Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A good beating was often like a time machine.

And Francis was back in time with a front-row seat, watching as he screwed up on a monumental level.

But to be fair, at the time he really did believe the shit the Morningstar was shoveling; God didn’t love them anymore, and they were going to be replaced by humanity.

That pretty much summed it up.

In hindsight, it was amazing how much damage was done because of this petty, selfish notion.

Francis saw himself as he’d been, adorned in armor stained with the blood of those who had not believed as he had—as Lucifer had—leading an army toward the Golden City to confront their Lord and Creator.

Had the idea that Lucifer might have just been a jealous prick started to tickle his brain yet? he wondered. He couldn’t really remember.

It was painful to watch his own acts of war, the brothers who tried to fend off his advances cut down by his blistering sword of fire.

Francis found it interesting that on most days he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but he could still remember every single angel he had killed in the name of the Morningstar’s mission. He saw their faces as they died, as enthralled with fighting for God as he had been about Lucifer’s message.

We will not be cast aside.

But that’s what happened anyway, for those who had opposed God’s plan were sent away, imprisoned, banished to a world teeming with life deemed more worthy than theirs.

And maybe it was, but Fraciel—Francis—had been on that world a very long time now, and from what he could see humanity was just as fucked up as the angels were.

It made him wonder if the Lord of Lords had a plan after all, or was He making it up as He went along, flying by the seat of His oh-so-holy pants. It was certainly something worth considering, especially during times like this, when it looked as though shit was about to hit the fan big-time.

Francis saw himself taken down by a legion led by Dardariel. Remembering the pain of the event, he was glad it was over. He’d expected to die that day, to be executed for his betrayal of God, and if Dardariel and his armies had had their way, he would have.

But God had seen things differently.

Francis slowly awoke from the special presentation of This Is Your Life, wondering how He saw things now.

Did God realize how close they were to repeating the past? Did He even care?

It was something to consider.

Francis opened his eyes just in time to see the studded gauntlet descending, and felt it land squarely on the side of his face.

“Oh yeah,” he slurred, his mouth filling with blood that began to spill from the side of his swollen mouth. “That’s something I’ve really missed.”

He was chained to a wall in the dungeon of an ancient Mesopotamian prison, one used by angels for questioning war criminals who had fled to Earth when Lucifer’s rebellion had been struck down. It was a lovely old place of wet stone and mold that still stank of torture and divine bloodletting. As he dangled from his chains, he had to wonder if he wasn’t the only one of late to be a guest in these ancient accommodations.

Dardariel flexed his muscled shoulders, his magnificent wings shining in the light of a burning brazier in the center of the room. He brought his gauntleted hand to his nose and sniffed Francis’ blood.

“Your blood stinks of corruption,” he said. “Not like the blood of one who was shown mercy by his Creator.”

“I had an omelet with a shitload of garlic in it yesterday, maybe that’s what you smell,” Francis suggested, as he spit a wad of blood onto the dungeon floor.

Dardariel surged forward with a powerful flap of his wings, burying his metal-sheathed fist in Francis’ stomach.

“I could never understand His mercy toward you.” Dardariel was close to Francis’ face, his breath smelling of something akin to cinnamon. “When so many others were cast down to Tartarus—it was as if He saw something in you.”

Francis was about to crack wise, but Dardariel’s words struck a note, and he again found himself thinking of what he had lost in Heaven, and how he could never get that back.

Even if he was to be as nice as pie, something cut right from the Disney mold, it would forevermore be denied to him.

For Heaven wasn’t the same anymore.

“The Lord God showed you mercy and this is how you repay Him.” Dardariel had backed off and was pacing before Francis.

“Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly.

“I know this will probably get me hit, but why did I do what?”

A wing lashed out and was followed by a fist. Francis felt as though his jaw had been ripped away and thrown across the room.

“I’m psychic, too,” he mumbled, getting used to the taste of his own blood.

Dardariel stared, his eyes like two burning coals in the dimly lit dungeon.

“I’m serious,” Francis tried again. “What did I do?”

The angel lunged forward, hands striking the stone wall on either side of him.

Better the wall than me, Francis thought.

“You murdered the general.”

Francis looked directly into the angel’s eyes. “I did not.”

Dardariel could barely contain his rage, first striking the wall, then Francis, hitting him again and again.

“Beating me to a pulp can’t change reality,” Francis said, struggling to hold on to consciousness.

The angel dropped his hands to his sides and weapons from Heaven’s armory took shape.

Francis blinked blood from his eyes as he tried to focus on them.

“Are those sais?” he asked, recognizing the Japanese martial arts weaponry. He had a fascination with ancient armaments, and kung fu films.

