Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Remy emerged from the building to confront the gang of children who had been left there to guard him and the others. Malatesta and Prosper followed him, propping each other up.

The children leapt to their feet and advanced menacingly toward them, but Remy held his ground.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he said, infusing his voice with the power of Heaven. It boomed, echoing powerfully in the chasms created by the abandoned buildings around them.

“Then you should go back inside,” a teenage boy said, the air around his body shimmering as if with incredible heat.

Remy shook his head. “I’m not going to do that. If I did, I couldn’t help you.”

“You’re going to help us?” the flying girl who’d hit him with one of her fireballs asked with a smirk. “Who said we wanted your help?” She hovered a few feet off the ground, and Remy could see the beginnings of fireballs coalesce in the palms of her hands.

“You’re all in incredible danger,” Remy tried to explain. “There are forces out there, in the world, that will see what you are—what you can do—as an enormous threat.”

The children looked at one another.

“You’re talking about the angels, aren’t you?” the girl who floated in the air asked him. “The angels responsible for us being born.”

Remy nodded. “Yes.”

“And what you are.”

He nodded again.

“And what about you?” asked another voice.

Remy looked over to see the older boy, Gareth, strolling down the street toward them.

“Are you afraid of us?”

Remy knew that he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t take the chance.

“Yeah,” he replied. “At least I was.”

Gareth laughed boisterously. “You should be.”

He looked to the children, who laughed along with him.

“But I’m not anymore,” Remy added.

Another boy pushed through the crowd and slowly stepped toward Remy, the flesh of his hands transformed into two blades of solid bone.

“I’d say that’s a big mistake,” he said, slashing at the air.

Remy was ready to defend himself, but was hoping that he wouldn’t have to.

“Stop,” Gareth commanded.

The boy did as he was told, and turned toward his leader.

“Get back,” Gareth said, motioning for the young man to return to the crowd.

The boy hesitated, and Remy saw the potential for a challenge, but then he returned to the group of children, his hands morphing back to normal.

“So you say you’re not afraid of us anymore,” Gareth stated. The son of Aszrus moved closer. “Why is that?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Remy said. “I still think you’re extremely dangerous, and in need of some serious guidance, but a little while ago I saw the good that you’re capable of.”

Remy’s eyes found the little boy who had weakened the demonic spirit that had been attempting to take over Malatesta, but did not single him out, just in case there were repercussions.

“Good?” Gareth questioned. “You saw good?”

He strode toward Remy, stopping with his face mere inches from the angel’s. Remy could feel the raw power emanating from the youth, and wondered at the extent of the teen’s might.

“Do you see any good in me?” he asked, defiantly.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Remy said softly, so that only Gareth could hear. “And I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Gareth backed down slightly, but Remy could see the frustration that burned in his eyes.

“What makes you so different from the rest?”

“Let’s just say I left their company a long time ago and leave it at that,” Remy explained. “But I still understand them well enough to know what they’ll do when they find out that something like you—all of you—exists.”

“We’ll fight them,” Gareth said angrily.

“And you’ll die,” Remy told him as a matter of fact.

“If that’s the way it has to be . . .” Gareth’s voice trailed off. “We’re all supposed to be dead anyway.”

“But it doesn’t have to be like that,” Remy said. “You could live.”

Gareth turned away, walking back to the gathering of children. He could see the anticipation on their faces, eagerly awaiting their leader’s orders to take him down.

Remy continued to stand his ground, hoping Gareth was smarter than that.

“Do you know how much I wanted him to like—to love—me?” Gareth asked.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, another storm on its way to the island.

Remy remained silent.

“At first, when I realized what he was—who he was—all I wanted to do was kill him,” Gareth said through gritted teeth. “But then something started to change inside of me and I realized the connection.”

He stepped toward Remy again.

“I realized that I was part of something . . . someone. . . . I wasn’t alone—we weren’t alone. And for a moment . . . a very brief moment . . . I thought that we were going to be accepted . . . that we were going to be part of a family.”

Remy could hear the pain in the young man’s voice and see the turmoil in his eyes. The poor kid just didn’t understand the kind of creatures he was dealing with.

“But I was no more important to him than a really sharp knife, or a sword. He—they—were going to use us as weapons, to fight some sort of war they suspect is coming.”

Gareth clenched his fists by his sides, and Remy suddenly felt the atmosphere around him begin to change, charged with a power the likes of which he was certain he’d never experienced before. And as if somehow picking up on the power he was broadcasting, the children behind him allowed their own new abilities to jump to life.

