Walking In the Midst of Fire

guess they have a bit of history.”

Simeon stared.

“History,” he repeated, and there was that smile that might not have been a smile again, before he turned away, leaving the office.

Prosper felt his legs go suddenly weak, a trembling passing through them that made it feel as though they had turned to jelly. He dropped into his seat with a heavy sigh.

That could have gone worse, he told himself, reaching for the whiskey with a trembling hand.

Eyes fixed to the door, hoping—praying—that Simeon did not come back.

* * *

Dardariel returned alone to his general’s dwelling.

Something had not felt right.

The soldier of Heaven parted his wings in the hallway of the elaborate human mansion, sniffing the air for a hint of his superior.

There was something in the air of this place that tickled his nostrils but eluded his divine senses as soon as it was perceived.

The others that had accompanied him were afraid to follow, afraid to further incur the wrath of the great general. But Dardariel’s concern overruled his fear, leading him back here to this place Aszrus called home.

Dardariel stood in the hallway, awaiting the attentions of the human staff, but none came. Odd, he thought, assuming his human guise and walking the silent halls. He followed his senses, tracking the elusive scent, searching for signs of life, but the grand home was eerily silent.

It wasn’t until he got closer to the spot where he and his fellow soldiers had last encountered the angry general that he finally heard something: the sound of activity, and someone softly crying.

Dardariel strode with purpose down the corridor and turned the corner to General Azrus’ study. The angel paused, listening to the sounds of sorrow, and what could only be the bristles of a brush moving across fabric from behind the closed doors.

One of the doors to the study was opened a crack, and the angel was drawn to it, as if some invisible force had hooked him and was effortlessly reeling him in. He passed through the doorway and immediately felt his flesh begin to tingle, as if assailed by something that had once been there—something to deter his presence. The powerful aroma of cleaning products assaulted his complex sense of smell.

But it was what lay beneath the noxious, soapy smell that birthed his ire.

A female member of the house staff—Dardariel wasn’t sure if this was the one they had encountered earlier, for all the hairless monkeys looked the same to him—was on her hands and knees, a bucket of foaming liquid by her side. She was scrubbing at a dark stain in the middle of the carpet.

A dark stain that gave off a smell that caused Dardariel’s every sense to cry out in protest.

It was the smell of blood. The smell of blood rich with the stink of violence.

“What is this?” the angel demanded, no longer holding on to his human visage. Dardariel was suddenly armored, his brown and black spotted wings fanning outward as he set upon the sobbing woman.

She froze, turning her blind eyes toward the booming sound of the angel’s voice.

“Please . . .” was all she could manage before his hands closed about her throat, and he hurled her across the study.

The angel soldier stared at the haze of bubbles, and at the fading spot on the rug beneath them. Dropping heavily to his knees, Dardariel bent closer to the carpet, his nose mere inches from the bloody blemish.

It was Azrus’ blood; of that there was no doubt.

Dardariel heard the pathetic whimpering of the human woman and turned, eyes aflame with rage and indignation, toward where she had fallen. She lay upon the floor, up against the book-lined wall, her limbs bent and twisted unnaturally.

“Where is he?” Dardariel demanded.

“I—I don’t—,” she stammered between grunts of pain. She flopped around upon the floor of the study like a wounded bird.

Dardariel rose to his feet and stomped across the room. “What has happened to the general?” he demanded, grabbing the woman’s broken arm and hauling her to her feet.

Her scream was piercing, but it was music to his ears if it would supply him with the information he sought.

“The general,” he repeated, shaking the woman’s arm, feeling the broken bones grind beneath their fragile flesh covering.

Her eyes fluttered, and she moaned. He was afraid that she would lose consciousness, so he drew her close, blowing the breath of the divine upon her face, and watching her instantly revitalize.

“You’re . . . you’re so beautiful,” the blind woman said, her empty eyes tearing up as her senses were overwhelmed.

“Who are you?” Dardariel asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Marley,” she said. “My name is Marley.”

“Tell me, Marley,” Dardariel said, still holding on to the woman’s arm, his face mere inches from hers. “What has occurred here? What has happened to your master?”

He could still smell the blood, and it made him want to scream, and rage, and tear this dwelling down to the ground.

“Something . . . something bad,” she said, and started to sob again.

The fire of Heaven surged within Dardariel, and it took all that he had to keep himself from burning like the sun.

“What?” he asked. “What . . . bad, has happened here?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know,” she told him. “He kept us away. . . . I tried to see, but . . .”

“Who kept you away?” Dardariel asked.

“Montagin,” she said in a pain-filled whisper. “Montagin did not want us to know that something . . .” She started to writhe in his clutches. “But I knew. . . . I could feel it. . . . My love of him was too strong. . . . I knew that something had happened to him.”

She was crying again, sobbing for the love of her master, and perhaps for the pain she was currently enduring.

His eyes were drawn back to the mark on the carpet, almost as if it were calling to him, mocking him. What did it all mean, he needed to know. Here they were on the precipice of war, and now this.

“Where is he?” Dardariel demanded.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They took him away from here. . . . I wanted to see him. . . . I needed to. . . .”

He was suddenly sick of her babble and cast her aside without further thought. Again there was screaming, but he didn’t care. Dardariel was back at the stain. Reaching down with a finger, he scraped his elongated nail along the fibers, attempting to raise the scent.

The smell grew stronger. He brought his finger to his nose and, moving past the chemical stink, took in the scent of blood. Then his tongue darted out, licking his fingertip, and his senses came alive.

Dardariel found himself screaming, his head tilted back as he proclaimed his fury to the world. There was fire on his body now, radiating from his armor, his hands, his wings, and the top of his head.

There was no more keeping it in. He had what he needed; there was nothing more to be learned in this place. And as for what had happened here, like the stain the human had been attempting to remove, it would be cleansed from the earth.

The fire leapt from his body, engulfing a nearby chair and sofa, leaping onto the first of the bookcases, and the books upon the shelves.

Marley had rolled onto her stomach, and was lifting her head to capture his eyes. Dardardiel rewarded her tenacity by looking at her.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice a screeching mess as the flames blossomed, and rushed to claim her.

The angel could not help but laugh as his wings fanned the burgeoning fire.