Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY

Just being in the presence of the angel had made Prosper’s hands begin to shake.

The owner of Rapture took a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. He’d been around all kinds of angels before—for fuck’s sake he was one himself—but he hadn’t been affected like this by any other.

Images sparked inside his brain, flashes of events that he hadn’t thought about—hadn’t remembered—in centuries. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all, and for making him suffer, he decided to make Remiel and his little friend suffer as well.

The thought of the indignities that would be heaped upon the Seraphim in the bowels of Rapture made Prosper smile as he leaned back in the leather chair behind his desk. Some of his customers were real sick fucks.

The memory came unbidden, like a rock thrown through a piece of frosted glass to reveal the images behind it. He saw a scene of war, and all the horrors it entailed. He had been part of the battle, fighting just as much for his life as for the cause of the Morningstar.

He hadn’t yet become Prosper; his name was Puriel, and as his compatriots had died around him, he’d wanted nothing more than to run and hide until the madness abated.

Prosper steeled himself against the flood of memories, trying to keep them back. He didn’t want to remember what had been.

How it used to be before . . .

He was attempting to get away, the air thick with an oily black smoke that rose from the burning bodies of his comrades. Puriel had been wrong in siding with the Son of the Morning, and just wanted this to stop . . . wanted it to be the way it had been.

Blindly he had leapt into the air, his tattered yellow wings carrying him over the battlefield. Something hissed as it sliced through the air, cutting into one of his wings and sending him spiraling down to the corpse-littered ground.

He landed upon an angel named Celiel, who had once boasted that he would tell the Lord God Almighty how wrong He had been about humanity, and if He didn’t like it, he would spit in His eye. Celiel was now quite dead, blackened flesh showing through the gash in his armor that stretched from his neck down through his shoulder.

Rolling from atop the corpse, Puriel realized that he could no longer fly—a large portion of one of his wings having been cut away. He struggled to stand, eyes searching the roiling black smoke for a sign of the one that had struck him from the sky.

He remembered with sorrow how he had stood there, waiting for the inevitable.

Prosper let out a short scream, the glass of bourbon slipping from his hand and falling to the floor. The picture inside his head was as clear as day: an armored warrior of Heaven emerging from the billowing smoke, a sword of fire held tightly with purpose.

How could he ever have forgotten that face? The face of the one who spared him his life allowing him to be imprisoned in Tartarus.

The face of the angel Remiel.

“Son of a bitch,” Prosper growled, leaning over to pick up the glass that he’d dropped. His hand was still shaking, and it took more than one try to finally snatch up the tumbler and place it on the corner of his desk.

Prosper stood, breathing heavily through his nose, attempting to calm himself. It was no wonder that he’d reacted in such a way to the angel.

Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, he began to pour himself another finger’s worth. Maybe I’ll pay the angel a visit myself, he considered, downing the drink in one huge gulp. It would be something special for Remiel to remember his face this time.

The door into his office swung open then, and Prosper turned to see Bobbie coming in.

“Don’t you fucking knock?” he asked, his rage suddenly inflamed. Then he saw that she wasn’t alone, and once again the glass fell from his hand, this time shattering as it hit the floor.

The angel Remiel came into his study.

“I think you and I need to have a little chat,” the angel said.

It took all that Prosper had at that moment not to drop to his knees and pray for his life.

• • •

Remy saw Prosper begin a desperate dive for the phone on the corner of his desk, and met him halfway, knocking him to the floor with a solid slap across the face.

“Lock the door,” Remy said to Malatesta, who had entered behind him. “We don’t want anyone interrupting our discussion.”

The magick user stepped away from the door and lifted his hands, muttering beneath his breath as he sealed the door with a spell.

Prosper scrabbled across the floor away from Remy. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked. “The forces that I could call down upon your sorry ass?”

“I know, I know,” Remy said, humoring him. “You’re a very important person.” He casually sat on the corner of the desk.

“We can do this one of two ways,” he began. “You can answer all of my questions, truthfully, or you can fight me every inch of the way and I will take a certain amount of pleasure in breaking every bone in your body, starting with your hands.”

Prosper was now standing, moving toward the leather chair behind the desk. “Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he said with an idiot’s grin.

“What are you talking about?” Remy asked, confused.

“Look at you,” Prosper said. “The champion of Heaven, now nothing but a fucking thug. Guess it can happen to the best of us, too.”