“They wanted weapons,” Gareth stated. “Then so be it.”

“They’ll kill each and every one of you without a second thought,” Remy stated flatly.

It looked as though Gareth was going to continue to rouse the crowd, but his speech was cut short by another voice.

“I don’t want to die,” said a small voice from within the gathering, and Remy watched as the little boy who had weakened the demon inside Malatesta pushed his way through the crowd, stopping before his leader.

“I don’t want to die,” he told Gareth again.

“You might not have a choice.”

“But he says we don’t have to.” The child pointed at Remy.

And before Gareth could reply, Remy jumped in. “That’s true. With his help,” he pointed to Malatesta. “We could take you from the island to somewhere you’d be safe and cared for.”

Remy glanced over to the sorcerer.

“The people who raised me—taught me—could do the same for you,” Malatesta said, taking his cue.

“Personally, I think it’s a whole lot better than dying,” Remy added.

Gareth looked as though he was about to reiterate his defiance, when the child spoke again.

“We did just get our gifts,” he said, holding his dirty hands up before his face. “It would be pretty sad for them to go away when we died.”

Gareth looked out over the crowd of children. It wasn’t hard to see that they were looking for some sort of guidance, and would follow whatever he decided.

The teen glanced back at Remy, and the angel could see there was still a struggle going on behind his eyes.

“What do we have to do?” he finally asked, forcing the words from his mouth.

Patriarch Adolfi lay beneath the covers in a restless slumber.

As one of the leaders of the Keepers, he was made privy to more than any man should know, the unnatural just as much a part of his day-to-day as the normal.

Of late the unnatural was all he knew, for the fate of the world was dangling precariously at the edge of the abyss.

Tonight, as he had during many recent nights, the old priest dreamed of the end of the world. He saw the planet’s greatest cities crumble, its citizenry swept up in waves of fire, and above it all God’s winged messengers waged war with nary a thought for the innocent dying in the streets below.

Above the clashing swords of fire that rained hungry sparks down upon Earth and its inhabitants, who cowered in fear, Adolfi saw the shape of Heaven in all its glory.

And then he saw it was in ruin.

The old man awoke with a gasp, clutching his pillow in the dark and realizing that he had been crying. The images of the Celestial City floating dead in the sky above a dying world filled him with such terror and sadness.

The patriarch knew that it would be impossible to sleep anymore, and pushed himself up into a sitting position—to find that he was not alone.

Adolfi gasped, throwing his frail body back against the heavy oaken headboard, a cry poised upon his lips.

“Good morning, Adolfi,” the intruder said calmly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The intruder sat in the patriarch’s favorite reading chair, beside the window that looked out onto the garden. Three others, who wore the shadows of the room like cloaks, stood to the side and behind the chair.

It was then that Adolfi realized that he knew this one, although it had been many, many years since last he’d seen him.

“Is it you?” the priest asked, his voice old and brittle.

“Yes,” the stranger replied. “It’s me.”

He stood, and silently glided across the room, stopping at the foot of Adolfi’s bed. The patriarch stared in awe at the man with the pale, almost translucent flesh, and thick black hair.

He hadn’t aged a day.

“Simeon?”

The man smiled. “I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel that you remember.”

“But how? You look no older than the last time we . . .”

“Ah yes, the good old days,” Simeon spoke wistfully. “Perhaps later there will be time to reminisce, but now . . .”

Simeon gripped the wooden footboard and leaned forward, a look of urgency on his face.

“If the world is to survive, I need you to make some calls.”

• • •

Another storm had found the island of Gunkanjima. But it did not deter Remy and his party as they headed for the passage that would take them back to Rapture.

Remy and Malatesta supported the injured Prosper, while the children eagerly swarmed around them, excited for what was about to happen.

Excited for their future.

“Are we close?” Remy asked Prosper.

The fallen angel grunted once, and the group stopped. Remy and Malatesta released the fallen angel and he swayed for a moment in the falling rain.

Then Prosper lifted a hand, his fingers bloody, some oddly twisted. He began to draw shapes in the air before him, shapes that suddenly came to glowing life, as the space before him began to shimmer.

Prosper turned his bloodied face to Remy.

“It’s done,” he said through split and swollen lips. “Now where does that leave me?”

Remy looked at him. “I don’t think I’m following.”

