Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The castle trembled violently.

Simeon squinted through the dust and bits of rock that rained down from the ceiling, looking to Hallow for guidance.

“It appears that our first lines of defense have been breached,” the necromancer said, suddenly looking much older.

“What should I do?” Simeon asked, ready to fight.

Hallow listened to the sounds from outside, head cocked ever so slightly. “If you stay here with me you will most certainly die,” the necromancer said. He turned his wizened gaze to the forever man. “I could order you to leave, but something tells me that command would fall upon deaf ears.”

Simeon stumbled to one side as the castle again quaked.

“The spell that prevents their access will not stand up to much more of this assault,” Hallow said. He was making his way toward the stairs, beginning his climb.

“Where are you going?” Simeon demanded.

“I’m going to meet our guests,” the magick user told him.

“No.” Simeon rushed up behind the old man, grabbing at the back of his robes.

Hallow lost his balance and fell backward into Simeon’s arms.

“I won’t let you kill yourself,” Simeon told him.

“Is it that obvious?” Hallow asked. “Not even about to give me a fighting chance.” He chuckled sadly.

“You’re still a great necromancer,” Simeon said, helping to steady the old man. “Show it.”

Normally for such impertinence he would have been beaten, or worse—killed, and maybe killed again—but this time was different.

“I’m tired, Simeon,” Hallow said. “My brother and I have been fighting this war for far too long.” He paused, catching his breath.

“It’s time for it to end.”

Simeon reached out, gripping the necromancer’s arm. He was shocked at how bony it felt through the heavy cloth of Hallow’s robes.

“Everything that I have has been put into the castle’s defense,” he said, “but still he advances.”

“You must continue to fight,” Simeon told him.

The old man nodded. “And fight I will,” he said. “Until I cannot fight anymore.”

“You yourself said that Tyranus cannot be allowed to win.”

“No truer words were ever spoken,” the necromancer said. He started to climb the stone steps again. “Of that, I have no intention.”

Hallow reached the doorway.

“In days past it was all about the battles, who would win, and who would lose,” he said. “But now, in my waning years I’ve come to understand that the answer I sought—that my brother and I both sought—masked a lie.”

The structure trembled again, the iron chandeliers that hung above the grand room swaying in the rubble that crumbled down from above.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Simeon said. He had his hands atop his head to protect himself. “What lie?”

“Victory,” the old magick user said. “There can be no victory in this game.”

The building shook again, and Simeon fell to one knee, as his master clutched the doorframe with a withered hand.

“I don’t . . .”

“We exist to maintain a balance,” Hallow spoke, over the sounds of his home under siege. “If one defeats the other, what is maintained with that? Nothing. The balance is lost no matter who lives, or dies.”

There came a commotion from outside that told him that the magickal barriers had fallen, and he looked toward the huge, wooden doors. The demon staff was scrambling to place heavy pieces of furniture in front of the opening, hoping to buy more time.

“But someone will reign victorious,” Simeon said.

Ignatius Hallow shook his head. “None must be victorious. For balance to be restored, the Keepers must be removed from the equation.”

“But . . .” Simeon began, not quite sure he understood.

“With both of us gone, nature will take its course—a natural balance will eventually occur.”

“So much power going out into the world.”

“Better it go out into the world than be in the hands of one,” Hallow said.

The doors into the castle blew inward with a deafening roar, the pieces of furniture laid before it doing little to prevent what wished to gain entrance from coming inside.

Simeon had been blown down from the explosion, rising to his feet to see that his master now stood in defiance of what had entered.

It was a visage of power, a soldier of Heaven clad in armor that appeared to be forged from the surface of the sun; in its hand was a sword seemingly broken from the point of the nearest star.

Simeon could do nothing but stare, and loathe it with all his heart and what little remained of his soul.

• • •

He dreamed of a time when he was not in control.

Images exploded from the darkness. Remy, the Seraphim, had been riled to war, finally battering down the magickally fortified doors to the castle, allowing him and the Pope’s soldiers inside.

There was such anger then, with nary a thought as to why he would feel so much rage for someone that he didn’t even know. But if Tyranus wished Hallow vanquished, that was more than enough for him.

And Remiel didn’t even think to question that.

The images came fast and furiously, accompanied by a droning sound track of Latin prayer.

He didn’t think that this had been the case back then, the screams of those dying in battle being the only score that he could recall accompanying the siege.

