Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gareth had been crying nonstop for at least a day.

Left alone to think about what he had done, the young man could only huddle in the corner of the concrete bedroom and pour out his emotions to the shadows.

When his keepers had learned of his transgression, there was hell to pay, and he had been banished to his room.

He pulled his legs up closer to his chest; a whiff of body odor mixed with that of drying blood wafted up to tease his senses, and to remind him of the act he’d committed.

The hate had always been a constant companion; it was with him when he awoke every morning and when he closed his eyes at night. It was the only thing he could truly count on in his troubled life, and he was certain that his brothers and sisters felt the same. Hate gave them the strength—the power—to survive in a world that wished to see them dead.

Gareth’s mind wandered back to the moment that had filled him with such distress. He hadn’t been told who the large man with the booming voice was, but when he saw him, Gareth knew.

The hate told him.

And the hate that Gareth never dreamed could grow any stronger did just that, and it took everything he had not to lose control of it.

He wanted to tell somebody about the man, and had considered bringing it up to one of his brothers or sisters, but he wasn’t supposed to have been at the house. He was supposed to stay on the island with the others like him—with his siblings—but since he’d learned his special trick, he hadn’t been limited to the island anymore.

Gareth was the eldest, and he briefly wondered if the others would soon be able to come and go as they pleased as well.

But don’t let Prosper know.

Prosper ran the house, and also took care of him and his siblings on the island. Prosper was also a mean son of a bitch.

He said they all owed him their lives, and that was probably true—but it wasn’t like their lives were worth anything anyway. From the youngest of ages they had been told how worthless they were, how they had been cast away like so much garbage, and that only Prosper gave two shits about them.

But that was about all he gave. Two shits.

Gareth had finally managed to calm the hate down to a dull roar, and had never said anything about the man to anyone.

But then the man who made Gareth’s hate sing had come to them. Had come to the island.

It was Prosper who had brought him, and Gareth could see that Prosper was nervous in the man’s presence. As if he was afraid; but that wasn’t possible, was it? There was only one other person that Prosper was afraid of, and he didn’t come around all that often.

Just every now and again to make sure that Prosper wasn’t screwing up.

Prosper had taken the man who stirred Gareth’s hate to the building that he used as his dwelling when he visited the island.

Gareth distinctly remembered how he had felt when he’d seen the man again: how he had wanted to follow Prosper, how he had felt as though he might rip out of his skin, revealing somebody completely different than he currently was—somebody forged from the fires of pure hate. But he had held back, knowing that it wouldn’t have been wise for any of them to interfere with Prosper’s business.

Soon after, Gareth and his brothers and sisters were summoned to Prosper’s dwelling. The others were excited; attention from Prosper, whether good or bad, was something to look forward to.

They didn’t know who this man was—what this man was. But Gareth did. And since he’d seen this man, his temper had grown, and he’d spent more time torturing the island rats before eventually killing them.

He had changed with the sight of this man, and he wondered if his brothers and sisters would be affected as well.

Wedged deep into the corner of his room, awash in the stink of himself, Gareth relived the experience.

Those who kept watch over them, the walking dead men, had herded them all into a line, marching them single file into the broken-down concrete building that served as Prosper’s home. The others giggled and shared nervous glances. They thought that something big was going to happen, something important, and in hindsight, maybe they were right.

Gareth was the oldest, and the others looked to him as they marched toward their destination, their furtive gazes desperate for answers. But he revealed nothing, for they had to see for themselves.

Their own hate had to show them—tell them.

They entered Prosper’s dwelling. It was so much nicer than the squalor in which they lived. As they lined up in the front room, Gareth could hear Prosper and his guest talking in the next room, the man demanding to know why he had been brought to such a forsaken place.

Gareth remembered what Prosper had said.

“Just you wait and see.”

The wind outside Gareth’s room howled, and he could hear the incessant patter of rain against the building. It was like the hate inside him, raging against the confines that kept it locked away.

Gareth didn’t want to remember anymore, but the memory was crystal clear in his mind, and would be, he was certain, for what remained of his life.

A door at the far end of Prosper’s front room opened with a sharp click, followed by the whine of hinges rusted by the heavy, moisture-filled air of the island. Prosper led the guest into the room with a guiding hand, although he seemed careful not to touch him.

Gareth could not look away from the man, as if his stare would tell the man who he was. . . .

Who they all were.