“You don’t need me anymore,” Prosper said. “So where does that leave me?” The fallen angel’s eyes were darting from Remy to Malatesta, and then to the excited children milling about.

“We’re taking you back to Rapture,” Remy told him. “And maybe somebody there will take care of your sorry ass.”

Prosper’s stare was intense.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Remy stared back with equal intensity before answering.

“No,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now than offing you.”

The children were eyeing the fallen angel hungrily.

“If I wanted to be a real son of a bitch I’d leave you here with the kids,” he said. “Let them show you how much they appreciate the life you’ve given them so far.”

Prosper refused to look at them, hanging his head.

Gareth joined them, standing beside Remy.

“Are you sure this is the way?” he asked.

“It’s the only thing I’ve got,” Remy replied.

The air was filled with the hissing of the storm.

“And you think that’s right?” Gareth asked. “That we should remain alive?”

“I do,” Remy told him, hoping that what he was about to attempt would bring some semblance of peace and normalcy to these sad, pathetic creatures that were the product of divine lust.

With that said, Gareth turned, and walked away.

“Will you be back soon?” asked the little boy who had pushed Malatesta’s demon deeper.

“Soon as we can,” Remy reassured him.

“Will it be raining all the time where we’re going?” the child asked.

“I bet it’s going to be sunny a lot of the time there,” Remy told the boy. “If that’s all right,” he added.

The boy nodded vigorously, and Remy reached out to ruffle his rain-soaked head.

Malatesta was holding Prosper up by the arm.

“Ready?” the sorcerer asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Remy answered.

Malatesta began to help Prosper through the passage, but Remy paused for a moment to give the children one final wave.

He caught sight of Gareth in the distance, watching with dark eyes filled with fear of what was to come.

A fear of the fate that might befall them all.

• • •

Morgan was sipping a pear martini and pretending that she gave a shit about her latest john’s confession that he’d been responsible for at least two of the murders credited to Jack the Ripper, when she noticed the security staff moving en masse down the corridor toward Prosper’s office.

She and the rest of the girls had been pretty much left in the dark not only as to the fate that had befallen their boss, but also what had really happened to the children they believed had died at birth.

She excused herself with a smile, and followed the walking dead men down the corridor. As she suspected, the door to Prosper’s office was wide-open, and a strange humming sound that made her inner ear itch was coming from inside.

Security was on full alert, but she managed to maneuver herself through their obstructing bulk into Prosper’s office. The air at the back of the room had begun to shimmer and blur, finally spitting out an all too familiar shape.

Prosper fell through the fluctuating passage to land on his knees in his office. He looked like someone had taken a hammer to him, and for a moment, Morgan was tempted to go to the angel.

But then she remembered what he had done to Bobbie, and what he had kept from them.

Prosper knelt for a moment, before falling forward to all fours. The passage behind him shimmered and blurred some more, before another shape emerged that Morgan recognized as the guy who’d been disguised as Aszrus. And then the angel Remiel stepped through behind him.

Morgan was pushed aside as the zombie security team surged forward.

“Stop!” Prosper croaked. “They’re with me.”

The zombies nearly fell over one another as they froze in their tracks. It was then that Morgan caught the angel’s eye, and she couldn’t help but feel a smile begin to tease at her lips.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone we could use, would you?” Remy asked.

And she found herself reaching into the pocket of the silk jacket she wore to give the angel what he asked for.

• • •

Patriarch Adolfi could not stop staring at the man called Simeon. It had been at least thirty years since last they’d met, and the man didn’t appear to have aged a day.

“How—,” Adolfi began, only to have Simeon interrupt.

“There’s no time for that now, Patriarch,” Simeon said, raising the china cup to his mouth for a sip of coffee. “There are other more pressing matters.”

Patriarch Adolfi reached for his own steaming beverage, trying to keep his ancient hands from trembling, but not having much luck.

“The jet will be fueled and waiting for us within the hour,” Adolfi said.

“And when we reach Tokyo?”

“A helicopter will take us to the island.”

“Very good,” Simeon said, and the three figures that stayed in the shadows in the far corner of the room shifted.

“Are you certain that your . . . people . . . would not care for some refreshments?” Adolfi asked.

“They are not people, and merely being in the presence of one such as yourself is probably filling them with an overwhelming revulsion,” Simeon snapped. “No offense, but I think it best they stay where they are.”

The patriarch silently agreed, continuing the uncomfortable wait for the call that Simeon promised would be coming. The call that would summon them to duty.

