Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Remy glanced nervously toward the door and wondered how Malatesta was holding up.

He had a bad feeling. With the two of them separated, the potential for disaster was pretty damn high.

The woman, Morgan, emerged from the bathroom where she’d gone to freshen up. She had relieved herself of her black leather jumpsuit, and was dressed only in a lacey bra and panties.

“Hope you don’t mind that I changed,” she said with a sexy smirk. “That jumpsuit can be a bit warm.”

Remy took a sip from the glass of scotch she had poured for him, as she padded barefoot across the room.

“So,” she continued, sitting beside him on the leather couch, curling her bare legs beneath her. “I know pretty much all I need to about your friend, but what do you like, Remiel?”

Remy shifted to face the beautiful woman. He was reading something from her, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. There was something different about her.

“Tell me about my friend,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as he took another drink of his scotch.

“Oh, you’re like that,” she purred. “Well, let’s just say that the general likes his playtime rough,” Morgan told him.

“Really,” Remy said. “How rough?” He was goading her on, trying to make her think that this sort of thing was a turn-on for him.

“Very,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “Very, very rough.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She nodded vigorously as she unfurled herself and crawled atop Remy. “Would you like to hurt me?”

Remy didn’t want this, but to reject her advances might destroy his opportunity for information.

She straddled his lap, facing him. “I asked you a question, Remiel,” she urged, as she removed her lacy bra.

He could see the deep scarring in the flesh around her nipples as she leaned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest.

“Did he do that to you?” Remy asked her.

“Uh-huh,” she whispered softly in his ear. “But that’s all right, I heal quickly. Would you like to leave your own scars?”

She leaned back, and dug one of her long, scarlet fingernails into the flesh above her left breast, causing the blood to flow.

“You can if you like,” she told him.

She began to grind her hips against Remy’s lap, as she dipped her fingertip in her blood and brought it to his lips. He tried to move his head, but she was insistent, smearing her blood on him. As soon as it touched his lips, as soon as the coppery scent of it filled his nostrils, Remy saw what she actually was.

The blood triggered an explosion of images in his mind; Morgan’s life-stuff telling the story of a mother’s interaction with divinity, the conception and abandonment of a half-breed child, and the life that she—the child—had been forced to lead in the wake of her rejection.

Remy tried to shake his head clear and reached up, gripping the writhing woman by the shoulders, looking her straight in the eyes.

“You’re Nephilim.” He watched surprise register on her face, then her expression quickly changed to one of pleasure.

“Of course I am,” she said. “How else could I survive the kind of shit you guys like?”

In the eyes of the various angelic hosts that served the whims of God, the Nephilim were considered a blight. The offspring of angel and human were the trickiest of things. Most of the time they appeared perfectly normal, until puberty, and then the end result was usually anything but. An actual human form imbued with the power of Heaven was a recipe for disaster.

Now here was one of those children, forced into this kind of life, a sexual plaything for the unearthly.

“What, you have something against Nephilim?” Morgan asked. “If that’s the case, you’re in the wrong fucking place. All the playthings here are Nephilim.”

Morgan’s blood still engulfed Remy’s senses; the smell and taste, and the images continued to bombard him as he twitched upon the couch beneath her. He saw Aszrus in this very room, wrapped in the throes of passion with multiple Nephilim. Suddenly, the women were cast aside; Aszrus cried out as a knife plunged into his chest. And then Remy could see the attacker, a young man with shaggy blond hair. His attack on the angel general was vicious—relentless—as he drove the blade into the angel’s chest again and again.

And then he began to cut, slashing and digging with his fingers, trying to reach the still-beating prize inside.

“Are you all right?” Morgan asked. She climbed off of him, and stood in front of him, staring. He could see that her breast had already healed. “Are you having a bad trip or something?”

It took a moment for Remy to pull his wits together, and then he asked her, “Did something happen to Aszrus here?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about other—”

Remy flew from the couch and grabbed the girl by the arm.

“This is very important, Morgan,” he said with the intensity of the Seraphim.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “A few nights ago . . . some crazy got in and came at the general.”

“A crazy?”

“Yeah, Prosper didn’t know who it was.”

“Prosper?”

