Walking In the Midst of Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In an area of the island that had once been set aside for the children of miners, was a park, now overgrown with a thick, tall grass that bent in the artificial winds created by the Chinook helicopter as it slowly descended from a darkening sky.

The copter touched down, back end pointed toward Remy and the collected children. There was a high-pitched whine of hydraulics, and the back of the large craft began to open; a loading ramp slowly lowered to the weed-covered lot.

Malatesta left the gathering, running across the grassy expanse toward the helicopter, shielding his eyes from the debris kicked up by the craft’s slowing rotor blades.

“Am I going in that?”

Remy looked down at the child who had temporarily repressed the sorcerer’s demon. He’d learned that the boy’s name was Apple, because he liked apples. “Yeah,” he said. “You all are. It’s going to take you to your new home.”

Remy was watching Malatesta standing before the loading ramp, waiting for his superior, when he felt the tiny hand find its way into his. He glanced back at Apple to see him staring up at him, a smile that was almost blinding on his dirty features.

“Thank you,” the little boy said, and all Remy could do was smile back, and give his small hand a gentle squeeze of assurance.

An old man, dressed in a black cassock, a golden crucifix about his neck, carefully descended from the loading ramp. He extended his hand toward Malatesta, who bowed his head and kissed the man’s ring.

The two talked as the rotors spun above them, and Malatesta briefly looked back in Remy’s direction. The sorcerer’s body language seemed to be trying to tell him something.

“Are we leaving now?” Apple asked, hand still in Remy’s.

“Not quite yet,” Remy said as several other men, also dressed in the robes of their faith, began to exit the belly of the mighty Chinook and spread out.

The angel let go of the boy’s hand, and walked toward them. Malatesta turned and Remy caught sight of the look on his face. Immediately he knew they were in trouble.

The Keepers acted as one, suddenly raising their hands and uttering an ancient spell in some long-forgotten language. The atmosphere became instantly charged with unnatural energy, calling forth another storm.

“What’s going on?” Remy demanded, still heading for Malatesta.

The Vatican sorcerer extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to stop. The old man standing beside him glared at the angel, and Remy saw a glimmer of something he’d seen long ago in the eyes of their church’s leader—the cold detachment of an act of betrayal.

The magickal force erupting from the hands of the Keepers wove a canopy over their heads, an undulating dome of supernatural energies hovering above the overgrown playground.

Remy stopped cold, as the magick turned the gray sky to a blood red.

How appropriate.

His wings came on reflex, and the fires of Heaven raced from where they churned in his chest to pool in his hands. But he had no opportunity to act, for Malatesta’s magick lashed out like the tail of a whip, wrapping itself around his neck as he attempted to take to the sky. The power coursing through him was overwhelming. He struggled to flap his mighty wings, but they were no longer in sync, and floundering he dropped to the ground, the tendril of humming magick still wrapped about his throat.

Remy dug his fingers beneath the band of preternatural force, desperately trying to rip it from his neck, but it seared his fingers, leaching away his strength even as he fought.

“I’m sorry Remy,” he heard Malatesta say, realizing that the sorcerer was controlling the leash of magickal energy that was attempting to strangle him. “For the good of us all it must be this way.”

Remy thrashed upon the ground, turning toward the children. The Keepers had used their spells to corral the children, and they cried out in surprise—and fear.

Another group of Vatican agents had separated the mothers from their children, moving them away, toward the transport chopper.

“What are you doing?” Remy managed, his voice rough and full of rage.

The old priest from the chopper walked over to stand above Remy. “Calm yourself, soldier of Heaven,” he said.

“I’m nobody’s soldier,” Remy rasped. “What are you doing to those kids?”

The priest closed his old, watery eyes. “The appearance of innocence is deceiving.”

“What are you talking about?” Remy fought to stand, his wings beating the wet ground as he struggled to his feet.

The priest stepped back.

“They are not as they appear,” he said. “And they must be dealt with before . . .”

An icy claw gripped at Remy’s chest.

“What do you mean dealt with?” he demanded. “What are you thinking of . . .”

“To keep peace and strengthen the covenant,” the old man continued. “Decisive action must be taken.” He turned and walked away.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Remy screamed. “What are you going to do? Keep the peace between who? Tell me!”

The old priest stopped, and turned ever so slightly.