His entire focus then was to find the necromancer and destroy him utterly, for that was what Pope Tyranus had commanded. It was all so very simple; he needed to do what the Pope told him to do.

And he did so, with nary a question.

The Latin prayer was louder now, and he realized that he could not understand it. How was that even possible? Remiel could understand all prayers, all languages. . . .

What’s going on?

It felt as if he was falling . . . so very fast, but his wings would not come.

And he struck the earth, shattering his every bone and causing his skin to split and all that was inside him to spill out into the world.

And then all was darkness.

• • •

Remy awoke with a start. He quickly looked around, trying to get his bearings, and to remember what had happened.

He was in a storage room, cartons of alcohol and crates of wine stacked against cinder block walls.

The sound of Latin prayer still echoed in his mind. Turning his head toward the other side of the room, Remy realized that he wasn’t alone. Constantin Malatesta was slumped in a wooden office chair beside him, hands bound behind his back.

And Remy realized then that he, too, was bound.

“Hey,” Remy said, tugging on the restraints, but finding that they held him fast. They hadn’t used rope on him; his restraints were made from chains, and as he moved he could feel the tingle of enchantment coursing up the lengths of his arms.

He remembered the zombie security guards, and how they’d been protected from his angelic talents.

Rapture. The charnel house. This place was all set to deal with folks like him if things got out of hand.

“Constantin . . . hey,” Remy called out again. “Listen to me.”

The praying at last stopped, and the Vatican agent slowly turned his gaze to him.

Remy didn’t like what he saw at all.

“What have they done to you?” he asked.

Malatesta looked as though he’d aged twenty years, his face battered, bruised, and covered with drying blood.

“It’s this place,” the man said, his voice trembling. “It makes you weak . . . unable to fight. . . .”

Malatesta began to squirm then, crying out as if suddenly in torment.

And from the look of what was happening to his body, he was. It was then that Remy knew that the Vatican magick user had a deadly secret.

His flesh began to writhe and twist, as if there was something on the inside of him that was trying to get out. His eyes had gone completely yellow, and he looked to Remy with a pointy-toothed snarl.

“Been awhile since I’ve been this close to the surface,” the monstrous entity growled. “Feels good.”

And the creature laughed, before crying out in protest and pain as Malatesta tried to take control of his form once more.

“Can’t let the Larva free,” the magick user told him. “But it’s so strong . . . so damn strong.”

Remy could see that the effort was practically killing him, and wished that he could have done something to help the man, but at the moment, there were some larger issues that needed to be dealt with.

He knew that trying to break his bonds was probably futile, but he couldn’t help but give it the ole Seraphim try. The backlash of the magick was something incredible, almost sending him back to the dark place he’d been before waking up.

A place where he hadn’t been in control, and wasn’t even aware.

Shaking off the pain, he looked around for something, anything that might trigger a useful thought.

He couldn’t help but look to Malatesta, who had started praying again, even as the evil spirit inside the man struggled to emerge once more.

The door to the basement storage swung open with a creak, distracting Remy from another futile attempt at trying to break the chains around his wrists.

A man sauntered in as if he owned the place, which he probably did. Remy guessed that this was the guy Prosper that Morgan had talked about. He was followed by two exceptionally large zombies.

Where the hell does he find these guys? Remy wondered. It wasn’t as if behemoths of this size were dying every day, but then again, maybe they were and he just wasn’t being told. Wouldn’t have been the first time he was kept out of the loop.

“I’d get up and shake your hand,” Remy started. “But I’m a little tied up.”

Prosper didn’t even crack a smile, staring at the two bound figures before him like somebody might study a particularly troubling stain upon a carpet.

“I can’t believe you ended up here,” Prosper said, barely containing his annoyance.

Remy stared at the man, realizing that he was an angel, but one of the fallen kind—a Denizen.

Denizens had served time in the Hell prison of Tartarus, before being released to Earth to serve out the remainder of their penance.

Remy wasn’t really sure how many Denizens actually ever finished their sentence. This might be something to ask the Big Guy upstairs, if they ever got a chance to chat again.

But right now Remy had more pressing concerns.

“It’s great that you found yourself a good living,” Remy said. “But do you think that whorehouses are on the accepted list of businesses for parolees?”

Prosper just stared blankly.

“I can see why the Black Choir hates your fucking guts,” he finally said.

Malatesta’s praying started to get louder, creating a distraction.

“Shut up,” Prosper ordered, to no avail.