“Rapture’s owner.”

“So Aszrus was attacked?”

“Yeah, guy came out of nowhere with a knife, started screaming and trying to stab the general.”

“What happened then?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t hang around to find out—security came. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see Aszrus tonight and know—”

The door to the room suddenly slammed open then, and the zombie that had been checking IDs at the door stormed in with a group of five other walking dead.

“What the fuck, Charlie?” Morgan shrieked, just as he backhanded her across the face.

The six zombies then turned toward Remy, who allowed his true nature to emerge. He sprang from the couch and plowed into the first of the walking dead, driving him back into the others and causing them to tumble like bowling pins. Then he grabbed an ashtray from a nearby side table and infused it with the fire of Heaven, until it glowed like a tiny star, tossing it at the first zombie to rise to its feet.

The burning ashtray bounced off the zombie’s chest and landed on the floor, hissing like a giant snake.

It took a second for Remy to grasp what had happened, which was just long enough for the zombies to reach him. As he struggled with the mass of living dead men, he caught sight of the jewelry around their necks, confirming his suspicion that they were magickally protected against beings such as him.

Of course they are, he thought, as they pummeled him with fists like cinder blocks, driving him to the floor. Remy dropped to his knees, struggling against multiple blows. His gaze fell on the doorway, where he saw more zombie security guards entering the room; Malatesta was in the hallway, no longer wearing the guise of the angel general, his face swollen and bloody, his hands bound behind his back.

There were far too many now, and Remy’s wild swings landed harmlessly on flesh that had been dead for some time. As he fell to the floor beneath a sea of fists and kicking feet, he caught sight of Morgan, now in a silk robe, watching the beating with a certain amount of interest.

It was all he could do to stay conscious, and he was just about to give in to the sweet arms of oblivion when he saw Morgan reach for something on the floor. It took him a moment to realize it was the picture he had found in Aszrus’ secret room—the picture of the baby with the thumbprint burned into it.

She looked at it, and then to him.

Her look told him that it meant something to her.

And then everything faded to black.

• • •

Montagin couldn’t believe his eyes.

Not only had some foul abomination from the depths emerged from the conjured passage of shadow, but it had now claimed the corpse of his master as its own.

“No!” Montagin roared, shucking his human shape to assume the form of the angelic warrior that had fought alongside the brave general during the Great War against the legions of the Morningstar.

“Let it go!” Squire was screaming. “It’s more trouble than it’s fucking worth.”

“I will do no such thing!” Montagin extended his arm, imagining his weapon, and suddenly it was there, traversing the planes of reality to find its way into his waiting hand.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the grip of a Heaven-forged weapon in his hand.

Aszrus’ feet had reached the edge of the shadow patch, and he was about to be drawn over the edge, when Montagin attacked. Wings spread to their fullest, he leapt into the air, sword of crackling fire raised to strike.

The blade came down upon the mouth-covered flesh, severing a thick limb just above the point where it entwined the general’s ankles. From the darkness of the patch, a wail from a thousand mouths resounded throughout the room, and the warrior angel reveled in the cries of his enemy.

The sword disappeared as Montagin knelt to pull the general’s body away from the edge with both hands, but the attack suddenly intensified. Multiple tentacles of different sizes, shapes, and widths squeezed their way up through the opening, splintering the floor, and bending back pieces of the floorboards as they eagerly sought their prize, and more.

“I fucking told you to let it go!” Squire screamed from behind the couch.

One of the limbs lashed out, slapping Montagin and sending him sprawling across the apartment.

“Keep away from the TV!” he heard Squire yell, and seriously considered killing the hobgoblin before dealing with the tentacles that hungered for his master.

Three of the damnable limbs had wrapped themselves around Aszrus’ waist, and were already dragging his body back toward the passage, while another larger, thicker limb—this one adorned with a shiny, black claw—was slithering across the floor toward Montagin.

The angel scrambled to his feet as the tentacle reared up, the claw already beginning its descent. He was fairly certain that the foul appendage could slice through his battle armor from stem to stern, and disembowel him. He spun around, saw the television, and tore it from the wall, using it as a shield. The tentacle descended and the claw slashed through the monitor, cutting it nearly in two.