“Without our intervention, there would be war,” he said. “The threat to this fragile peace must be eliminated; the truce must remain strong.”

The horror of the situation suddenly sank in. The children were being offered up as a sacrifice to prevent two opposing factions from going to war.

“Please,” Remy begged the old man. “There has to be another way. . . . They’re just kids; they have no idea of what—”

“It is not for me to decide their fate,” the priest announced, looking past Remy as there came the crashing of thunder and flashes of lightning followed by what he knew at once to be the flapping of wings.

So many wings.

Two groups of angels appeared, one on each side of the dilapidated playground—one side representing God’s Heaven, the other Lucifer Morningstar’s Hell.

And between them both cowered the frightened children brought into the world through no choice of their own.

Malatesta and the old priest walked toward the gatherings, dragging Remy behind them by sorcerous tether.

“Who shall speak for Heaven and who shall speak for Hell?” the priest asked the two sides.

“You can’t let this happen,” Remy cried out to Malatesta.

The sorcerer continued to stare straight ahead, as the representatives from each side came forth. “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “It’s all too big, and there’s far too much at stake.”

Remy was about to argue, but his eyes were drawn to the powerful form of the Archangel Michael as he approached the priest.

The warrior angel was clad in his armaments of war, a fiery spear clutched in one hand as he came to tower before the ancient priest.

“I stand for Heaven,” the Archangel announced.

The priest bowed, then looked toward the other angelic crowd.

“And who shall stand for Hell?” he asked.

There was silence among their numbers, and Remy watched for a sign of the one who would take on the mantle.

There was a sudden commotion at the far back of the gathering, and a figure began moving through the ominous-looking shapes clad in the heavy armor of war. The angels of Hell moved aside as their delegate stepped forward.

Remy felt his knees give out as the figure left the crowd to stand before the priest.

“I guess I am,” Francis said, his gaze briefly landing upon Remy before quickly fixing on the priest.

“I suppose I’m representing Hell.”

Castle Hallow

1349

The angel Remiel’s rage was matched in size only by the level of the Pope’s betrayal.

Tyranus had used sorceries ancient and powerful, imbued within a ring of silver, to bend the angel to his commands. Only by clutching its sister ring to his armored breast had Remiel seen the truth of the situation.

“How dare you?” the Seraphim roared.

“Now, now,” the Pope fretted. “Remember it is God’s work that I do here upon this world and—”

“Blasphemer!” Remiel shouted. “This ring has shown me your true colors!” The angel shook his divine fist.

Pope Tyranus did not back away, fixing Remiel in an icy stare.

“You will do as I have commanded,” he stated. “You will hand over the ring at once.”

The magick of the Pope’s ring pulled at the angel, ancient magicks once bestowed upon Solomon by powers greater than any here on Earth, moving to influence him. Though the sister ring helped him to see things more clearly, it did not completely block the ring’s influence over creatures of the divine.

Remiel struggled against the Holy Father’s command, waves of excruciating pain traveling through his form as he fought to hold on to control.

But the ring was too strong.

Remiel watched as his arm seemed to lift of its own accord, his hand extending toward the Pontiff.

“That’s right,” the Pope hissed. “For the sake of the world, the power over the demonic and the divine shall be controlled by one.”

Just the idea of such strength being given to one person—this vile person before him—filled the Seraphim with a blinding rage, and he resumed his fight for control over his actions.

“You will not have it!” Remiel proclaimed, igniting his fist so it glowed like the molten core of Earth, forcing Tyranus and his soldiers to step back.

“It is only a matter of time, soldier of Heaven,” the Pope said calmly. “Only a matter of time before you succumb to a power greater than you.”

Remiel knew that the holy man was right, but it did not prevent him from trying.

From the corner of his eye, peering out from the darkness of the castle’s many passages, he saw the eyes of the demonic, twinkling there—watching his struggle.

The angel thought of them, thought of their number, and how they had served the necromancer and felt the ring writhe within his clutches. Without realizing what he had done, the demons came forth, called by the angel’s silent command.

It was the most excruciating thing he had ever experienced, the very essence of his being touched by the coldest fingers of purest darkness.

But the demons responded to his fury.

Pope Tyranus seemed taken aback. “How fascinating,” the holy man said, playing with the ring upon his finger. “You’re actually fighting my commands.”

Remiel was bent over in agony.