Remy wasn’t sure exactly what he was getting at, but he got a sense that it had something to do with the old days.

He chose to ignore the comment, instead asking, “So, what’s it going to be?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Prosper declared with a cocky smile, leaning back in the chair, as if daring Remy to do something.

At one time Remy would have thought his own reaction troublesome, that the often violent angelic nature that he worked so hard to contain was getting stronger, and perhaps even out of control.

But now he looked at it as something that happened when he needed it to.

His wings were out in an instant, launching him over the desk, where he landed atop Prosper, sending them and the chair upon which they struggled backward onto the floor. His hand was around the fallen angel’s throat.

Prosper was trying to scream, but Remy squeezed tightly, refusing to let anything out except a frightened-sounding squeak.

“You want to be a badass, you do it when the world isn’t on the verge of being burned to a cinder.”

Remy allowed a small amount of the divine fire that was so eager to come out into his hand, burning Prosper’s throat. Then he released his grip, and loomed above the choking fallen angel.

“Now are you ready to talk to me?” he asked.

Prosper looked as though he might continue to fight, but appeared to think better of it when he touched the reddened flesh around his throat.

“Good boy,” Remy said. “Tell me everything you know about this.” He pulled the wrinkled photo from his shirt pocket, and tossed it into Prosper’s lap.

The fallen angel picked it up, staring at it. “Cute,” he said with a smirk just begging to be swatted from his face. “Isn’t that how you’re supposed to react to human offspring?” He tossed the photo at Remy with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t know shit about it.”

Remy’s wing suddenly lashed out to savagely smack Prosper’s hand as he drew it back.

The fallen angel cried out, grasping his injured wrist.

“Fucking hell!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Remy said, feigning compassion. “Reflex action toward douche bags. Didn’t even know I was going to do it.”

He smiled. “Tell me about the picture.”

“I told you,” Prosper began again.

Remy advanced, wings fanned out around him threateningly. “If I have to ask again . . .”

Prosper cradled his arm to his chest, eyeing Remy fearfully. Remy was pretty sure that the fallen angel’s wrist had been broken. There was no better an incentive than broken bones.

Remy sensed movement, and turned to see Bobbie darting toward him. He was about to act, lashing out again with his wings, when she avoided him, heading toward Rapture’s owner.

“I’ll get him to talk,” she said, and that was when Remy noticed the short-bladed knife in her hand.

She was at the fallen angel in an instant, pressing the knife to his throat just beneath his chin.

“Enough of your fucking games, Prosper,” she said, her voice trembling, eyes filled with tears. “Tell us what happened to the babies or I will cut your throat.”

Prosper yelped as she pushed upon the blade, a trickle of scarlet running down his neck to stain the collar of his dress shirt.

“You’re fucking done here,” he told her, snarling. “You’re over.”

“I pretty much figured that out as soon as I saw the picture,” she said. “Tell me about the children.”

“Not a hell’uva lot to tell,” Prosper said with a loud swallow. “What had once been nothing more than an accidental by-product of business suddenly was going to make me some money.”

“A by-product!” she screeched, pushing on the blade, forcing Prosper to lean back. “They were our babies—our children—and you told us they were dead.”

“How else were you going to give them up?” he asked. “The fact that lots of them did die gave me the perfect excuse. The babies died in birth. It was sad, but nobody gave it another thought.”

Prosper made his move then, ducking his head beneath the blade and grabbing Bobbie, twisting the knife from her grasp, and bringing it to her chest.

“Another fucking step, any of you, and I’ll open her up,” he warned.

“You’re a fucking monster,” Bobbie said, spitting in the fallen angel’s face. Prosper flinched, but didn’t release her.

“I’ll remember that when this is over,” he told her.

“Since you’ve already started talking,” Remy said, “why don’t you keep it up so we’re all on the same page?”

“Guy came to me out of the blue and said that the kids might be worth something down the line, and I asked him to make me an offer,” Prosper said. “I like a guy with vision, so I started turning the kids over. We kept them safe and sound.”

Remy attempted to find the angle, and could think of only one thing.

“For what?” he asked. “Blackmail?”

Prosper laughed. “Y’know, the blackmail angle was the first thing I thought of, too. But it turned out to be just the tip of the fucking iceberg.”