Then an odd sensation filled the stale, damp air of Prosper’s quarters. Gareth managed to tear his gaze from the powerful figure that stood before them, and looked toward his brothers and sisters.

Their hate . . . their hate was coming alive as his had.

They knew this man as well—this powerfully built, finely clothed figure that looked at them with dripping contempt.

Their hate knew him, as Gareth’s did.

And the air around them began to crackle with a power both awful, and awesome.

What soon followed was why Gareth was here, alone in his room. Even in the darkness he could see the blood on his clothing. He lifted his trembling hands and stared at the dried gore of his brutal act. His hands remembered what they had done, and shared with him the memory.

For the briefest of times, the hate had been replaced by something else. Hope? Was it hope? Gareth wasn’t sure, but the hate was quickly back again as he learned what the man wanted of them.

What he wanted to make them.

Gareth would not stand for it.

The ripping and tearing, the screams of pain and anger, and hate so much greater than it had ever been before. The hate had changed him. . . .

The hate and the blood had transformed him, and given him the special talent to change the others.

And he would do just that, if he was to survive what was to come.

If he was to survive his punishment.

Gareth was suddenly distracted by the sound of someone approaching his room. He figured it was time. Perhaps he would finally leave this life, but he was all right with that.

For he would leave satisfied, covered in the blood of the one who had abandoned him, one of those who had cast him and his siblings aside as if they were filth.

Covered in the blood of his father.

The door opened with a creak and a figure silently entered the room. Gareth had seen this man before. This was the man that Prosper feared, the one who came from time to time to check up on Prosper.

The man casually looked at him before turning around, finding the chair, and sitting down across from him.

He said nothing, staring at Gareth, who gazed back, not sure what he should be doing.

Finally Gareth could stand it no longer.

“Who—,” he began, his voice sounding dry and old, perhaps changed by his act.

“Simeon,” the man said. “My name is Simeon.”

He crossed his legs, and looked at Gareth even more intently, tilting his head to one side. He played with a ring on his finger.

“And your name is Gareth.”

Gareth nodded slowly.

“You have created quite a problem for me, Gareth,” Simeon said, turning the ring round and round.

“So, how are we going to make things right?”

Remy and Francis appeared in the foyer of Aszrus’ Newport home. They were in the midst of conversation.

“If there are any clues to the whereabouts of this charnel house, they’ll probably be in here somewhere,” Remy said as he folded his wings, already on the move toward the study.

“Are you sure about me being here?” Francis asked, attempting to keep up.

Remy was just about to tell his friend that he was certain everything would be fine when a blast of divine fire flashed by his face, striking Francis and sending him hurtling backward, engulfed in the flames of Heaven.

Spinning toward the source, Remy released his wings again, hurling himself at this latest seemingly endless array of adversaries. He was shocked to see that it was Montagin.

The angel had shed his fussy, human form and appeared as Remy remembered him during the Great War, adorned in shining armor and mail of silver, his wings a black-flecked white, a burning sword in his hand.

“Montagin!” Remy raged, pulling back to flutter before the angel. “What do you think . . . ?”

“How dare you bring him here!” Montagin screamed. “Do you not know who he serves, Seraphim?” He flapped his powerful wings, swaying from side to side. “Have you brought him here to kill us as well?”

Is that slurring? Remy wondered, instantly convinced that it was. The angel, Montagin, was drunk.

Great.

“That’s about enough of that,” Remy warned, advancing toward the inebriated creature of Heaven.

Montagin flew backward, slamming into the wall and a table that held an expensive-looking pitcher and chamber pot. The table crashed to the floor, the pot and pitcher shattering upon impact.

“Perhaps you’ve allied yourself with him,” Montagin considered. He started to raise his sword. “Perhaps you’ve weighed your options and believe that siding with the Morningstar would be more beneficial to your pathetic human existence upon this forsaken mud ball that you—”

Remy lunged at the angel and grabbed hold of his wrist.

“You dare!” Montagin raged, attempting to pull his hand free.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Remy said, bending the angel’s wrist in such a way that he could easily have snapped the bone.

Montagin continued to struggle, but it was useless, and Remy drove his fist into the angel’s drunken face. Montagin’s head snapped back, arms and wings flailing as he dropped to the hallway floor.

“How dare you!” the angel roared again, scrabbling for the sword that he had dropped.

“Stay down,” Remy commanded, his stare intense and piercing.

Montagin must have sobered up just a tad with the warning, for he stayed where he was.