The demons encircled him, chattering, spitting, and hissing, and he saw in their multitude of eyes an intelligence—an awareness that told him they were as repulsed by his control of their actions as he was of being in control.

The Pope drew nearer, only to leap back as the demons lunged.

“Give it to me,” he commanded once more.

Remiel squeezed the ring all the firmer as the demons tightened their circle, as if protecting him.

“You would die to defy me?” Pope Tyranus asked.

Remiel lifted his head to fix the holy man in his gaze. “I defy you, and all that you stand for,” he proclaimed. “Power such as this does not belong in the hands of one.”

“You are wrong,” the Pope declared. “Only I am strong enough to prevent the world from plunging into chaos.”

Tyranus stepped closer, hiking up his priestly robes to squat before Remiel. He held out his hand.

“The ring,” he demanded.

Remiel could feel himself dying, the darkness of possessing the second of Solomon’s rings surging through his body like a poison. Eyes affixed to the ground, he watched in horror as feathers dropped from his wings like leaves from a dying tree. His flesh was turning gray, and the heat of the fire at his breast was dwindling; all this because of the ring he held in his fist.

The demons drew closer, like a freezing person drawn to the heat of a fire.

He didn’t want to look, but his eyes were pulled upward as if attached to invisible strings. He stared at the Pope’s beckoning hand—compelling him to surrender what he believed to be rightfully his.

But even though he was dying, Remiel could not do it.

“It won’t be long now,” the Pope cajoled. “Your flesh will wither. The divine spark will be extinguished, leaving behind the remains of a once-holy creation determined to keep something of great power from its predetermined owner.”

Remy lifted his face toward Pope Tyranus. The demons were snuggled even closer now, as if stealing away his life force.

“Last chance,” the Pope said, bringing his beckoning hand all the closer.

It took almost all the strength that Remiel had remaining not to do as the Pope instructed him, but the sight of something—someone—moving from the darkness behind the holy man was more than enough of a distraction to hold on.

The Pope did not see that Hallow’s servant, the young man who swore to see Heaven in ruins someday, was coming up behind the unsuspecting Pontiff.

Remiel lifted his shriveled hand. He could see genuine excitement in the Pope’s eyes, believing he was about to receive what he most desired in all the world.

“Here, give it to me,” the servant demanded.

Tyranus turned toward the voice, a feral snarl more demonic than divine escaping his lips as Remiel did the unthinkable.

Summoning all that he had left to give, he lifted his arm, opening his creaking fingers to release the ring.

It was as if time had become transformed by alchemy into some form of viscous liquid, the ring of Solomon slowly tumbling through the air toward its new owner.

The necromancer’s servant lunged, fingers splayed, before closing upon the prize. Pope Tyranus leapt as well, colliding with the man and sending them both sprawling to the floor of the castle.

Remiel lay upon the stone floor, still surrounded by the demonic creatures. He was dying, and all he could contribute was to lay there as the spectacle unfolded before his failing sight.

The Pope and Hallow’s servant desperately struggled for the ring. There was a sudden cry of elation and the servant raised his scuffed and bloody hand—adorned with the silver sigil ring of Solomon.

The one that controlled the demonic.

Remiel’s eyes fell heavily shut, but he could still hear the servant’s commands to the demonic hordes assembled there.

“Take him, and be sure that he suffers.”

And in the darkness, all the Seraphim could hear were screams.

Of terror and elation.

The holy and the wicked.

One no easier to discern than the other.

The sky above the island of Gunkanjima raged, as if offended by the heinous acts going on below it. Rain pelted the magickal barrier erected by the Keepers, hissing and sputtering like grease in a frying pan.

Remy could only watch as it all unfolded. He’d thought the Vatican would be the children’s savior, that the Keepers would protect the innocent offspring of angels and Nephilim.

But he had been wrong—so very, very wrong. The Keepers had come, not as saviors, but as conciliators to prevent the breakout of war, to mediate a truce between two warring sides.

With the innocents trapped somewhere in the middle.

“Before you are the creatures responsible for the most heinous of acts,” the old priest began. He gestured toward the children tightly corralled in another sphere of crackling magickal force.

Some stared defiantly, while others wailed in terror.

Remy wanted to go to them, to tell them that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that it wasn’t. Things couldn’t have been any worse. Again he tried to remove the magickal leash entwined about his neck, but he’d only grown weaker since the last attempt, and it hurt him all the more.