Remy could see a spark of something not quite right go off in Prosper’s eyes, telling him that the fallen angel probably hadn’t learned the error of his ways while imprisoned after the war.

“I said to shut your fucking mouth.” Prosper leaned in closer to Malatesta, speaking louder, as if the Vatican sorcerer was hard of hearing.

Malatesta kept right on praying, and Remy could see that this wasn’t going any place good. He made an attempt to defuse the situation by trying to get Prosper’s attention.

“So tell me about the Choir,” Remy said. “Did they talk about me a lot? Did they mention what I did that bugged them . . .”

Prosper barely nodded, and one of the zombies stepped in, delivering a smashing blow that snapped Malatesta’s head viciously to one side. Remy was spattered with the magick user’s blood.

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” Remy hollered.

The distraction worked this time, and Prosper turned his cold, dead gaze to the angel. Again, there came the barely perceptible nod, and the zombie with the sledgehammer right hook was beside him, giving Remy a taste of hurt.

The blow practically tore his head from his shoulders, but at least he had gotten the focus away from Malatesta.

“So, as I was saying,” Remy said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “The Choir really has no love for me. Did they charge you, or did they agree to do me in for nothing?”

Prosper pretended to smile, but Remy could see that there was no real happiness behind the facial contortion. He’d seen this in quite a few Denizens after they’d been freed from Tartarus. It was as if they had no idea what happiness was anymore, and any chance of knowing it again had been taken away.

“Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you’re trying to make me do?” Prosper asked.

The zombie stepped in again, and Remy tried to brace himself, but it really didn’t do much good.

“Now why would I want you to do something like that?” Remy asked, feeling blood dribble from the corner of his mouth, and down to his shirt.

“Maybe because you know what’s coming,” Prosper suggested, and again there was that smile, only this time there might have been something akin to pleasure behind it.

“And what might that be?”

“I hate to waste things,” Prosper said. “If I can turn waste into profit, I’m ahead of the game.”

“So you’re gonna turn me—us—into profit?” Remy asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Prosper folded his hands in front of himself and stared. “In my business I have all sort of clients, and some of those clients have certain needs that are very specific, and quite difficult to fulfill.”

“I’ve heard that,” Remy said. “Like General Aszrus, he liked to play a little rough.”

This time Prosper didn’t wait for his living-dead bodyguard to do the dirty work. The fallen angel delivered a succession of blows that showed Remy he had struck a nerve.

Go him.

“You had to go poking around.” Prosper shook his hand out and Remy could see that his knuckles were torn and bloody.

That’ll show him.

“Just doing my job,” Remy managed from a mouth feeling swollen and out of shape. “Like you . . . making my client happy.”

He thought he might get hit again, but Prosper managed some level of restraint.

“Glad you understand,” he said instead. “I have clients who would give me anything I want for some time with the likes of a Seraphim.”

Prosper smiled. There was definitely some pleasure there, but it was the dirty kind that made the hair at the back of the neck stand up, and the skin prickle.

“Now would this be a dinner date, or just lunch?” Remy asked, knowing the question would probably be bad for him, but it felt good to ask.

Prosper surprised him by laughing out loud. It wasn’t too pleasant a sound. “Yeah, you could call it that. A dinner date, yeah.” He was laughing again. “You’ll be the fucking dinner and they’ll be eating you alive, among other things.”

That idea made him laugh all the harder. Remy could just imagine the perversity inside the fallen angel’s head, and was glad that he couldn’t share in it.

A knock at the door interrupted their fun.

One of the zombies opened it a crack, and Remy caught sight of a pretty, older woman standing outside.

“What?” Prosper said, without even looking, annoyance in his tone.

“Got a problem upstairs,” the woman said.

He looked in her direction then. “What kind of problem?”

“The kind that can cause a shitload of damage if it’s not taken care of,” she stated. “A Summerian battle god whacked out of his gourd on joy juice is threatening to rip the roof off the place if somebody doesn’t bring him a ten-year-old virgin.”

“Son of a bitch,” Prosper spat, moving toward the door. “We don’t have any?” he asked as he and his zombie thugs pushed past her, closing the door behind them.

Remy was left alone to deal with his own problem. He looked at Malatesta who was coming to, moaning as if being prodded with a hot poker.

The doorknob rattled again, and he was half expecting to see Prosper back for more fun and games, but instead the woman entered, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Forget something?” Remy asked.

The woman glared as she stalked toward him.

“Where did you get it?” she asked, tension like that of a coiled spring ready to snap in her voice.