Remy turned his back on the angel, and rushed down the corridor to where his friend lay. He was glad to see that the divine fires had been extinguished, but Francis’ entire body was now covered in what looked to be a thick membrane of solidified darkness.

The package of shadow writhed upon the floor, and a razor-thin knife blade suddenly pierced the fabric of night from the inside out, slicing downward. Francis, looking none the worse for wear, crawled out from the incision.

“Okay,” Remy said cautiously, not sure of what he was seeing.

“I know,” Francis replied. “Pretty fucking cool, isn’t it?”

His eyes traveled down the hall to Montagin who leaned against the wall, armored legs splayed out in front of him.

“What’s up with him?” Francis asked.

“He’s drunk,” Remy responded with supreme annoyance. “So drunk that he’s forgotten that he can shrug off the effects of the alcohol with just a thought.”

“That is drunk,” Francis agreed with a slow nod.

Remy started down the hall again. “Montagin,” he called.

The angel’s head was leaned back against the plaster wall, eyes closed. The effects of Remy’s blow were still evident around the angel’s mouth.

“Are you going to hit me again?” Montagin asked. “Or maybe you’ll slay me just like you did all those others during the war.”

Remy had heard enough. He reached down and grabbed hold of the angel’s armored chest-plate, pulling him to his feet. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Do you seriously think getting soused is what we need right now?”

“What’s the use,” the angel groused, his voice still slurring. “They’ve already been here . . . and it’s only a matter of time before they come back and then—”

“Who?” Remy demanded, giving the angel a violent shake.

“Aszrus’ subordinates. They were looking for him but . . .”

Malatesta came around the corner at the end of the hall then, his hands glowing with magickal power.

Francis, Pitiless pistol in hand, reacted with the speed of thought, and aimed.

“Not necessary, Francis,” Remy said. “He’s on our side.”

“Who is he?” Francis asked, hesitating a moment, before lowering the gun’s barrel.

“Works for the Vatican.”

Francis let out a loud laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

“Is everything all right?” Malatesta asked. The power in his hands receded as he took the magick back into himself.

“Everything’s just fucking ducky,” Remy said, annoyed to no end with the entire situation.

“He saved us . . . for now,” Montagin said, looking toward the magick user.

“Do I dare ask?” Remy questioned Malatesta.

“The angels showed up and were demanding to see Aszrus,” he explained. “So I showed them Aszrus.”

“Glamour spell?”

Malatesta nodded. “Yes, and it worked.”

“Nice,” Remy replied. “That’ll buy us some time—not a helluva lot, but enough to put some things together.”

Montagin began to laugh.

“Did I miss something?” Remy released his hold on the angel.

“It’s all quite comical,” Montagin said. “Here we are scrambling to hold on to a secret, and you’ve brought someone who could very well be responsible for the murder right into our midst.” He looked to Francis with a snarl. “I know what you are, Guardian,” Montagin spat. “And I know what your master has done.”

Francis reached into his pocket, and Remy prepared to respond, but his friend simply removed a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and placed it in his mouth.

“Why don’t you fill me in?” Francis suggested, lighting the smoke with a lighter.

“There’s no smoking in here,” Montagin snapped.

Francis ignored him, taking a huge draft, and blowing a cloud of smoke in the angel’s direction.

Montagin pushed off from the wall threateningly, and Remy pushed him back.

“There will be no more of that,” he told him. “I trust Francis with my life.”

Montagin looked at him incredulously.

“If he says that he or the Morningstar aren’t involved, I believe him.”

“The prince of lies, and you believe him?” Montagin asked with a disgruntled shake of his head. “Why did I ever bother coming to you for help?”

“Maybe it was my low-interest payment plan,” Remy suggested sarcastically.

“Good one,” Francis chuckled, still sucking on the end of his smoke.

“I don’t need any more help from you,” Remy told him, and the fallen angel shrugged.

“And what will we do when the angels return?” Montagin asked. “Another glamour perhaps?”

“You could have a drink,” Francis offered.

Remy gave him the hairiest of eyeballs.

“Go ahead and joke,” Montagin said. “We’ll see how funny it is when full-scale war is declared between Heaven and your master.”

Remy knew that Montagin was right. The angels would definitely return for their general, and Malatesta’s magick would only work for so long.

“We have to move him,” Remy said, thinking out loud.

“Who are we moving?” Francis asked.