The cell phone on the cherrywood table beside the patriarch’s chair began to play the beginning strains of Tocatta in D minor, and he quickly picked it up.

“There we are,” Simeon said, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Hello?” The patriarch listened to the voice on the other end with increasing interest.

“Why yes, Constantin,” he said, looking to Simeon. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

• • •

Francis wasn’t about to leave with his tail tucked between his legs; he wouldn’t allow himself, given the pain he was still feeling as a result of his questioning—torture.

He had some questions to ask Michael, and might even have a few for Dardariel, in between tearing off his wings and shoving them up his ass.

They climbed the dusty stone steps up from the bowels of the ancient prison. He was surprised that the others had all agreed to join him, albeit some begrudgingly, but they were still here.

Francis suspected their decision had more to do with them not feeling comfortable traveling the shadow paths with Squire, and less to do with wanting to have his back, but whatever the reason, they were there.

Always good to have more bodies at your back, he thought, imagining the fight that might soon ensue.

Francis thought of Remy, wondering if he had met with success. He couldn’t imagine that the Seraphim hadn’t, but then again there was always the chance—

Voices from the landing interrupted his thoughts, and he paused on the stairs.

“Are you sure about this?” Squire asked from beside him. “There’s a nice patch of shadow we can crawl through at the bottom of the steps.”

Francis glanced back to the others. “What do you think?”

Montagin still looked as though he had a stick shoved up his butt, but he held out his hand and called forth a pretty funky-looking sword that could probably do some serious damage. “Does this answer your question?” he asked.

Heath, whose lips looked as though he’d been intimate with the tailpipe of an eighteen-wheeler, extended his fingers and gave them a little wiggle. He said something that Francis couldn’t quite make out because it sounded like the sorcerer had a mouthful of marbles, but he guessed that Heath was staying.

“All right,” Squire said with a shrug. He reached into a pocket of his tool belt and produced two short-bladed knives that he held tightly in both pudgy hands. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

Seeing the others with weapons made Francis realize how naked he was. He closed his eyes and envisioned the Pitiless pistol and the scalpel-like blade taken from the dead hand of one of the architects of creation. He missed his weapons, his deadly friends.

“How much longer do you plan on skulking there upon the staircase?” asked a voice he recognized as belonging to the Archangel Michael.

Francis glanced to the others, seeing the beginnings of panic in their eyes as he climbed the rest of the way to the landing. So much for surprise.

He was met at the top of the stairs by the angel Dardariel, and immediately tensed. But Dardariel just stood there, holding out his hands to present Francis with the most unexpected of things.

In one palm rested his knife, and in the other the Pitiless pistol.

At first Francis thought it was some sort of joke, but he sensed from the weapons themselves that they were the real deal, and were anxious to be back in his possession.

He took them, first the knife and then the gun.

“I haven’t forgotten about our little conversation downstairs,” Francis said, dropping the knife into his pocket. He hefted the pistol. It felt good in his hand, which suggested to him that he was spending a little bit too much time with the gun.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t enough.

“Of course not,” Dardariel said, and gestured for them to follow. “They’re waiting for you on the roof.”

Francis looked to the others.

“Who is waiting?” Montagin asked.

Squire and Heath shrugged.

“Only one way to find out,” Francis said. He continued down the corridor, following Dardariel up another small flight of stone steps that led onto the prison rooftop.

He really had no idea what to expect. A catered lunch would have been nice, but he was completely taken aback by the sight that awaited him.

It was a gathering of angels.

Everywhere he looked stood a soldier of Heaven, and as Francis emerged onto the rooftop, every eye turned to him. The Pitiless grew warm in his hand, excited by the prospect of violence, but Francis knew it would be hopeless.

Sure, he could take a bunch of the peacocks down, but eventually one of them would reach him, and that would be all she wrote.

Still, not a single weapon of fire was called upon. The angels simply stood and stared, as if waiting for something.

“Ah, there you are,” the Archangel Michael said, moving away from the crowd. “Now we can go.”

Montagin was standing beside Francis, and the former Guardian could sense Heath and Squire at his back. They all seemed just as confused as he was.

“Go where?” Francis asked.

“There has been a cessation of hostilities,” the Archangel stated as he spread his wings.

All the other angels opened their wings as well.

“A conference has been called.”

Angel soldiers appeared behind Francis and his group. They were incredibly close—close enough to take them inside their winged embrace, and transport them away.

“And we must answer the summons.”