“I don’t understand,” Remy said, looking into her distressed eyes.

“Where did you find it?” she repeated, as if English was his second language. She reached into her pocket and removed the picture that Morgan had picked up from the floor in her room. “This,” the woman held it out to Remy, “where did you get it?”

She was frantic, her eyes darting between Remy and the door, obviously expecting Prosper and his buddies to return.

“What does it mean?” Remy asked her.

She looked at the picture, a look of genuine longing spreading across her face.

“I was told they had died at birth,” she said. “But this . . .”

“Why would Aszrus have that picture?” Remy asked, watching the woman’s reaction.

“Aszrus,” she repeated. “You got this from Aszrus?”

She was looking at the picture again, tears welling in her eyes.

“Who is it?” Remy asked.

She seemed to be struggling with his questions. “They weren’t supposed to be able to have babies,” she finally said, sobbing. “But here they were, pregnant.”

“Who?” Remy prodded, desperate for answers. “Who was pregnant?”

“My girls,” she said. “It wasn’t natural, but it happened.”

“The Nephilim?” Remy asked. “The Nephilim were getting pregnant?”

He’d never heard of such a thing, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t even possible. Nephilim were supposed to be sterile.

There was a muffled sound from outside the room, and the woman turned, bolting for the door.

“Who got the girls pregnant?” Remy asked as she turned the knob, ready to flee. “Was it the angels? Was it Aszrus?”

The look on her face told him all he needed to know as she quickly slunk out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Remy had more than he did before, but the puzzle’s picture was still not yet defined. He had to get out of here.

He looked over to Malatesta, who was again muttering in Latin.

“Listen,” Remy said. “We’re in some pretty big trouble here,” he told the sorcerer.

Remy didn’t know whether he was listening, but went on, assuming that he was.

“We need to get out of here as quickly as we can before we end up as part of the entertainment.” He was straining against his chains again, feeling the magick charging up to prevent him from getting much farther.

“As much as it kills me to admit it, I’m useless right now—these chains prevent me from doing anything that could be even remotely useful, and I’m guessing that whatever is keeping you in that chair has probably done a job on your magickal mojo as well.”

Malatesta’s head turned ever so slightly, looking at him from the corner of a swollen eye.

“I’m going to ask you to do something pretty horrible,” Remy said, letting his words permeate a bit before he continued. “And it involves that thing inside you.”

“No,” Malatesta objected outright. “You . . . you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking, and I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. The spirit, or whatever it is inside you, is our get-out-of-jail-free card—they don’t know about it, so they didn’t do anything to prevent it from getting free.”

Malatesta was crying and furiously shaking his head.

“I can’t. . . . I can’t. . . . You don’t understand what that would mean.”

Remy knew exactly what the sorcerer was talking about, having spent the last hundred years, give or take a century, attempting to keep the warlike aspect of his angelic nature in check.

“You’d be surprised at what I know,” he said. “But if we’re going to get out of here, you have to trust me—this is the only way.”

“No,” Malatesta said again, now starting to thrash around in his chair. “I won’t let the Larva out, I’ve worked too hard to—”

There was the muffled sound of voices from outside, and Remy knew that time was just about up.

“Do you hear?” Remy stressed. “This is it—they’re coming for us.”

Malatesta had tucked his chin deep into his chest, straining to keep the monstrous force inside him imprisoned.

“It’s almost too late,” Remy roared.

Malatesta continued to struggle, his body racked with sobs of terror and strain.

“As a soldier of the Lord God . . . as an angel of Heaven I command you to set it free.”

The voices were louder now, almost to the door.

Malatesta was looking at him, his gaze begging Remy not to ask this of him.

“I command you,” Remy said again.

“Please . . . ,” Malatesta whined.

“Do it.”

Malatesta’s eyes slowly closed, and his head sank down, his chin touching the top of his chest. “I hate you,” he whispered. “I hate you with all my heart and soul.”

“I’m sorry,” Remy replied, hearing the sound of the door opening. “If there was any other way . . .”

Two zombie security guards entered.

“Hey, guys,” Remy said. “Miss us?”

The zombie that liked to hit came at him, hands like catchers’ mitts, reaching. He guessed that they were being taken elsewhere, maybe to a certain someone who’d paid a lot of money to do something really horrible to a soldier of Heaven.

The other guard had gone to Malatesta, and was trying to haul him up from the chair. Remy glanced over to see that the zombie was having a bit of trouble, Malatesta’s hands holding on to the back of the furniture.