“Aszrus. We need to move his body so there’s nothing for them to find when they return.”

“Move the body?” Montagin repeated.

“Do you have a better idea?” Remy asked.

The angel remained quiet.

“Do you have any suggestions as to where we put him?” Malatesta asked. “Perhaps the Vatican could assist.”

“No, that’s all right,” Remy said, the gears turning inside his head. He cast his glance at Francis.

“What?” Francis asked. “Why . . . ?”

And then the expression on the former Guardian’s face told Remy that Francis understood what he was thinking.

“I see,” he said thoughtfully.

“What?” Montagin asked. “What do you see?”

Francis finished the last of his cigarette, squeezing the flame from its tip before slipping the remains into the pocket of his suit coat.

“I’ve got a place.”

Remy looked at Montagin and Malatesta.

“He does,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

They’d been tearing the room apart for hours, but hadn’t found a thing.

“I’ve always wanted to see this,” Francis said, holding up a DVD case for the film Forest Hump.

“You’re not helping,” Remy said.

“And you have no appreciation for fine cinema,” Francis added, tossing the case aside and continuing to rummage through the stacks of magazines littering the floor.

Remy leaned back against the chair and again surveyed the room around him.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, feeling his frustration rise. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

“Nope,” Francis agreed, as he flipped through some magazines. “But I’m thinking we’ll know it once we see it—at least I hope that’s the case.”

Remy’s eyes drifted over areas that he’d already inspected numerous times, searching for something he might have missed. Then he noticed that Aszrus’ drug box had been returned to the table beside the recliner; Remy dropped his gaze to where Marley had swept it to the floor.

And that was where he saw it: a small corner of white sticking out from beneath the chair.

Remy bent down, pulling the item from where it had slid. It was a photograph—a Polaroid—and it showed a baby, probably a few months old. There was the impression of a thumbprint on the corner of the picture, where it had started to burn from being held.

“What do you have there?” Francis asked. He had found a beer in the dormitory refrigerator and had helped himself.

“I have no idea,” Remy answered, staring at the picture of the baby.

Francis took the picture as he drank from the bottle of beer.

“Cute kid,” the former Guardian angel said. “What’s it got to do with Aszrus?”

“I have no idea,” Remy said again, taking the picture back.

“You say that a lot.”

“Seems to be the go-to response for this case.”

“Think the one who brought you up here originally might know something?” Francis asked, having some more of his beer.

“Marley?”

“Yeah.”

“It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Marley had retired to her room on the far side of the mansion. Remy and Francis found their way to it, knocked on the door, and waited.

“Come in, Mr. Chandler,” Marley called out.

Remy opened the door to find her sitting in a chair by the open window, the room rich with the scent of the sea. He could see by the way she craned her neck and positioned her head that she was reading his angelic aura.

“Oh, and you’ve brought a friend.”

“Yes,” Remy said as Francis entered behind him. “His name is Francis.”

“Hello, Francis,” Marley said. She had been reading the Bible and closed it as they entered. “You’re an interesting one,” she added, her blind eyes fixed upon where Francis was standing. “You’re dangerous, aren’t you, Francis?”

“And these are dangerous times, Marley,” Francis replied.

“Yes, I suppose they are,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if there’s anything else about Aszrus that you haven’t told me,” Remy suggested.

Marley smiled. “Like what, Mr. Chandler?”

“Secret things, Marley,” he said. “Things like his room that he might have kept from the others but may have shared with you.”

The servant gazed directly ahead, blankly.

“I’m afraid I have nothing more,” she said.

“I found a photograph,” Remy told her. He took it from his pocket, staring at it once again.

Marley smiled. “The master had many photographs,” she said. “Often of things he most desired.”

“The picture was of a baby,” Remy told her.

“Perhaps he was thinking of acquiring one in the near future,” the woman said.

“Like a pet?” Francis asked.

Marley moved her head from one side to the other. “Some treat their pets as if they were children,” Marley observed.

“So you don’t know of anything else that might be useful to us,” Remy said.

“I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Chandler,” Marley confirmed.

Remy noticed that her hand went to her throat, where the flesh had become blotchy, as if she was suddenly nervous.

“Are you sure, Marley?” Remy stressed.

He stepped closer, and watched her become all the more anxious.

Francis seemed to sense it as well. “You’re holding something back, Marley,” he said, his voice suddenly cold. He reached down, brushing the top of her hand with his fingertips.

She gasped, and pulled her hand away.