“Why yes they are,” Dardariel said, just before jabbing one of the fiery metal batons into the former Guardian’s chest.

For the briefest instant, Francis felt the fires of Heaven inside his accursed body.

But that was more than enough.

He wondered where all the noise was coming from before realizing that it was his own screams of agony.

“Now, tell me again how you had nothing to do with Aszrus’ death. . . . I dare you.”

It took a moment for Francis to compose himself, the feeling of God’s divine fire still worming its way through every aspect of his being.

“You might as well take those pig stickers and shove them in my eyes. My answer isn’t going to change,” Francis snarled. “Your beloved general was already dead when I arrived on the scene.”

Dardariel surged forward again, one of the flaming sais jabbing toward Francis’ chest.

Anticipation made Francis scream.

The point of the sai stopped a mere hair from his chest. Francis looked down at the hovering point, and then up into Dardariel’s unwavering gaze.

“And why would someone the likes of you arrive on the scene?”

Francis swallowed hard, feeling the heat from the weapon tickling the center of his chest.

“My employer heard a rumor,” he explained. “Asked me to look into some things.”

“Your employer,” Dardariel said as if his mouth was filled with poison.

Francis said nothing, knowing that any answer he gave would likely result in pain.

“So somebody else was assigned the deed, and you were sent to make sure that the job was done.”

Francis closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Listen to me,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with killing your general. My employer knew how this murder would be perceived, and wanted to be certain that the right individuals got the blame.”

Dardariel raised the sai’s point to Francis’ eye.

“Not to point fingers,” Francis said quickly. “But one particular side has quite the itchy trigger finger and is just looking for an excuse to fire the starter’s gun.”

For a moment it was like all the air had been sucked from the room. Francis felt it, and from the look on Dardariel’s face, the angel felt it as well.

“Are you implying that one of us wants a war, Fraciel?” asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness of the dungeon.

Dardariel turned, the sais disappearing in a flash of golden flame.

A powerful figure emerged into the light cast by the burning brazier.

It had been a long time since Francis had laid eyes on the Archangel.

“Hey, Mike,” he said flippantly. “Long time no see.”

The Archangel Michael was dressed to the nines, looking as though he’d just stepped off the fashion runway, though Francis couldn’t be sure that he’d ever seen a seven-foot-tall warrior of Heaven, with skin like white marble and hair the color of pure gold, walk the runway before.

“Nice suit.”

The Archangel stopped beside the brazier, his gold-flecked eyes glistening in the dance of the flames there.

“Even after all you’ve endured, you still have not learned to respect your superiors,” Michael softly spoke. His voice was like a fine violin—a Stradivarius—expertly tuned. He reached into the brazier, careful not to catch his sleeve afire, and removed one of the blazing coals.

“The Lord God gave you a very special gift, Fraciel, and this is how you repay Him?”

Francis tensed, pulling on his chains. Let me tell you about the Lord God’s special gift, he wanted to spit, but thought better of it.

God did not send him to the prison of Tartarus with the other traitors, but he’d been given over to the angelic host, the Thrones, to serve as their assassin—removing those they deemed a threat to the edicts of Heaven. It was a less than pleasant position, but one that he’d endured for millennia in pursuit of God’s forgiveness.

Francis was still waiting.

“Just being polite,” Francis said, holding back the bile that threatened to spill from his lips.

Michael moved without being seen, suddenly close enough to shove the burning coal against the prisoner’s chest and hold it there.

Francis ground his teeth together and tossed his head back against this latest assault upon his senses; the sound of his flesh cooking, the sickly sweet smell of roasting meat, the feel of the coal—kept insanely hot by contact with the Archangel—as it tried to melt its way through his chest to his heart.

“We know that you are serving him again,” Michael said. “And to say that the Almighty is disappointed—”

“Never . . . wanted to . . . disappoint,” Francis managed, the pain threatening to take him someplace dark, and cool, and away from the perpetual agony. “Only trying . . . trying to keep the peace.”

Much to his surprise, and relief, Michael took away the coal.

“Tell me, Fraciel,” he said. “Is the act of murder how your master attempts to keep the peace?” The burning coal fell from the Archangel’s hand to smolder upon the wet, stone floor.

Francis’ head slumped to his chest. His breath came in pants, but he kept his eyes fixed upon the white-hot stone that gradually cooled on the ground in front of him. He imagined the coal as his pain, slowly—ever so slowly—being dialed back.

“As I told your handsome partner . . . ,” Francis began, shifting his eyes briefly from the coal to Dardariel, who had stepped obediently aside when the big guns had shown up. He saw the angel tense, clearly wanting another crack at him.