“I’ll break those hands,” the zombie murmured menacingly.

But that just made Malatesta start to laugh and laugh, and that was when Remy realized it wasn’t the sorcerer who was laughing.

The laughing abruptly stopped, and then Remy heard what could only have been the muffled sounds of bones popping from their joints. He watched in awe as Malatesta was suddenly free from his restraints, his arms bending in directions that should have been impossible.

Malatesta was laughing again, as he sprang onto the seat of his chair, then up and over the towering zombie, grabbing hold of the walking corpse’s chin and yanking back as he went. There was a loud crack as the zombie’s neck was broken, and he tumbled backward to the floor.

The zombie that had been beside Remy was already on the move toward Malatesta. The possessed sorcerer continued to laugh and giggle, evading the zombie with ease, even springing up onto, and sticking to the side of the wall like Spiderman.

The zombie lunged, crashing into wooden crates of wine and boxes of booze as he attempted to rip the insectlike sorcerer from his perch. The zombie with the broken neck was now struggling to stand, his heavy head lolling about horribly as he tried to assist his partner.

“Larva!” Remy called out, still restrained.

Malatesta was padding across the ceiling and looking down on those who were attempting to reach up for him. The demon turned his eyes from his foes to Remy.

“What are you wasting time for with mere animated corpses, when you could be tangling with a soldier of Heaven?” Remy asked it, enticing the accursed thing.

The evil spirit laughed at him, reaching down from the ceiling to rip at one of the zombie’s faces, snatching away one of its eyes and popping it into his mouth like a cherry tomato.

The zombie flailed about, now partially blind.

“Come on,” Remy taunted. “When was the last time you tasted angelic flesh?”

He wasn’t sure if the spirit ever had, but figured if it hadn’t, it certainly would want to. It continued to taunt the zombies.

“Now I know why Malatesta was able to keep you locked up for so long,” Remy stated over the commotion. “You’re weak . . . a minor entity. Nothing more than an annoyance.”

He was counting on the thing’s arrogance and stupidity, and he wasn’t disappointed.

Forgetting its zombie opponents, the Larva came scrabbling across the ceiling, and dropped down atop Remy, sending the chair flipping violently backward to the floor. Remy heard the sound of the chair moaning beneath their weight, as the evil entity hissed and slashed. He rocked from side to side, straining the chair’s integrity while attempting to evade the creature’s razor-sharp claws.

He needed something more to get free of the chair, and his prayers were answered in the form of two linebacker-sized zombies, one with a funky neck, barreling across the room to get their escaped prisoner back under wraps.

They hit the Larva like two runaway freight trains, landing atop them in a heap of powerfully muscled dead flesh that ended up doing exactly what Remy had hoped for. The chair’s back snapped beneath their thrashing bodies, allowing Remy to slip free of the magickally enhanced chains.

He’d had just about enough of animated corpses wrestling atop him and brought forth the fires of Heaven. The light of divinity caused his body to glow, sending the spirit screaming away, and attaching itself again to the ceiling like a spider.

The zombies were driven back from the light, still wearing the protections that kept him from dealing with their likes before. Not wanting them to have a chance, Remy acted, grabbing for the leg of the broken chair that had held him and smashing it into the side of one of the zombie’s heads, and then the other’s.

One of them crashed into a stack of boxes, causing the bottles of liquor inside to smash to the floor in an expanding puddle.

Seeing as they were already dead, Remy didn’t hesitate, flicking his fingers as if flipping droplets of water; but instead of water he was flipping fire.

The zombie went up in a rush of flame, the sprinkler system in the ceiling raining water down upon the room in an attempt to extinguish the fire. The other zombie, his head flopping about loosely, made a dash for the door, but the Larva sticking to the ceiling above had other ideas.

The possessed man dropped down upon its prey, finger claws slashing, ripping away the zombie’s clothes, and finally the dead flesh beneath.

Remy turned his focus to the burning dead man. The zombie was attempting to roll around on the ground, trying to put out the flames. Approaching the flailing figure, Remy took the chair leg, and drove it down into the zombie’s face, and into the brain, shutting the burning corpse down for the count.

He then returned his attention to the Larva.

The possessed Malatesta was crouched atop the zombie, his head buried in a gaping hole that he had torn in the dead man’s gut.

Remy was disgusted.

But there hadn’t been any choice.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, using a tone of authority.