Remy cocked his head inquisitively.

“This guy had a plan all right,” Prosper continued. “Got to the point where I just did as I was told, and collected the money.”

“Sounds like things were pretty good,” Remy said.

“Yeah,” Prosper agreed. “They were.”

“Until Aszrus got murdered,” Remy said. “Bet that threw a monkey wrench in the works.”

Prosper’s face looked as though somebody had stuck a handful of shit beneath it.

“I fucking told them to watch the kids,” he said, shaking his head. “They were getting weirder.”

His eyes focused specifically on Remy. “You’re kind of the expert on living here,” he said. “It’s got something to do with being teenagers, right? Puberty, is it?”

Remy gave him nothing.

“Aszrus was coming around to Rapture more often, wanting to see them,” Prosper continued. “I think the general was actually getting attached.”

“One of the children did this,” Remy stated. “One of these offspring killed a general in Heaven’s army.”

It was Prosper’s turn not to answer.

“Doesn’t that make you the littlest bit nervous?”

There came the sound of the doorknob rattling, and then a pounding on the door.

“Boss? It’s me!” called a rumbling voice. “We just found Luke and Tony. The prisoners are—”

“They’re in here!” Prosper screamed, and things went from zero to crazy in a matter of seconds.

Malatesta’s magick did very little to hold back the zombies pounding on the other side of the door, and the flimsy wood shattered as the walking dead fought their way inside.

Remy heard the short scream, and looked away from the monstrous dead men to see Bobbie dropping to the floor, an expression of horror on her face as blood streamed from between her fingers, which she clutched to her stomach.

Prosper was already on the move, running to the back of the office. Thinking he had nowhere to go, Remy caught Bobbie as she fell.

“The children,” she said softly. It looked as though she was having a hard time breathing. “You’ve got to do something. . . .”

Remy hadn’t a clue what to do. He lowered her gently to the floor, and decided that handing out a vicious beating to Prosper would be a good start.

But the fallen angel was gone.

Remy stood, eyes darting around the back of the room searching for any sign of the charnel house owner, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Remy!” came a cry from behind him, and he turned to see that the zombies were fully inside the room now, and Malatesta was on the verge of being overwhelmed.

“I could use some help!”

The magick user’s spells were driving the dead men back, but they quickly recovered, surging at Malatesta again.

From the looks of it, Malatesta wasn’t going to last much longer, and besides, Remy had some serious frustration issues at the moment, and could certainly use an opportunity to blow off some steam.

He looked around the room for something that he could use, and saw that Prosper had dropped Bobbie’s knife as he fled. Remy darted toward the blood-stained blade, calling forth his wings and the power of the Seraphim that waited patiently, knowing that in Remy’s line of work these situations often had a tendency to arise.

Knife in hand, Remy took to the air, flying across the room. As he traveled, he willed the fire of Heaven down his arm and into the short, metal blade, transforming it from merely a knife, to a weapon of Heaven.

A short-bladed weapon of Heaven, but a weapon of Heaven nonetheless.

The zombies didn’t know what hit them.

Malatesta had been driven back, and lay atop Prosper’s desk, a shield of magick protecting him from the dead men’s fists that were attempting to pound him into pulp.

Remy landed among them, distracting them from the magick user. He wasted no time lashing out at the first of the animated corpses, the enhanced knife blade passing through the putrid flesh and bone of a zombie’s neck, severing the head from its body.

In one smooth move, Remy kicked that still thrashing body away, and acted upon the next of the undead attackers.

The burning knife-blade crackled as it cut through the air, before reaching its next target. The blade sliced down vertically through the chest, to the belly, allowing the no-longer-functioning internal workings to spill out onto the zombie’s feet and floor.

The look upon the dead man’s face seemed almost comical, as if he were embarrassed to have his innards exposed to the world.

Remy took away his embarrassment as he drove the burning knife into a waiting eye socket, igniting his head in glorious yellow flame. He looked like a jack-o’-lantern. The zombie’s hands immediately went to his burning face, his feet going out from underneath him as he slipped on his own intestines, which were coiled upon the floor.

A rock-hard fist struck with powerful force at the back of Remy’s head, knocking him down. The zombie wasn’t going to wait until Remy recovered, delivering a solid kick to Remy’s midsection and sending him hurtling across the room.

