Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER EIGHT

Simeon stood in the window of the office building, looking out through the cracked and broken panes of glass onto the abandoned Chernobyl nuclear power plant.

The forever man remembered how dangerous it had once been, the levels of radiation so high as to cause skin to blister, and wreak irreparable damage at a cellular level.

It had been a true place of death, which is why he had first been drawn to it. No matter how many times he had failed in his pursuit of the final sleep, Simeon never gave up hope that perhaps, someday, he would at last be given that which he desired most of all.

That at last he would be granted the bliss of death.

But the Almighty was unnaturally cruel, allowing everything within a thirty-kilometer radius of the damaged facility to wither and die.

Everything except for him.

In the first days following the evacuation of the city of Prypiat and some of the villages closer to Chernobyl, Simeon had walked the lonely streets, feeling the effects of the deadly radiation, but never succumbing.

Though it did not give him what he most wanted, he grew to admire this place, reveling in its eerie quiet.

It was as if a tiny corner of the world had simply stopped.

A place of death, and it gave him something to aspire to.

But all good things . . .

From the window, Simeon watched a rabbit emerge. It scampered out from beneath some overgrowth, near a section of rusted chain-link fence that had been taken down by a fallen tree.

Twenty years later, life was slowly returning to the region. He’d even heard rumors that people were again being allowed to walk the evacuated streets, a once-forbidden curiosity to be explored.

He so despised letting go of things he’d grown to love. If he had to be around forever, so should at least a few of the things that gave him some bit of happiness. Simeon snarled, and wondered what his chances were of finding some discarded nuclear material to spread around in order to raise the radiation levels and preserve the solitude of this place.

And then he realized he was no longer alone.

The demon Beleeze stood silently in the doorway to the office.

“Yes,” Simeon sighed, knowing that what was to follow would not be good, for he had left specific instructions that he not be disturbed.

The demon flowed farther into the room.

It always impressed him how silent this species was, as if sound itself was scared away by the primordial creatures.

Beleeze still did not speak.

“Tell me,” Simeon commanded, twisting the ring upon his left hand.

“There’s a problem,” the demon said.

“Where?” Simeon asked, catching sight of a tuft of brown fur as it blew across the cursed earth. He had taken his eyes from the rabbit for only a moment, but it was gone now, tufts of bloody white and brown fur all that remained. Whatever had happened had only taken an instant.

It reminded him of how quickly things could go awry.

“The island,” Beleeze grunted, as if the words themselves were adorned with razor-sharp edges that savagely cut as they left his mouth.

They had retired to a great den in the nearly empty castle, the stone walls covered in fine tapestries, a roaring fire burning in the huge stone fireplace.

The Pope sat upon a formidable wooden seat—a throne, really—its upholstery the color of fresh blood. Remiel sat in his own chair, a simple chair in comparison to Tyranus’, but it suited the angel just fine. Both had been set before the fire, a small table for their wine goblets positioned between them.

“Would you like this castle, angel?” Tyranus asked. He held out his goblet, waiting for the servant girl to attend to his needs. She scurried over, filling his cup, careful not to spill a drop.

Remiel pulled his eyes from the mesmerizing flames and looked at the Pope.

“This castle,” Tyranus stated again. “Would you like it? I could make it yours.”

“I have no need for a castle.”

The servant girl was now hovering beside Remy, eager to refill his goblet.

“I am fine, girl,” he told her, and she bowed her head and scurried off.

“Certainly a place to call your own would not be a bad thing,” the Pope continued, as he drank his wine. “A place to settle down . . . a place to call home.”

“This could never be home,” Remiel said grimly. He gently sipped what little drink he had remaining in his cup.

“Do you actually have a place in this world, soldier of God?” Tyranus asked. “What would drive one such as you from the Golden City of Heaven to this place of such turmoil?”

Remiel felt an odd compulsion to tell the holy man of the Great War, but he managed to suppress the urge, rising from the chair to stand before the fire. “Tell me of this necromancer,” he said instead, changing the topic. “The more I know, the swifter will be his defeat.”

The angel leaned upon the stone mantel, staring into the roaring flames, waiting for the Pope’s answer. When he did not respond, Remiel turned to see him reclined on his throne, his goblet of wine resting in his lap. He was watching a young boy, dressed in Vatican finery, setting an ornate wooden box down upon the table between the two chairs.

“What is this?” Remiel asked.