“A patriarch of Heaven was murdered,” the priest announced. “His life brutally stolen from him.”

The Keeper first looked to his left, at those gathered under the banner of Hell, and then to the right, and those representing Heaven.

“Suspicions were inflamed, and two mighty forces grew closer to conflict.”

The Heavens roared in the thrall of the storm, almost as if something—someone—was giving their two cents, but Remy knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. Be they God, or monster, neither could watch the travesty going on before them now and not be forced to act.

But it was allowed to continue.

“Heaven and Hell were at the brink, and an unsuspecting world slumbered between them, unaware of the dangers they would soon face.”

The old man slowly turned, presenting Remy with a flourish.

“But there was one, a being once of Heaven, who now walks the Earth, living among God’s sheep, who would see the destructive potential of the murderous act and seek to quell the growing fires of discord.

Remy struggled to stand, but all it did was make him cry out.

“Stay down,” Malatesta hissed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

Francis, the Archangel Michael, and all the other angelic were staring at Remy as the Keeper continued his pitch.

“This one saw that it was not the act of one side against the other, but another force at work—a force that sought to ignite a war.”

Against his better judgment, Remy let his opinion be heard.

“That isn’t true!”

And he suffered for it.

The tendril of magick around his neck became tighter, sending pulsing waves of agony into his body. He fell to the ground again, where he grunted and thrashed in the throes of pain.

“Seduced by the visage of innocence . . . ,” the old priest continued.

“Not true?” the Archangel Michael asked, interrupting the old priest’s roll. The soldier of Heaven clutched his flaming staff all the tighter as he turned his full attention to the Seraphim that twitched pathetically on the ground before him. “Tell us of this lie.”

Remy’s eyes darted to Malatesta, still holding the other end of the magickal leash.

Michael then looked to the Keeper. “I wish him to speak.”

The Keeper nodded, and Remy felt the hold upon him begin to loosen. He surged up to his feet, wings flapping powerfully, and considered his few options.

“The actions of these children were not premeditated,” Remy began. “They didn’t sit around on this cesspool of an island planning ways to turn the armies of Heaven and Hell against each other.” He paused for a moment. “And if you believe that they did, you’re just being fucking stupid,” he finished.

A shock wave went through the crowd—barely perceptible, but it was there. He had their attention.

“Look at them,” Remy said, motioning toward the children. “They’re just kids, scared kids with no knowledge of the heritage they were carrying inside them.”

The Archangel’s gaze grew more intense, like a hawk zeroing in on a rabbit hiding just beneath a bush. Remy wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. After all, what did he have to lose?

“The offspring of angel and Nephilim,” he continued. “Who even thought that was possible?”

Remy watched the crowd, not sure what he hoped to see, but seeing nothing.

“I think you should leave them alone,” he finished. “Let the Vatican look out for them . . . teach them, like they said they would.”

Remy fixed the Keeper in a bruising stare. He would remember this one, and the Keeper would remember him.

“But the act of murder has been committed,” the old man stated. “And the balance must be restored in order to keep peace.”

Francis was staring intently at Remy, but he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Remy had suspected Francis’ new allegiance, but never realized it would go to this extreme.

Instead, he focused on the gatherings of angels and stated simply, “I believe the murder was justified.”

Multiple gasps went through the crowd of those serving Heaven, while those serving Hell seemed strangely amused.

Michael puffed out his chest, his wings slowly flapping, fanning the fires of his rage.

“You speak blasphemy, Seraphim,” he growled.

“No,” Remy stated. “I speak the truth.”

He caught a glimpse of Francis, the look upon the former Guardian angel’s face saying, What the fuck are you up to now, Chandler?

It was a good question, and one Remy hoped he had an answer for.

“General Aszrus was father to at least one of these children,” Remy explained. “He was also the one to begin to see their potential.”

“Potential,” Michael repeated. “In what way would—”

“He wanted to use them as weapons,” Remy interrupted.

The legions of Hell immediately perked up.

Michael tensed, advancing toward Remy. The old Keeper stepped between them, reaching out a hand to stop the archangel.

“Explain yourself, Seraphim,” the Keeper stated.