Shit, who wouldn’t?

“I had nothing to do with the general’s untimely demise,” Francis finished.

The Archangel strolled back to the brazier, helping himself to another of the burning coals. “Then, pray tell,” he said, casually tossing the white-hot object up into the air and catching it, as somebody would with a pebble found on the beach. “How did his body come to be found in your dwelling?”

Francis tried to assemble the facts inside his head into some discernible order before speaking.

“My companions and I . . .” He suddenly remembered Montagin and Heath and wondered if they were being treated as well as he was. “How are my companions by the way?”

“Quite well,” Michael answered. He was holding the coal between thumb and forefinger, blowing on it to make it glow all the hotter. “I just checked on them myself.”

Francis didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing he could do.

“We didn’t want the general’s body to be found,” he explained. “So we brought it to my place for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?” Michael repeated. He continued to toss the coal, and it appeared to be getting hotter each time it landed on the Archangel’s palm.

“Somebody murdered General Aszrus. There isn’t any doubt about that. But who actually did it, is where it gets tricky.”

Michael listened, the coal going up, and then down.

“The situation between Heaven and . . . my employer is nothing short of volatile, and now that the general’s death has been revealed, we’re dancing on the cusp of what my companions and I feared would happen.”

Dardariel must have been feeling brave, because he interrupted the grown-ups talking.

“He lies,” the angel proclaimed. “This one was untruthful to the Lord God Himself; do you seriously believe that—”

Michael flicked the coal away, striking Dardariel in the forehead.

“Silence,” the Archangel commanded.

Dardariel scowled, but he did as he was told.

“Your companions,” Michael said to Francis. “The angel Montagin, the human sorcerer, Heath . . . Am I forgetting anyone?”

“There was a hobgoblin, but he had some things to do and couldn’t stick around for all the fun.”

“Anyone else?” Michael prompted.

Francis smiled, realizing what the Archangel was getting at.

“Yeah, Remy’s involved in this,” he said, watching as Michael’s expression changed from bored to interested.

The Archangel stepped closer to Francis, his mere presence making him feel as though he was being crushed against the stone wall.

“What part does he play?”

Francis tried to suppress his smile, but he couldn’t. He looked up into Michael’s eyes. “The most important part of all: He’s trying to keep it all from turning to shit.”

• • •

Remy took point, moving down the corridor as quickly and as carefully as he could, Malatesta at his heels. His first instinct was to get the hell out of Dodge, but to come this far, with still so much unanswered, he decided that he was going to go for broke.

Besides, there was far too much at stake to stop now. For the briefest of moments, he imagined what the world would be like as Heaven went to war with Hell. It was all a little overwhelming.

He turned to make sure that the Vatican magick user was keeping up.

“You with me?”

“Unfortunately,” Malatesta said, leaning against a plaster wall.

They were in a lower part of the charnel house. It wasn’t very fancy, and Remy guessed that this was some place the customers seldom saw.

He suddenly tensed as he heard the sound of multiple voices coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. He motioned for Malatesta to follow him and cautiously moved forward.

The voices were female, and they were coming from behind a heavy wooden door to their left. Remy stepped closer to the door, and listened. One of the voices was definitely the woman who had questioned him about Aszrus’ photo.

The woman who still had answers that Remy wanted to hear.

“We’re going in,” Remy told Malatesta.

The magick user looked as though he was about to protest, but Remy was already turning the knob, and quickly darted inside.

The women stopped talking immediately, all five of them looking toward the door as Remy and Malatesta stepped in, closing the door behind them.

Remy recognized Natalia, who had gone off with Malatesta, Morgan, and the older woman.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan asked, a look of shock on her beautiful face.

“I’ll call security,” one of the others said, heading for an old-fashioned phone on the wall.

A blast of magickal energy struck the woman in the side, hurling her backward into the wall, where she dropped to the floor unconscious.

Remy turned to Malatesta, seeing his hand crackling with the residue of the spell he’d cast.

“No security,” the magick user said, and Remy had to consider if it was the Larva or the man who was with them now.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Remy said, as much to Malatesta as the women. “We just need some answers.”

“I’ll give you answers,” Natalia said, holding up her hand as the bright red fingernails began to grow longer.

“Knock it off, Nat,” the older woman said.

Remy noticed then that older woman was still holding the baby photo in her hand.

“But, Bobbie . . . ,” Natalia started to protest, before a cold look from the woman silenced her.

“I think this one might have some answers to our own questions,” Bobbie said, shaking the photo.

Morgan snatched the picture from the woman and advanced on Remy.

