steep, but considering the alternative . . .”

Montagin laughed—one of those freezing-cold displays of emotion popular with these creatures of the divine.

“Did I say something funny?” Remy asked him.

“All this effort, and we’re not even sure if it’s true or not,” the angel said, shaking his head.

“If what is true?”

“That Lucifer isn’t somehow responsible for this,” Montagin said. “Responsible for what’s gone on in there.” He pointed briefly to the closed doors, the horrible secret on the other side just pushing to get out and explode upon the world.

“That’s something I’m just going to have to find out,” Remy said. “That, and a magick user to put the granddaddy of all padlocks on that door.”

Castle Hallow

1301

Simeon vaguely recalled the sound of the heavy metal bolt in the door being slid back, and the creak of rusty hinges, before being taken by unconsciousness again.

It was the intense pain of claws scratching across his lower body that drew him up from the pool of oblivion.

Simeon screamed.

He opened bleary eyes to gaze upon a foul sight: a demonic creature of pale gray flesh with a humped back and a circular, tooth-ringed mouth like that of a leech. It had dug its long, filthy claws into his belly and was digging bloody rivulets into his fragile flesh.

His screams echoed mournfully throughout the dungeon.

“How do you do this?” asked a voice from somewhere within the room of torture.

Simeon could see that it was not the beast who spoke, its ringed mouth not likely made for speaking. With great effort he lifted his head from where he hung naked, chained by the wrists and ankles, and squinted bloodshot eyes to see what addressed him.

Something tugged excruciatingly from below, and his eyes dropped to see that the demon had torn a hole in his belly. It had withdrawn a rope of his innards and was now feeding it into its circular maw.

Simeon felt himself on the verge of tumbling back down into the black of the abyss when the voice spoke again.

“Every bone broken—mended in a matter of days,” the voice said. “Stabbed, flayed, and now disemboweled and eaten while still alive.”

The darkness crept closer around his eyes, threatening to claim him once more, when the figure that was speaking stepped into the faint light thrown by a smoldering brazier. Earlier it had heated instruments of torture that had been used upon his flesh.

Ignatius Hallow stood before him, clad in heavy robes, a skullcap of glistening copper atop his head.

“I ask you again, what manner of thing are you?”

Simeon answered before he could again be pulled down into temporary death. “I . . . I am . . . I am a man.”

He vomited a stream of blood on the demon squatting below him. The hellish beast didn’t seem to mind, its gray skin now speckled with color.

Hallow laughed.

“Oh yes. Of course you are.”

As the demon excitedly tugged more length from the coiled intestines inside his belly, Simeon briefly died.

Briefly.

When he came round once more, he was no longer chained to a wall, but had been strapped to a wooden table, the tall figure of Ignatius Hallow hovering over him.

“Ah, you’re with us again,” the necromancer stated.

“Yes,” Simeon croaked, doubting he would be for very long.

And he was right.

Hallow lifted a blade and brought it down with all his might into Simeon’s chest, causing his heart to explode as the metal blade perforated it.

Simeon died again in a white-hot flash of agony, before the coolness of the dark dragged him below.

“The Nazarene,” said a voice that pulled him up from the depths of nothing.

Simeon opened his eyes, and found himself gazing at his own reflection in a blood-flecked mirror. As his eyes slowly began to focus, he could see the form of Hallow looming behind him, hard at work, delicate metal instruments probing the bloody insides of his head. The top of his skull had been cut away, his neck and head strapped tightly to the back of a chair.

“How do you know of him?” Simeon asked weakly.

“The brain is a most magnificent organ,” the necromancer stated, putting down one of his surgical tools only to have another placed within his bloody hand by a demonic assistant. “If one were to look closely enough, I feel that one could find the secrets of all existence. . . .”

Hallow jabbed the point of his metal tool into a specific spot of the soft, gray matter of Simeon’s organ of thought.

“Or at least yours,” Hallow finished as stars erupted before Simeon’s eyes; he could not help but laugh hysterically, though he did not know the reason.

He laughed and laughed until he could no longer breathe, and another bout of death came round to see if this time would be the last.

It wasn’t.

When next he lived, Simeon opened his eyes to the sight of Hallow sitting upon an enormous throne of intricately carved wood, directly across from him, goblet of wine in hand, staring intensely.

“Fascinating,” the necromancer stated before bringing his drink to his mouth.

Simeon then realized that he was seated in a chair, and not bound in any way; that his plentiful wounds had been allowed to heal, and that his previously tortured flesh was adorned in robes of heavy wool.

“Bring him some wine,” Hallow ordered, and another creature of demonic origin scampered over with goblet and pitcher. “I imagine continuously dying might work up quite the thirst.”

The monstrous thing poured the wine sloppily into the cup, and then placed it in Simeon’s trembling hands. He was about to thank the foul thing but thought better of it.

“Touched by the hands of God’s supposed son,” Hallow said from his throne of oak. “And now you cannot die.”

Simeon attempted to sip from his cup, but his thirst was too great to hold back, and he greedily gulped at the liquid.

“Is this a blessing?” Hallow asked, swishing the contents of his goblet around as he pondered his own question. “Or is it a curse?”

Simeon lowered his cup. “Some more?” he asked, unsure of what the question might bring. He thought he might find himself strapped to a table, being forced to drink until his stomach bloated so badly that it eventually exploded.

“Give him more,” the necromancer commanded his monstrosity.

The beast responded with a throaty growl, loping back to refill the cup.

“Are you . . .” Simeon began, before partaking of any more wine. “Are you going to kill me again?”

Hallow laughed, a booming sound that echoed throughout the vast chamber of his castle home.

“It is a possibility,” the necromancer said with a slow nod. “But for now I believe I have seen enough.”

He drank deeply from his goblet, his steel gray eyes never leaving Simeon, seated across from him.

“When you first arrived here . . . when my vines took hold of you, I asked why you had come,” Hallow said. “You said that you’d come to learn.”

Simeon had finished the wine that had been poured in his cup, and was starting to feel its effects. His head had grown light, and the pain from his healing body didn’t seem quite so bad.

“I did,” Simeon answered. He looked toward the demonic creature squatting beside its master’s throne and held out his cup, giving it an impatient shake.

The demon hissed, showing off rows of razor-sharp teeth, as it looked from Simeon to his master, and then back to Simeon.

“Give him more,” Hallow stated, and the demon begrudgingly obeyed.

“To learn,” the necromancer then said as the demon poured more wine into Simeon’s cup. “That is an awfully broad statement. What have you come to learn?”

Simeon stared at the older man over the metal rim of his cup.

“Everything that you know.”

Hallow laughed—a loud, braying sound. “Everything, you say. Do you realize how long I’ve lived to know what I do?”

Simeon stared intensely, wanting the necromancer to know how serious he was.

“How long it would take for you to learn even a fraction of what I’ve already forgotten?” Hallow asked.

Simeon could not help but smile at the older man. “Doesn’t matter,” he stated flatly. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

The necromancer at first seemed startled by the sudden levity of Simeon’s words, but then the true meaning permeated through his copper skullcap, and down into his brain, and Ignatius Hallow began to laugh.

Sharing the joke of the forever man. Sharing the joke of the man who could not die.