“I was about to,” Remy said. “These children were born different . . . very different, with special abilities hidden inside them just waiting to blossom. Aszrus saw that in some of these children, and foresaw their use in a potential conflict.”

“This is insanity,” the Archangel Michael scoffed. “If the general was planning something like that, I would have known.”

“Just like his assistant would have known?” Remy suggested. “Somebody who spent countless hours by his side?”

“Of course,” the Archangel agreed.

Remy searched the crowd for Montagin, hoping that he was there, and finding him on the periphery of the Army of Heaven; Squire and Heath were also present beside him.

“Did you know of this, Montagin?” Remy asked.

“I knew nothing of what you speak,” the angel said, under the watchful eyes of everyone there. “The General was quite adept at keeping secrets.”

Remy nodded, giving Montagin a wink of thanks. “Our general was beyond adept, as evidenced by them.” The Seraphim directed their attention back to the children huddled in the bubble of crackling, supernatural energy.

“You speak of Aszrus’ nefarious plans,” the Archangel stated. “Of how these poor creatures were to be used as weaponry in a war that does not even exist.”

“Yet,” Remy stated. “C’mon, Mike, don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

The Keeper looked annoyed at Remy’s comment. “Where is your proof?” he demanded. “You talk of the general’s plans, but with him murdered . . .”

There was a commotion in the distance, and Remy saw Gareth step forward, close to the magickal barrier.

“I am that proof,” the young man stated. “I killed my father for what he wanted to turn me, and my brothers and sisters, into.”

Remy began to move toward the children, but a wave of debilitating magickal energy coursed through his body, bending him over at the waist. He could feel Malatesta’s eyes on him again, warning him to stay in his place.

The Archangel strode toward the corral.

“It was you?” the angel warrior asked. “You were the one to slay the general?”

“Yes, I killed my father,” Gareth admitted.

Michael paced before the young man, cold, black eyes unwavering. “Look at you,” the angel pronounced. “How could something so . . . small, be a danger to beings such as us.” The Archangel looked to the gathering of angels.

“We are not a danger,” Gareth announced. “All we want is a chance to exist like everybody else.”

“But you are a danger, boy,” Michael stated. “You killed one of the most respected of the Lord God’s generals.”

“I did it in defense of my brothers and sisters,” Gareth said. “We want to live, but not as things . . . not as weapons.”

Michael stared at the boy, but Remy could see that the Archangel was seeing much more. He strode back to the gathering.

“I have seen enough,” the Archangel announced.

The old Keeper bowed, turning his attention to Francis.

“And have you, spokesman of Hell?” he asked.

Francis seemed taken aback by the title. “Yeah,” he said, glancing briefly at Remy. “I think I’ve got it.”

Remy then noticed the Pitiless pistol had appeared in his friend’s hand, and a sick feeling began to churn in the pit of his stomach.

“We have been presented with the facts,” the Keeper announced. “And in these facts we have found what is to be considered the truth.” He considered both sides, from left to right. “And this truth has halted the escalation of war.”

The Keeper priest folded his hands before him, turning his attention to the children.

“And now, the question remains: What is to be done with this truth?”

Thunder above the island boomed as if for dramatic effect. Remy looked first to Michael, who studied Gareth and the children huddled behind him with an unwavering eye, then to Francis, who held the golden pistol up to his ear, as if on the phone, receiving a call from a higher authority.

It was Gareth who decided the moment.

“I offer myself up for the crime I committed,” the boy announced in a voice heard above the hissing of the rain. “I was responsible for the act that led to this, so it is I who must pay the price.”

“Gareth, no,” Remy called out.

“Silence!” the Keeper commanded.

Remy felt the tendril of magick again grow tighter against the flesh of his throat.

“The guilty has offered himself up as sacrifice for his sin,” the Keeper proclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “How say you all?”

“It’s good,” Francis said, lowering the gun from his ear.

Michael nodded as well. “I accept this.”

“Bring the guilty forward,” the Keeper announced, motioning for two other sorcerers to bring the boy from the corral.

One created an opening in the enclosure, while the other stood ready to act. But there was nothing to be done, as Gareth calmly left the others, putting their fears at ease with a reassuring glance.

Something’s not right, Remy thought. Where was the fighter? The one who was going to strike against those who had abandoned them at birth.

No, something didn’t feel right at all.

“Halt!” the old priest’s voice boomed, and the youth did as he was told.