Using his wings, he sprang from where he’d fallen, shaking off the ringing in his ears, replacing it with his own scream of anger as he flung himself at the zombie that now charged at him. Remy smiled as he saw what the zombie was holding: a rusty machete, raised menacingly above his head.

A machete would be much more efficient than a small knife, Remy thought as he collided with the zombie’s rock-solid midsection, the two of them now headed into the wall.

The plaster caved inward with the impact as the zombie, unfazed by the act, attempted to bury the machete blade in Remy’s head. The short sword came down, but Remy captured the animated corpse’s wrist, stopping its descent.

Remy smiled as he willed the fire inside him to climb, soon engulfing the zombie’s hand as it traveled to the machete.

The zombie watched in awe as its appendage crumbled to ash, and Remy found himself with a new, divinely enhanced weapon.

“Nice,” Remy said, admiring the flaming blade just before swinging it across, and cutting the zombie’s head from its body with little resistance.

“And sharp, too.”

There were more zombies spilling in from the hole broken in the office door, and Remy found himself tiring of the pointless battle. There were still important matters involving the safety of the world to be considered. He allowed himself to grow hotter, the divine fire radiating from his body. It was as if the zombies were drawn to it. The walking dead men charged at him with weapons of all kinds, one of them even spraying the office with an assault rifle in an attempt to take him down.

Good luck with that, Remy thought, throwing his burning body amidst them as the machete cut them down to little more than writhing torsos and severed limbs upon the office floor.

“I’m getting tired of this,” Remy announced to Malatesta behind him.

“Any suggestions?” the magick user asked, casting a spell that pushed several zombies away with a deafening clap of displaced air.

Remy waded among the dead men, allowing himself to be surrounded. “Erect a bubble of magick around me and my playmates,” he ordered.

Malatesta looked at him, hesitating.

“Just do it,” Remy urged.

And the sorcerer did, weaving a spell of crackling white energy that encased the Seraphim and the zombies that threatened to bring him down in a sphere of magick.

Remy caught the magick user’s eye and gave him a little nod, before he allowed his body to go completely nova.

It felt good to allow his body to shine as it once had in the presence of the Holy Father—an angel showed its true respect for the Almighty being that had created it by willing its body to glow like one of the stars in the sky.

Then he called the fire back, taking it within his body, allowing his flesh to cool and the human visage that he wore to heal. Since reconciling with his angelic nature, the regeneration process of his human skin and attire was much quicker, and certainly far less painful.

Remy was kneeling amidst piles of ash—all that remained of the animated dead men that had been trying to kill him. He looked toward Malatesta and nodded again, and the Vatican sorcerer opened the bubble of magick with a wave of his hands.

“It was getting stuffy in there,” Remy said offhandedly, returning to a more human guise.

He walked past the open door, giving it a sideways glance. “Think you could maybe shut that for a bit longer?” he asked Malatesta.

Again the magick user did what was asked of him, using a spell of reassembly to make the door whole.

“What are we doing?” Malatesta asked. “Don’t you think it would be wise to get out of here?”

Remy passed Bobbie as he strode to the back of the room where Prosper had disappeared. She was most certainly dead, and he made a silent promise to her that Prosper would be held accountable.

“He just disappeared,” Remy said as the magick user joined him. “One minute he was here, and the next . . . gone.” He searched for a sign of a secret door or passage that would have allowed the club owner to escape. “I can’t see anything,” he said, his frustration mounting.

Malatesta was running his hands along the wall as well, his eyes tightly closed. “It isn’t supposed to be seen,” he explained.

Remy looked over to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sensing the use of magick here,” Malatesta said. “Powerful stuff.”

“What kind of magick?” Remy wanted to know, feeling himself growing excited.

“A spell of passage,” Malatesta replied.

He opened his eyes and looked to Remy. The magick user still looked sick, and Remy couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

He quickly brushed it aside; there would be time for that when the threat of war wasn’t breathing down their necks.

“Can you find the opening?” Remy asked.

Malatesta sighed, closing his eyes again. “I get a sense, but I don’t have a key.”

“Pick the lock,” Remy suggested.

Malatesta looked at him.

“Pick the lock?”

“Yeah, if you call yourself a powerful sorcerer, pick the lock.”

The man seemed flustered, stepping away from the wall.