“You wish to learn of the necromancer,” Pope Tyranus replied. “This will tell you all that you need to know.”

Remiel approached, observing the boy as he began to unsnap metal latches that held the box closed. He then pulled the two sides of the box apart to reveal what was inside.

The head was ancient, the skin like parchment stretched taut over the bald pate and the angular bones of the face. The eyes were squeezed tightly shut and sunken in, the orbs of sight behind the withered flesh a long time ago food for the worms and beetles.

“Let me guess,” Remiel said. “One of the ways you fight fire with fire.”

Tyranus smiled dreamily, multiple goblets of wine at last having their effect. “If you are suggesting that the oracle is an object of supernatural power, then you are correct,” the Pope admitted. “Through it I first learned of the necromancer’s existence, and that he possessed Solomon’s sigil.”

Remiel continued to stare at the disembodied head. “What does it do?” he finally asked.

With those words, the boy reached beneath his fine garments and produced a small knife. He stared at his master.

“Pay the oracle,” Tyranus proclaimed as he drank once more from his cup.

Remiel watched as the boy raised the knife to his index finger, slicing the pad with a pained hiss. As the scarlet fluid bubbled out from the slash, the child brought his finger to the head’s pursed lips, smearing the blood there.

The child’s blood beaded upon the dry, leathery flesh, before slowly being absorbed. At first Remiel believed it be a trick of the flickering light thrown by the fire in the stone hearth behind him, but came to realize that the lips of the corpse were swelling, and then a tongue, dried and withered like a piece of tree bark, snaked out from between the engorged lips to partake of the boy’s offering.

The boy squeezed his wound to bleeding again, and brought it down to the writhing mouth.

The head opened its awful mouth eagerly, and the boy stuck the bleeding digit into the gaping mouth, where it was at once suckled upon.

The child gasped as the head continued to suck greedily.

“That’s enough, boy,” Pope Tyranus ordered from his throne. “Make the oracle work for its sustenance.”

With a growing revulsion, Remiel watched as the child withdrew his finger from the corpse-head’s eager mouth. It began to emit a horrible, high-pitched keening.

“Silence, oracle,” the Pope commanded.

The head ceased its noise, its nose twitching as if attempting to locate the scent of the one who commanded it.

“You have been fed, and now you will tell us of what we ask,” Pope Tyranus proclaimed.

“The payment has been made,” the head spoke in a weak, high-pitched voice. “You will be told what the oracle knows.”

The boy had removed a lace handkerchief from somewhere within his robes, swathing his bleeding finger in the finest material.

“Tell us of the necromancer,” Pope Tyranus stated. “You will tell us of the necromancer called Hallow.”

The oracle considered what was asked of it, the lids covering the empty sockets of its eyes moving as if there were something beneath them, something squirming around to eventually be free.

“One of twins born of human, and protohuman,” the oracle wheezed. “They were to be the guardians of magick, one representing the light, and the other, the dark. They were to maintain the balance, to keep one power from overwhelming the other.”

The oracle stopped talking, its mouth moving hungrily.

“Go on, oracle,” Remiel commanded.

“So dry,” the head hissed weakly. “So very, very thirsty.”

“Finish your tale and we shall see about quenching that thirst,” Tyranus stated cruelly.

The oracle noisily smacked its parched lips together, building up enough moisture that it could go on.

“One power believed itself stronger than the other, throwing the balance into turmoil. The light would take from the dark, both powers amassed in one . . . but the darkness would not stand for this and a great battle was fought—the light versus the darkness . . . brother against brother. . . .” The oracle’s voice trailed off.

“And this battle,” Remiel said. “The light versus the dark—it continues?”

“Yes,” the oracle replied. “The opposing forces collect their objects of magickal power in the hopes that one will eventually triumph over the other, and claim the might of the opposition.”

“The necromancer . . . Hallow. He has Solomon’s sigil?” Remiel asked.

“Yes,” the oracle hissed. “A prize coveted by many who know the ways of the weird, and especially by one who serves the light. This will be the prize most viciously sought, for it will upset the balance once and for all, and the power of magick both black and white will rest in the hands of . . .”

“We are done,” Pope Tyranus proclaimed, empty chalice clattering to the floor as he stood up from his throne.

Remiel stared at the Pope, curious of the interruption.

“The oracle is a tricky creature,” the Pope said. “It will continue to prattle just to hear itself if it believes it will be fed.”