He could hear Squire screaming, and took a certain amount of pleasure from his pain, as he launched himself atop the writhing appendage, staying clear of the slashing claw. Holding on to the bucking limb, Montagin again called forth a weapon from the armory of Heaven. A burning dagger appeared in his grip, already beginning its descent down into the muscular, orifice-covered surface.

The angel stabbed the limb again and again, the divine fire leaking from the blade finding its way beneath the accursed flesh. The tentacle flailed all the wilder now as it burned.

Montagin leapt from the dying arm, looking toward the body of his general, saw that Squire and Heath were doing their part to keep it from being taken into the darkness. Each had hold of one of the general’s arms, Aszrus the prize in a bizarre game of tug-of-war.

“Can you close the passage?” Montagin asked, rushing toward them as even more tentacles began to force their way up from the holes in the floor.

Squire looked suddenly confused.

“Make up your goddamned mind!” he screeched. “Do you want the passage open or closed?”

The angel took hold of his master’s arm, pushing the hobgoblin out of the way. “Close it. Now!” he roared.

“Fucking angels,” Squire muttered, crawling on all fours toward the edge of the shadow passage, trying desperately to avoid the thrashing tentacles.

The hobgoblin reached out a finger toward the edge and the tendrils reacted, attempting to wrap themselves around it. Squire recoiled with a yelp.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Do it!” Montagin shouted again, not sure how much longer he and the sorcerer could hold on to the general’s body.

Again Squire made a move, his chubby hand reaching, but the tentacles were there, and he had to fight to keep from being dragged into the opening himself.

The tugging on Aszrus also grew more vicious.

“I’m losing it,” Heath cried out, trying to maintain his footing, as he slid to the floor.

It was as if the tendrils entwined around the great angel general’s body could sense that they were winning, and intensified their hold. Montagin heard the sounds of breaking bones as the tentacles constricted even more tightly about Aszrus’ waist.

“You will not have him!” the angel bellowed, summoning all the strength that he still had remaining, and pulled.

There was a terrible ripping sound, and suddenly Montagin and the sorcerer were tumbling backward. Montagin was horrified to see that they still held the general’s torso, internal workings trailing away as the tentacles claimed what they could, dragging his legs toward the shadow.

Squire saw his opportunity, and leapt beneath the writhing tendrils, plunging a finger into the shadow pool. He used his innate control over shadows to will the passage closed, returning it to a normal patch of darkness.

One moment it was a doorway, the next it wasn’t, and the many-mouthed tentacles that had not withdrawn into the dark dimension were quickly severed, writhing on the floor as they began to decompose in an environment of light.

Montagin stared in horror at his master’s body. Was it not bad enough that he’d been murdered, his heart taken? But now this.

Squire rose from where he’d been lying, kicking aside some of the tendrils that still thrashed upon the floor. “Happy?” he asked sarcastically.

Still upon his knees, Montagin pulled the upper half of Aszrus closer, cradling the remains in his arms.

“Goblin, I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

• • •

Francis allowed himself to be yanked through the haphazard cut that had been made in reality on the second floor of his brownstone.

He had no idea what he would find on the other side, but he did have the idea that it would probably be the last of the invaders.

“I seem to have caught a rat,” said the angel, as he hauled Francis through the crackling rip.

Francis was ready, spinning around to face his attacker, drawing back a fist to deliver a decisive blow that would render the angel numb, and easy to dispatch.

At least that was the plan.

Their eyes locked and Francis knew at once that he was in trouble. He knew this angel; even after all the time that had passed, the gaze of the one who had felled him during the Great War was not something easily forgotten.

“You,” Dardariel said, the angel’s grip upon him firm.

Francis’ first instinct was to kill the fucker, before . . .

Dardariel reacted, hoisting Francis up and slamming him to the floor with all the force he could muster. The floorboards shattered on impact, sending clouds of dust billowing upward.

“I should have known you would be involved in this, Fraciel,” Dardariel growled.

Francis lay stunned on the floor, remembering the last time he had seen this angel.

The war was reaching its inevitable end.

How many had he killed? How many of his own brothers had he violently brought down, believing in the message of the Morningstar? Francis—Fraciel—did not want to think of such things, still holding on to the hope that the one he served would be victorious, and that the Lord God would be forced to see the error of His ways.