“Restrain him,” the Keeper ordered, and tendrils of magickal energy similar to the ones that held Remy wrapped around Gareth, making him cry out.

“The guilty is now ready to receive punishment,” the Keeper proclaimed to all in attendance.

Remy could now hear the other children crying out, calling their brother’s name in pitiful sobs. And the storm continued to grow more intense over the island.

“Come forward.” The priest motioned at Francis and the Archangel Michael.

Francis moved as Michael did, but the former Guardian turned to look at Remy. Remy had seen that look before, and it chilled him to the bone, for it was a look that said it was nothing personal, just part of the cost of doing business.

It still felt wrong to Remy. He could feel something invisible, yet dangerous, gradually building up, just waiting to explode.

The women from Rapture began to cry out, but were held back by the Keeper sorcerers. The old priest looked in their direction, annoyance on his wizened face, before returning his full attention to the guilty before him.

“Do you have anything to say before judgment is passed?” he asked Gareth.

Gareth slowly raised his head, and Remy thought he saw a flash of something in his eyes. He tensed, ready for anything, but nothing happened.

“Only that I am not sorry, but accept this punishment to absolve my brothers and sisters of any wrongdoing.” He lowered his head and fell silent.

“Is there anything that either of you wish to say?” the priest asked.

“Nothing personal,” Francis said, cocking the weapon forged with the power of the Morningstar.

Michael clutched his flaming spear in both hands, its tip turning white-hot. “I speak for the Almighty when I say that you are nothing more than a mistake,” the Archangel said. “And you are to be erased.” And with those biting words, the angel raised his spear.

“So be it,” the Keeper said, stepping away from the youth. “Let the punishment fall.”

Remy held his breath as Francis extended his arm and took aim, and Michael drew back his spear and brought the fiery point down.

Both weapons delivered their payload at exactly the same moment, the report of a single gunshot emanating from within an explosion of blinding light.

Remy looked away instinctively, but then forced himself to look into the diminishing brilliance. Francis and Michael stood over the prostrate form of Gareth, his punishment delivered, his penance done.

The old man returned solemnly to inspect the body. A fine, gray smoke now drifted up from the young man’s clothing.

“I believe we are done here,” the Keeper announced, addressing both sides. There were children’s mournful cries in the background, accompanied by shrieking winds and rumbles of thunder that sounded like the approach of a mighty army on horseback.

And Remy still felt that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Francis had turned from the body, the golden pistol sliding back inside the waist of his pants, when the Archangel spoke.

His voice was like the blast of a trumpet. “We are not yet done.”

The angel spread his wings and leapt into the air, landing before the corral and the young within. A sword of crackling fire appeared in his hand, and he directed its point at the frightened children.

“We are not done, until they are no more.”

Remy knew at once what the Archangel was up to.

“No,” he screamed, not as man, but as a Seraphim, his own voice projecting across the island. “The boy made a deal for the safety of his brothers and sisters.”

Michael turned his attentions back to Remy, now a fearful visage of God’s wrath.

“And that compact will now be broken,” Michael spoke with grim finality. “For there will always be a danger to Heaven . . . Hell . . . and the Earth itself if these creatures are to live.”

The children began to panic, pushing against the magickal bands that kept them captive. The spell of containment bit back, painfully repelling those who tested the strength of the bonds.

“They should not be,” Michael proclaimed. “They are freaks of nature . . . abominations, and a harsh reminder that we were not ever meant to be part of this mortal world.”

Michael looked directly at Remy, and the Seraphim stared back defiantly.

“So, because of your weakness, innocent lives will be taken,” Remy said.

Michael did not respond, but Remy was sure that he’d heard him. The Archangel looked to the children again, cowering behind a fence of magickal force.

“Nobody likes to be reminded of their imperfections,” the Archangel spoke. “And every time I look at them . . .”

Michael quickly turned away, his mind made up.

“Put them down,” he commanded, striding toward his soldiers. As he walked he looked toward Lucifer’s men. “Feel free to join us if you care; they could be as much your problem as ours.”

Remy watched helplessly as the nightmare continued.

Angels of Heaven and Hell setting themselves upon the captive children. The Keepers dropped the magickal barriers to let the slaughterers in.

It was more than Remy could stand to see, but he felt compelled to watch, to see it all in every grisly detail.