The Larva turned its bloody face to him and smiled, a flap of zombie flesh dangling wetly from the corner of his face as he continued to chew.

“Give me Constantin back,” Remy said, moving closer.

The evil spirit chuckled, licking his bloody fingers one by one.

“Constantin is gone now,” the Larva told him in its horrible voice. “Now only I am here.”

Remy surged forward, catching the creature by the throat as it was about to leap up onto the ceiling. The Larva screeched and struggled in his grasp.

“You will give me Constantin Malatesta or I will destroy you, and this host body,” Remy ordered.

The Larva continued to struggle. “You lie, Creature of God.”

Remy willed fire into his grip, starting to burn the flesh of the host body’s throat. From the sound that came from the spirit entity, it was quite painful.

“I never lie,” Remy told the monster, looking into its horrible, dark eyes. “Give me what I want, and you return to the darkness inside the sorcerer and continue to exist. Deny me . . .”

The Larva snarled, spitting a wad of bloody spit into Remy’s face. The blood sizzled on Remy’s cheek as he let his internal fire begin to intensify.

“It will never be as deep again,” the Larva said. “It will always be so very close. . . . We’ll be just like brothers,” the damnable spirit went on, cackling crazily, before suddenly stopping.

Malatesta went suddenly limp in his hands, and Remy let him slump to the floor. He watched the Vatican magick user, waiting for a sign that he was again in control.

Malatesta moaned.

“Are you all right?” Remy asked.

“Fuck off,” Malatesta growled, pushing himself into a sitting position.

By the sounds of it, the human side of the man had regained control.

• • •

The youngest of the Bone Masters waited in the shadow of a cellar alcove in the building where the human lived. He had been there for days, the shadows draped over him like a cloak, watching the comings and goings of his human target, and waiting to be activated.

The Master reached into the leather pouch at his side for sustenance. The worms were about a finger’s length, and twice as thick. He shoved one into his mouth, biting off the head before it could let out its high-pitched squeal.

He knew that others of his ilk had been hired as well, each assassin ordered to observe those who were close to the Seraphim called Remy Chandler. But he was growing impatient. He listened to the sounds of the building, knowing that his target wasn’t at home, tempted to leave his hiding place and explore the dwelling. Perhaps he would find another to satisfy his urge to kill.

This was his first assignment since reaching the level of Bone Master, and he was eager to show what he was capable of. The Liege Masters that had trained him in his art had warned against his immaturity, saying that he needed to control his impatience, and use the energy that it created in a more productive manner.

The Bone Master just wanted to kill something.

His weapon hummed eagerly in his grasp, and he reached out to pet the spiny ridge of bone that ran the length of its body. It, too, was eager to prove itself, to perform the task for which it was bred.

But he—they—had to wait for their final instructions from the one who had hired them, even though they were certain what those instructions would be.

Why else would one go to the effort of hiring a Bone Master?

Time passed ever so slowly, and the young Master entertained himself with thoughts of how he could eliminate his prey. Using his weapon was of course the ultimate choice, but there were times when the weapon could not be used.

He remembered his training, the feel of the lesser beings used for educational purposes dying in his grip. How many had he strangled? Bludgeoned? How many necks had he broken? All in the name of learning to be the perfect killer.

A perfect killer bored nearly out of his mind.

The young Master wanted to scream. He thought about eating some more worms, but that just made him all the more anxious.

He heard his prey returning before he saw him. From the sounds of the human’s heavy breathing, the Master would be doing him a favor by taking his life.

The front door to the building opened, and his prey walked in, closing the door behind him. The Master smelled the sickly scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and fatty meat.

It was as if this human was begging to die.

The killer continued to listen as the man slowly climbed the stairs to his dwelling. He heard him take keys from his pocket, unlock the door, and step inside, closing it behind him.

The young Bone Master felt his every instinct come alive; here was his assigned prey ready for the killing.

And all that stood in his way was the designation of time.

It was not yet time for death to be delivered. He had not received his final order, even though he’d been told that it was inevitable.

He seethed in the shadows. Here was the perfect situation, the perfect opportunity to show the Seraphim Remy Chandler that no one was safe, that he and all that he cared for were targeted by the Bone Masters.

The young assassin doubted that the moment would ever be better.

And the killer made a decision that his trainers would have frowned upon, although it was not unheard of from more experienced Masters. He would act, taking down his quarry, to show off his superior skills.

It was decided—the Bone Master left his place in the shadows and silently climbed the stairs.

To at last perform the act of murder.