“Where there is warmth in the others, you are incredibly cold,” she stated. “There’s something missing in you.”

“You’re right,” Francis agreed. “I’ve fallen, so the grace of God has been missing in me for quite some time.” He moved closer to the woman, allowing her a better sense of his presence. “And you know what?”

He leaned in close, his mouth mere inches from her ear.

“I don’t miss it one little bit.”

Marley began to tremble.

“Francis,” Remy started, not fully comfortable with his friend’s tactics.

But the former Guardian held up a finger.

“What are you hiding from us, Marley?” Francis continued.

“I told you,” she said. Her teeth were chattering as if the room had become incredibly cold. “I don’t . . .”

Francis leaned in closer. Her body was trembling even more violently as her hand continued to fumble about her throat.

“It’s nothing. He . . . he gave it to me before he stopped loving us,” she said, her voice shaking, not with cold but with emotion.

“What did he give you, Marley?” Remy asked, motioning for Francis to step back, which he did.

“I was only to wear it in his presence, but . . .” Marley reached into her blouse and withdrew a gold chain; a black key dangled at the end of it.

“A key,” Remy stated. “He gave you a key?”

She nodded vigorously. “He said that when I wore it, I would be his special one,” she said, tears leaking from her blind eyes.

Francis fingered the key about the woman’s neck.

“This isn’t just a normal key,” he said. “I can feel the magick in it.”

“What’s the key to, Marley?” Remy asked.

She shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know,” she said, as if finding it difficult to catch her breath.

“Marley, please,” Remy insisted. “This could be extremely important.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Chandler,” she said, flustered. “I was only to wear it when I was with him, but I so yearned to be his special one all the time.”

Francis gave the chain a quick yank, breaking it. Marley let out a pathetic scream and leaned forward, attempting to retrieve her prized possession with flailing hands.

“Catch,” Francis said, tossing it to him.

Remy caught the key one-handed and felt it almost immediately—an electric shock as the special magick contained within the black metal reacted to contact with him.

And Marley reacted as well, going completely rigid in her seat.

“Do you see this?” Francis asked, observing the stiffened woman.

“Yeah,” Remy said, noticing something else. He moved closer to the woman. A blackened hole had appeared in the base of her throat.

“That’s new,” Francis said. He reached down, ready to put his finger inside the hole.

“Do you mind?” Remy asked.

“What?” Francis replied.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that my contact with the key caused a hole to appear in this woman’s throat?”

“Coincidence?” Francis questioned with his typical wise-ass smirk.

Remy stepped closer to the woman. “Here goes nothing,” he said, carefully inserting the key into the fleshy hole.

He felt it immediately as something took hold of the key inside the woman’s throat. He felt compelled to turn it. To unlock something.

The woman shuddered, and looked as though she was about to gag.

“Now you’ve done it,” Francis said, stepping back just in case she was going to hurl.

Marley didn’t hurl. An expression came over her face as though the woman who they had just been talking with had left, replaced by another being entirely.

“Greetings,” she said in a masculine voice, a grin stretching her face from ear to ear. “How nice to hear from you so soon. Would you care to learn where Rapture will be manifesting itself next?”

“Yes,” Remy stated.

“Excellent,” replied the voice. “You are in luck. Rapture will be in your area tonight.”

“I can’t believe this,” Francis said. “This is some sort of prerecorded message about where the charnel house is going to appear.”

“Shhh,” Remy said, listening as the voice gave the location and address where the charnel house, called Rapture, would next appear.

“We look forward to again meeting your every, special need,” said the voice, before going silent.

Marley’s face went slack.

Remy reached for the key, pulling it quickly from the hole as the strange orifice began to gradually heal, appearing as little more than a red blotch in a matter of seconds.

Marley swooned, and he thought she might tumble from her chair.

“Give it back!” she screeched, completely recovered but appearing to have no idea what had just occurred.

Remy pulled back so that she could not take it. “Marley, I . . . ,” he began, but she wasn’t interested in anything more that he might have to say.

“I’m going to need to take this with me and . . .”

“I think you should both leave,” she said, slowly rocking in her chair, her clenched fist held close to her heart.

“Certainly,” Remy said, gesturing for Francis to head toward the door. “I’ll return the key to you just as soon as . . .”

“I want nothing from you,” she snarled. “Go.”

And having finally found what they had been searching for, Remy and Francis did just that.

Respecting the woman’s wishes.