To remember every horrible thing.

The children tried to fight back, to use their newly given abilities, but against the combined armies of Heaven and Hell, there was very little they could do.

It was bad enough that he felt compelled to watch, but to hear their cries was even worse. Again Remy fought against the magick that restrained him, but only managed to cause himself more pain.

Maybe it was some sort of safety mechanism: If he caused himself enough pain he would be rendered unconscious, and then he would no longer see them dying, or hear their pitiful cries.

But oblivion chose not to come for him, and he was forced to witness the atrocities as they unfolded.

Remy managed to rip his gaze away momentarily to see that Malatesta had turned his back to the carnage.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he cried, reaching up to yank upon the tendril of magickal energy entwined around his neck.

The sorcerer stumbled forward. “Please, Remy,” he begged. “It’s for the better.”

“Turn around,” Remy screamed, his anger beyond measure. “Turn around and see what’s happening . . . then tell me it’s for the better.”

He suddenly realized that the screaming had stopped, and found this even more disturbing, for it meant the act was done. There was nothing more he could do.

He watched the shapes of angels flying in circles above the mound of dead, like carrion birds. The bodies were burning, thick oily smoke snaking up to collect against the magickal barrier that still covered the old playground. The storm had subsided, the patter of rain and the faint roll of thunder now a ways off in the distance.

“Release him,” Remy heard Michael command, and turned toward the Archangel who now stood before him.

“Is there something you wish to say, angel?” Michael asked.

Remy’s thoughts raced, but he could not find the words. There had always been a part of him that believed someday he would return to where he had begun, that the deep psychological wounds he’d received during the Great War would eventually fade, and that he would be able to go back to the joy he remembered in the presence of God.

But now he saw that the poison he’d first recognized during the war had continued to flow through the veins of Paradise, killing what he had known, and making it impossible for him to ever return.

“It’s a sad day,” Remy managed, something suddenly missing inside of him.

The Archangel looked toward the smoking pyre. “Think of it as an act of mercy,” he said. “Something released from its suffering.”

Remy could only stare in horror at the being from Heaven.

“Come now, Remiel,” the Archangel spoke. “Do you seriously believe there was a place for creatures such as they?”

Remy’s gaze fell upon the pyre. He could just about make out the shapes of things that had once been alive, now reduced to smoke, charred bone, and ash.

“I used to think there was,” he said, remembering a time that was gone now, never to return. “But now . . .”

He walked away from the angel, not wanting to be in the presence of something so foul. He watched as two of Hell’s soldiers swooped down from the sky, each grabbing one of Gareth’s ankles, hauling his corpse toward the still-burning mound comprised of his brothers and sisters.

“I had no idea,” said a familiar voice.

Remy didn’t want to talk to him, but Francis forced the issue.

“I didn’t even know where we were going, and suddenly I’m here and being told that I’m representing.”

“I promised them that they’d be safe,” Remy said, trying to keep his anger in check.

“I had no idea what I would be doing,” Francis said again.

Remy turned to stare at his friend.

“But you did it,” he said, eyes dropping to the golden pistol shoved in the waist of his pants.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Francis said. “Part of the deal I made. He says jump, and I ask how high.”

“Exactly how high can you jump, Francis?” Remy asked.

Francis touched the butt of his weapon.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” the former Guardian angel said, walking away, heading back into the abandoned mining city of Gunkanjima.

The roar of the transport Chinook’s engines filled the air, and Remy watched as Malatesta walked behind the old Keeper and the other sorcerers, up into the belly of the craft, as the loading platform began to rise behind them.

Their work here is done, Remy thought, wondering what the next atrocity they would preside over would be.

He watched as the helicopter lifted off from the ground, but he was distracted by the angels who still flew above the island city now that the magickal barrier had fallen.

One by one Remy watched as they disappeared, not sure if they were legions of Heaven, or Hell.

And finding that he didn’t really care. They were all the same to him now.

The Archangel Michael remained, standing beside the still-blazing pyre. Spreading his wings, he pushed off from the ground to hover aloft, above the site of the massacre.

“You might consider leaving now,” the angel Montagin said, walking past Remy.

Squire, Heath, and the mothers of the slain children were with him. Remy could feel the pain of the mothers as they passed, and wanted to tell them how sorry he was, but knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear another word from the likes of him.