Tyranus gestured to the boy. “Put it away.”

The child snapped to it immediately, going to the case, his bloody finger still wrapped in the dainty handkerchief. He started to close up the sides, eliciting a reaction from the oracle.

“Wait!” it squeaked. “You promised me more. . . . You promised to quench this unbearable thirst!”

The boy considered the head’s request, turning to gaze at his master for confirmation.

“Close it up, boy,” Pope Tyranus ordered.

“Please,” the oracle begged as the two sides of the case were slowly brought together. “The thirst . . . It hurts so badly. . . .”

The oracle’s pleas fell upon deaf ears as the case was closed, and the latches were refastened.

The sound of muffled cries of sorrow trailed off as the boy carried the box from the room.

• • •

Having already been to the Newport mansion, Remy was able to locate it again.

He opened his wings, allowing Malatesta to emerge, as he wished the feathered appendages away. They had appeared just beyond the elaborate home, on a cliff overlooking a tumultuous sea.

“An impressive way to travel,” Malatesta said, stumbling a bit to one side. Remy grabbed hold of his arm to steady him.

“As long as you know where you’re going it beats public transportation,” he said. “It’s a little disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.”

The Keeper representative shrugged off Remy’s assisting hand, and turned to face the mansion. “Is this it?” he asked.

“That’s it,” Remy answered, and both began walking toward the quiet road that ran in front of the impressive front gate.

“Is the reason a Bone Master wants you and your sorcerer companion dead why I am needed here?” Malatesta asked as they crossed the road, the crash of the turbulent sea upon the cliffs filling the air behind them.

“I believe it is,” Remy said as they reached the heavy wrought iron gate. “So you’re familiar with our attacker . . . this Bone Master? What can you tell me about them?”

Malatesta grabbed hold of the black iron and gave the gate a shake to see if it opened. It didn’t.

“Keeper agents have encountered them from time to time, assassins of a demonic nature. From what we’ve been able to piece together over the centuries, the Masters have somehow genetically engineered an animal that once dead becomes their weapon of choice. They bond with these mysterious animals on a psychic and physical level from childhood, and when coming of age, ceremonially slay the animal, and peel away the flesh to reveal the weapon specifically bred for them.”

Remy called forth his wings once again, grabbing Malatesta and hauling him up and over the gate.

“Thank you,” the Vatican agent said, appearing a little startled by this, smoothing down his shirt, and pulling at the sleeves of his suit jacket.

“The special weapon,” Remy said, walking up the driveway. “It fired what looked to be teeth.”

“Yes,” Malatesta answered, jogging to catch up. “The Keepers found that to be particularly interesting. As I mentioned, the weapon and the master are bound together both spiritually and physically, and the special gun is capable only of using its master’s teeth as ammunition.”

“So I’m guessing these Bone Masters—they have a lot of teeth?”

Malatesta nodded. “Very much like sharks’ teeth; one is removed and another grows in to take its place. We at the Keepers believe that once a Bone Master finally runs out of ammunition—teeth—they, and their weapon, die.”

They were climbing the steps to the double front doors.

“Do you realize how crazy all that sounds?” Remy asked, rapping his knuckles on the door. “And that’s coming from somebody like me.”

The door started to open, one of the blind servants visible on the other side.

“Get away from that door!” a voice boomed from somewhere inside.

The servant jumped back away from the door, and had started to close it again as it was yanked from his grasp. Montagin appeared in the entryway, his eyes burning with an unnatural light.

“Oh, it’s you. What took you so long?” he demanded to know.

“Had to find what I was looking for,” Remy said, pushing his way inside with Malatesta in tow. “And then there was the matter of somebody trying to kill me and the person who I found to take care of our problem.”

Inside the elaborate foyer, Remy saw that the servant still lingered there, waiting.

“Be off with you,” Montagin commanded, and the servant hurried off, hand upon the wall as he felt his way farther into the home.

“Is this that person?” Montagin asked, looking Malatesta up and down.

“No, he’s my substitute,” Remy explained. “Montagin, this is Constantin Malatesta.”

The angel was already on the move toward the study, as Malatesta stood there, hand extended, his offer ignored.

“Hurry this way,” Montagin said.

Remy and the Keeper representative followed.

“So, seeing as an attempt was made on my life,” Remy called after the angel. “Any chance that we might have a leak here?”

Montagin stopped before the study doors.