Malatesta looked as though he might be getting ready to let loose again, when Remy turned to him.

“It’s all right.”

“Where did you get this?” Morgan demanded. Her eyes were shiny and wet, most likely from crying.

“I’m sure Bobbie already told you,” Remy said.

“You tell me,” she demanded.

“I found it in Aszrus’ place. Hidden . . . as if he didn’t want anybody to see it.”

Morgan was staring at the image again.

“It means something to you.” Remy stated the obvious.

Her moist eyes locked on his. “Yeah, you might say that.”

“That’s a picture of her child,” Bobbie announced. “She’d know it anywhere. . . . I’d know it anywhere. . . .”

“I was told my baby died at birth,” Morgan said, not taking her eyes from the photo. “Does this look like a dead baby to you?”

Remy shook his head. “No, it does not.”

It was Natalia’s turn now. “What’s it mean?” she asked, her nails having receded back to their normal length. “We’ve all been knocked up by angels, given birth to corpse babies. . . .

“If this one is alive,” Natalia said, reaching for the picture held by Morgan, “could my baby be alive, too?”

Morgan let Natalia have the photograph for a moment, but then quickly took it back.

“Do you know, angel?” Bobbie asked.

“All I know is that Aszrus is dead . . . murdered,” Remy told them. “And I think whoever was responsible is somehow connected to this.”

“Prosper said that he was fine after that business the other night,” Bobbie said. “Which is why I wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d shown up tonight.”

“Prosper seemed pretty upset that we were here poking around,” Remy said. “I don’t know about you, but I think somebody might have a guilty conscience.”

One of the other girls who’d been silent until then spoke up.

“He told me that my baby was dead,” she said, holding back tears.

“Prosper?” Remy asked.

She nodded. “He held my hand, talking all sweet to me,” she said, sounding as if she were there again. “He said that she was just like all the others, born dead—just too damn different to live.”

They all seemed to be listening to the woman, as if they could feel her pain as well.

“What if he was lying?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“I think we need to find out,” Malatesta said, leaning against the door.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed, looking at the women.

“So, who wants to take us to Prosper’s office?”

• • •

The demon sat alone, at the far back of Methuselah’s tavern indulging in its fourth libation of fermented basilisk blood and grain alcohol.

He exuded a cloud of menace, only the bravest of waitresses coming over sporadically to see if he wanted another of the foul drinks. Normally he would have had something to eat as well, but when he thought of his stomach, and what he could fill it with, it just made him remember how he had ended up this way.

The memory of how he’d lost face with his clan.

The incident had happened there, at Methuselah’s. The day had been no different from multiple others, the demon locating a passage to the tavern to slake his thirst and fill his hungry belly.

He hadn’t even noticed the Seraphim or his beast, and why should he? They were no matter to him.

That was how his species had managed to survive as long as they had: sticking to the shadows, keeping to themselves, drawing little attention to their actions.

It was a practice that would serve them well when their kind was ready to emerge and reclaim what had been stolen from them.

He had ordered a libation and an appetizer—something he had grown to love called a blooming onion. He had been about to take his first bite of the delicious, fried onion treat, when the angel’s beast had approached his table. It had looked upon him hungrily, its eyes demanding food.

The demon had no intention of sharing, and had ordered the beast go away. However, it appeared to have no intention of leaving, and had demanded that he share the blooming onion.

The demon brought his drink to his mouth, taking gulps of the thick fermented blood, as he continued to recall that troubling evening.

He had insisted the beast go away as peaceably as he was able, but the black-furred animal remained.

Eventually bringing its master to the table.

The Seraphim appeared, the light of the divine nearly blinding the demon. He’d had no quarrel with the angel, and had attempted to shy away, but the Seraphim would not have it, belittling the demon in front of the tavern’s patrons, causing him to lose face.

News of the event had traveled like the most virulent of plagues, and those of his tribe were aware of what had occurred within hours.

His entire reputation was destroyed in a matter of days.

Because of what the Seraphim had done to him, he was deemed unworthy, ostracized. Tribal law dictated that he should kill the Seraphim and his beast, but he knew it was an impossible task, his own hunger for survival canceling out any desire to attack the divine creature of light.

But in not slaying the angel, he was shunned by his kind, as if dead.

The demon had some more of his drink, mulling over the decision that he had made.

It had taken all the wealth that he’d squirrelled away to hire the assassins. But the Bone Masters were well worth the price, for once they had completed their task, he would be resurrected.

Reborn in the eyes of his people.

The demon raised a pale hand to summon a waitress. He was suddenly feeling a bit hungrier at that moment, and decided to take a chance on a blooming onion.

Before the moment of optimism could pass.