He looked back to the sky, and to the Archangel that still hung there. There seemed to be something forming around him, a whirlwind of flame.

“What’s he doing?” Remy asked Montagin.

“He needs to be sure,” the angel said.

“Sure of what?”

“That there isn’t any trace of them remaining. That they’re all dead.”

The flames around the Archangel were growing, swirling, creating a vortex of divine fire that had begun to reach down to the island below.

“Are you coming?” Montagin asked.

Remy looked over to see that the angel and the women were waiting, Squire having opened a passage in the shadow thrown by the shell of a concrete storage shed.

“C’mon, Remy,” Squire said. “Ain’t nothing good gonna come from you sticking around here.”

Remy looked back to the sky. An enormous tail of writhing fire snaked down from the body of the whirlpool to spear the ground where the bodies of the children smoldered.

“Go on,” Remy told them. “I think I need to see this.”

He could hear the hobgoblin begin to protest, but Remy ignored him, shedding his human visage as he walked in the midst of fire.

He didn’t know why he wanted to stay, but he felt that he should, to show in some way how sorry he was that this had happened.

The fire swirled around him with hurricane force, and he watched as the buildings that had stood upon the island since it was a coal-mining facility and prison camp began to crumble and were soon scoured from the earth.

“I knew that he would betray me,” said a voice beside him within the fire.

Remy turned in disbelief to see the forms of Gareth and the children, standing there, untouched by the Archangel’s cleansing fires.

“But I’d hoped that he wouldn’t,” Gareth said.

“Are you real?” Remy asked, knowing how stupid the question was, but still needing to know.

“Yeah,” Gareth replied.

“Are you ghosts?”

The young man shook his head. “They really didn’t kill me; I just made them all think that they did. . . . I wanted to see if the angel would keep his part of the bargain.”

“He didn’t,” Remy said. “And come to think of it, neither did I.”

“What are you talking about?” Gareth asked.

“I promised to keep you safe,” Remy said.

The boy shrugged, the fire swirling around him and the kids, but doing no damage.

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

He shrugged again. “It was more than most did for us.”

The air became full of flying pieces of concrete and other debris that were eventually reduced to powder by the intensity of Michael’s divine maelstrom.

“So you’re not ghosts,” Remy said. “And you’re all fine?”

“The kids are a little spooked, but they’ll be all right.”

“You did this?” Remy asked. “You made the angels think that they slaughtered you and the children?”

“Yeah,” Gareth said. “Give them what they want and they’ll leave you alone.”

“You can’t ever let them know that you’re still alive,” Remy stressed.

“That’s the intention,” Gareth answered.

“Good,” Remy said as the fires of Heaven swirled around them. “Any idea where you’ll go?”

“No,” Gareth answered. “But I’m sure we’ll know when we find it.”

The firestorm appeared to be dying, the island city of Gunkanjima leveled to the scorched and now-barren ground.

“You should get out of here,” Remy stated as the fires died down. “Wouldn’t want all your efforts to go to waste.”

Gareth moved closer to the children.

“You’re not like the others, are you?”

Remy shook his head. “No . . . no, I’m not.” Now more than ever before.

“That’s a good thing,” Gareth stated, lifting his arms as if to embrace his brothers and sisters. “But it’s also dangerous.”

Remy understood exactly what Gareth meant, his final words echoing in the dwindling fire as the children left their past, on a journey to their future.

“You be careful, Remy Chandler,” Gareth warned. “’Cause there might come a day when they’ll come for you.”

The fires eventually died, and Remy stood alone on the barren surface of the place once called Battleship Island.

Nothing remained standing—nothing was left alive.

The island had been scoured of life.

For a brief instant he wondered what people would say when the condition of the island was discovered. How would they explain it? Bizarre atmospheric conditions resulting in multiple lightning strikes? A hidden pocket of methane gas beneath the surface of the former coal-mining facility suddenly igniting as a result of a particularly brutal storm?

The wrath of God?

Remy looked to the sky to see that the Archangel was still there, hovering over what he had wrought, looking down at Remy standing among the ashen remains.

Their eyes touched and Remy once again heard Gareth’s words.

“You be careful, Remy Chandler. . . .”

And then the Archangel was gone, leaving behind only a distant rumble of thunder.

A hint of a storm in the distance.

A hint of a storm to come.