But the more he fought, the more death that he dispersed, and Fraciel was beginning to see—to think—that maybe the Morningstar was wrong. And that was when he encountered the angel, Dardariel.

The look on Dardariel’s face now was so bloody familiar.

The angel ignited the fires of Heaven in his hand, and he leaned toward Francis’ face. Francis dug his fingers into the flooring, pulling away a jagged piece of pine with a snap, and stabbing it through Dardariel’s fiery hand of doom.

Dardariel pulled back in pain, allowing Francis to scramble away.

The former Guardian withdrew his gun from his coat and took aim at his opponent, but Dardariel didn’t miss a beat—still the deadly son of a bitch he’d been during the siege of the Golden City. The angel lashed out with an extended wing, swatting the pistol from Francis’ hand. It felt as though some of his fingers might have been broken in the process, but Francis kept moving.

“Where are you off to, Fraciel?” Dardariel asked. “You have about as much chance of escaping me now, as you did during the war.”

Francis wanted to put some distance between them, to lead him away from Squire’s apartment, and Azrus’ body. He dove for the stairs, almost believing that he’d made it, when he felt himself yanked violently back by the collar of his shirt.

Francis squirmed in his grasp, but Dardariel held him aloft as his powerful wings fanned the air, and a dagger of fire formed in his free hand.

The sudden sounds of struggle coming from Squire’s place momentarily distracted the angel, providing Francis with a much-needed opportunity. Francis lunged, throwing his weight toward the burning knife clutched in Dardariel’s hand. Dardariel tried to pull the blade back, but Francis gave it his all, twisting the angel’s wrist toward his foe’s midsection, and using every bit of strength he had remaining to drive the blade into Dardariel’s side.

The angelic soldier screamed his rage, casting Francis aside like a rag doll.

Francis bounced off a nearby wall, landing on all fours.

His plan was to make a break for his apartment, where he had plenty of weapons hidden, and to finally put an end to . . .

Dardariel was on him like a horsefly on fresh shit, dropping out of the air before Francis even had a chance to move.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” the angel taunted, grabbing him by the throat and squeezing.

Francis imagined his eyes exploding from his head like something out of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon as the grip intensified. There was only one thing left he could do and he knew he would regret it. He fumbled inside his suit coat again, found the dagger, and used it.

The blade was thin and sharp, and it sank into the flesh of Dardariel’s throat with very little resistance.

The look on the angel’s face was priceless, and Francis felt the grip upon his neck begin to loosen . . .

Before it grew viselike again.

Dardariel threw him away, his body rocketing down the corridor and smashing through the door to Squire’s apartment.

He wouldn’t have any luck at all if it weren’t for bad luck.

Francis struck the arm of the filthy couch, sliding across the floor, and ending up against the wall. “I’m okay,” he lied as he realized all eyes were upon him.

He struggled to stand, and then saw Aszrus, or what was left of him, cradled in Montagin’s arms.

This is gonna be so much worse than I figured.

Dardariel made his entrance then, flying through the doorway, blazing sword in hand. He touched down in a crouch, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

Francis winced as the angel’s eyes touched upon the remains of his beloved general. He opened his mouth to warn the others, just as Dardariel seemed to explode, a searing flash of divine radiance accompanied by a mournful cry that turned into a shriek of berserker fury.

Jumping to his feet, Francis tried to get across the room, but the angel Dardariel was already on the move.

Heath was the first to fall, a magickal spell roiling in the palm of his hand as the angel delivered a blow that sent him sprawling, the magick in his hand gone harmlessly awry.

Montagin didn’t even try to escape, bowing his head in submission as Dardariel lashed out, slapping Aszrus’ assistant to the floor.

“This way!” Francis heard Squire cry out, and turned to see the hobgoblin holding open a cabinet door beneath the sink.

Francis was about to head in that very direction, when the room was filled with the deafening roar of flapping wings. He knew what had to be done.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he ordered Squire, then turned to face the horde of Heavenly anger that now descended upon him.

“Hey, fellas,” Francis said with a devilish smirk as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Long time, no see.”