“No one but you and I has been inside this room since the discovery,” the angel said. “And from what I know about you, Remiel, the idea of somebody trying to kill you doesn’t seem all that uncommon.”

Malatesta looked to Remy.

“He thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t,” Remy said to him.

Montagin unlocked the door, the smell of death wafting out to greet them like an eager puppy.

“I’m guessing that I’m here because someone has died,” Malatesta said, hand going up to his nose.

“Not just someone,” Montagin said as he closed the door tightly behind them.

Remy pointed out the corpse lying on the floor.

“He’s there.”

The Vatican representative slowly approached the large figure lying there, his chest cut open.

“Oh my,” Malatesta said. “Who was he?”

“General Aszrus,” Remy said, staring at the corpse and noticing for the first time that the angel’s wings were visible, crumpled and bent beneath him. “A very important figure in the looming war between the forces of Heaven, and those of the Morningstar.”

Malatesta looked at Remy, his eyes filled with shock and awe.

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Hadn’t heard about that had you?”

Malatesta knelt carefully on the rug beside the corpse. “I can’t imagine what would be strong enough to do something like this to something like him.”

“It’s what I intend to find out before the news of his murder starts a war, with humanity stuck smack in the middle.”

“What do you need me to do?” Malatesta asked, his eyes traveling across the angel’s body.

“We need something to keep people out,” Remy stated. “The longer we can keep this secret, the better off we’ll be.”

Montagin was pacing back and forth, long arms folded.

“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” the angel grumbled. “It will likely be all for naught.”

“Don’t worry, this will work,” Remy assured him.

“It would probably be easier for me to go to the war council and let them know what’s occurred,” Montagin replied. “We’ll likely end up with the same result anyway, only a little bit sooner.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Remy instructed, moving to stand before the general’s assistant. “There’s far too much at stake. You know as well as I do that the war council is just looking for an excuse to start swinging their swords.”

“What does it matter, Remiel, whether they start swinging now or later?” Montagin asked, on the verge of hysterics.

The sound of someone noisily clearing their throat got them to stop. Remy and Montagin both looked to the man kneeling beside the corpse of the angel general.

“If you two would like me to try to erect some sort of shield to seal this room, I’m going to need some quiet in order to concentrate.”

Montagin sneered. “You’ll have all the quiet you need and then some once the war horns blare, and all life upon this planet is burned to a cinder.”

Malatesta cleared his throat again, his eyes never leaving the angel’s. “Let’s see what I can do to prevent that, shall we?”

It looked as though Montagin might have something more to say, but Remy took him by the arm, dragging him toward the exit.

“Let’s leave him alone to work his magick,” Remy said as he opened the door, and led the ruffled angel out into the hall.

“I don’t even know that person,” Montagin huffed, attempting to go back inside the study.

“You don’t have to,” Remy said. “He’s a Vatican magick user. . . . I think he can handle this.”

“He’s from the Vatican?” Montagin asked as Remy nodded.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” the angel said, bringing a trembling hand to his head.

Remy’s phone began to ring. It was Linda.

“Look, let me get this,” Remy said. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if Bridget will give you something to eat? She was making shepherd’s pie this morning.”

“I love shepherd’s pie,” Montagin said, heading toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” Remy said into the phone.

“How are things?” Linda asked.

“Good,” he answered. He couldn’t bear to think of what might be waiting around the corner, if the news of Aszrus’ death got out. He had seen what a war fought between angels was like, and couldn’t even imagine this world experiencing something so devastating. “Got some things that I’m working on.”

“I was calling to see if you want me to take Marlowe with me, or if you’ll be home?”

“Would you take him, if it isn’t a bother? I’m not sure when I’ll be able to wrap things up, and I don’t want the boy hanging around with his legs crossed.”

“Oh, can’t have that,” she answered with a short laugh.

“Nope.”

“All right, I’ll let you go, then,” Linda said.

“Okay,” he answered, wanting to continue to talk with her, but knowing that the longer he was away from figuring out who, or what, had killed Aszrus . . .

“Give me a call later?” she asked.

“Sure,” he answered. “Tell the boy that I’ll see him later.”

“I will,” she said.

He was about to hang up, when he realized that there was something that he had to say. “Linda?” he called out.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” he said, and knew that it was completely true.

There was a long pause, and he could just about make out the sound of her breathing.

“Hello?” he asked. “Are you there?”

“I love you, too.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good,” she repeated, and then broke the connection.