“You don’t understand what I’ve just been through,” he said. “It’s taking everything I have to keep it together . . . to keep what’s inside me from—”

“Which won’t matter at all if Heaven and Hell turn the planet into a battleground,” Remy finished.

Malatesta glared at him for a few moments as Remy’s words appeared to sink in.

“I’m not saying I can do this,” he finally said.

“Sure you can,” Remy urged. “I’ve got faith in you.”

The magick user extended his arms, fingers splayed. He closed his eyes, and Remy watched as his expression turned to one of exertion and strain.

“Anything?” he asked, impatiently.

“Shut up,” Malatesta commanded.

Remy continued to watch as a sheen of sweat broke out on the man’s brow and upper lip.

“I’m not sure how much longer . . . ,” Malatesta said, his voice shaking with exertion.

Remy could hear scuffling from the hall outside the office and doubted that they had much time before the next assault wave started.

“I don’t know if you can hear that but . . .”

“Shut up!” Malatesta cried again, his hands moving in the air as if he were untying some huge, invisible knot.

The man suddenly went rigid, air exploding from his lungs as if punched.

“Constantin?” Remy questioned.

Malatesta was standing perfectly straight now, head bowed, hands by his sides.

“You all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” said a voice that Remy recognized as belonging to the spirit entity. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Remy wasn’t sure exactly how to react, and found himself simply watching as the possessed man again worked his hands in the air, sparks of magickal energy leaving glowing trails as they moved with incredible speed.

And then he stopped, taking a step backward with an enormous grin on his face.

There was pounding now on the office door behind them.

Remy glanced at it, then returned his attention to the possessed Malatesta. “Well?” he asked the evil spirit, again in control of its host.

“What do you think?” the Larva asked, still grinning.

The air before them was shimmering ever so slightly; images of another place were briefly visible on the other side.

The dark entity extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to pass through.

“You first,” he said, grabbing Malatesta by the shoulders, pushing him into the passage.

Malatesta was gone from the office, and from what Remy could see, had made it to the other side without any mishaps.

The pounding on the door was growing more insistent, and cracks began to appear in the wood. It wouldn’t be long now.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dove into the magickal passage toward the unknown, as the door crumbled behind him.

• • •

The demon Beleeze was worried.

Something was happening on the island. If he’d been braver he would have approached his master Simeon and told him that they should just find a safe place.

If he were braver.

The normally horrible weather on the Pacific island was suddenly worse, crackling bolts of a strange energy reaching up from somewhere within the ruins of the mining city to entice the storm’s fury. The clouds grew darker, heavier, dropping closer to the rooftops, as the rain continued to fall in drenching sheets.

Beleeze watched his master standing at the end of the street, gazing up curiously at the odd atmospheric conditions.

He sensed a presence move closer and glanced over to see that Dorian had come to join him. He was tempted to place his arm around her shoulder in comfort, but he restrained himself. That was not behavior befitting a demon of his stature.

“What is he doing?” Dorian asked very quietly.

Beleeze was surprised that she had even uttered the words, but could certainly relate to her curiosity.

“It is not my place to ask,” he answered, just as quietly.

Robert, who had once been called Tjernobog, paced back and forth, muttering beneath his breath. It was obvious that he could sense it as well.

Something was happening.

There came a terrific boom of thunder, so loud that it caused what little glass remained in a nearby building to shatter, falling to the street with the rain.

Beleeze advanced partway down the street, in case his master needed him, but Simeon appeared safe—for now.

The sky had become like night, the energy shooting up from the street beyond and striking the clouds, illuminating them eerily.

It was within that illumination that he saw them: human figures flying up into the storm, to be lost among the clouds.

“It’s what I was afraid of,” Simeon said, finally turning away from the view of the sky to look at Beleeze. “The murder of one’s sire. It must have been a catalyst of sorts.”

Simeon strode past the demon, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Now change is upon them.”

Beleeze followed, as Simeon continued to speak.

“And they are becoming so much more than anyone could have ever dreamed.”

Beleeze practically crashed into his master’s back as Simeon came to an abrupt stop.

“A threat to one and all,” he said.

And as if in response to his master’s words, the sky shook, and just barely audible over the roar of thunder, Beleeze thought he heard the sound of laughter.

“A danger to both Heaven, and Hell,” his master said.

Of that, the demon Beleeze had no doubt.