Walking In the Midst of Fire

“So much power going out into the world.”

“Better it go out into the world than be in the hands of one,” Hallow said.

The doors into the castle blew inward with a deafening roar, the pieces of furniture laid before it doing little to prevent what wished to gain entrance from coming inside.

Simeon had been blown down from the explosion, rising to his feet to see that his master now stood in defiance of what had entered.

It was a visage of power, a soldier of Heaven clad in armor that appeared to be forged from the surface of the sun; in its hand was a sword seemingly broken from the point of the nearest star.

Simeon could do nothing but stare, and loathe it with all his heart and what little remained of his soul.

* * *

He dreamed of a time when he was not in control.

Images exploded from the darkness. Remy, the Seraphim, had been riled to war, finally battering down the magickally fortified doors to the castle, allowing him and the Pope’s soldiers inside.

There was such anger then, with nary a thought as to why he would feel so much rage for someone that he didn’t even know. But if Tyranus wished Hallow vanquished, that was more than enough for him.

And Remiel didn’t even think to question that.

The images came fast and furiously, accompanied by a droning sound track of Latin prayer.

He didn’t think that this had been the case back then, the screams of those dying in battle being the only score that he could recall accompanying the siege.

His entire focus then was to find the necromancer and destroy him utterly, for that was what Pope Tyranus had commanded. It was all so very simple; he needed to do what the Pope told him to do.

And he did so, with nary a question.

The Latin prayer was louder now, and he realized that he could not understand it. How was that even possible? Remiel could understand all prayers, all languages. . . .

What’s going on?

It felt as if he was falling . . . so very fast, but his wings would not come.

And he struck the earth, shattering his every bone and causing his skin to split and all that was inside him to spill out into the world.

And then all was darkness.

* * *

Remy awoke with a start. He quickly looked around, trying to get his bearings, and to remember what had happened.

He was in a storage room, cartons of alcohol and crates of wine stacked against cinder block walls.

The sound of Latin prayer still echoed in his mind. Turning his head toward the other side of the room, Remy realized that he wasn’t alone. Constantin Malatesta was slumped in a wooden office chair beside him, hands bound behind his back.

And Remy realized then that he, too, was bound.

“Hey,” Remy said, tugging on the restraints, but finding that they held him fast. They hadn’t used rope on him; his restraints were made from chains, and as he moved he could feel the tingle of enchantment coursing up the lengths of his arms.

He remembered the zombie security guards, and how they’d been protected from his angelic talents.

Rapture. The charnel house. This place was all set to deal with folks like him if things got out of hand.

“Constantin . . . hey,” Remy called out again. “Listen to me.”

The praying at last stopped, and the Vatican agent slowly turned his gaze to him.

Remy didn’t like what he saw at all.

“What have they done to you?” he asked.

Malatesta looked as though he’d aged twenty years, his face battered, bruised, and covered with drying blood.

“It’s this place,” the man said, his voice trembling. “It makes you weak . . . unable to fight. . . .”

Malatesta began to squirm then, crying out as if suddenly in torment.

And from the look of what was happening to his body, he was. It was then that Remy knew that the Vatican magick user had a deadly secret.

His flesh began to writhe and twist, as if there was something on the inside of him that was trying to get out. His eyes had gone completely yellow, and he looked to Remy with a pointy-toothed snarl.

“Been awhile since I’ve been this close to the surface,” the monstrous entity growled. “Feels good.”

And the creature laughed, before crying out in protest and pain as Malatesta tried to take control of his form once more.

“Can’t let the Larva free,” the magick user told him. “But it’s so strong . . . so damn strong.”

Remy could see that the effort was practically killing him, and wished that he could have done something to help the man, but at the moment, there were some larger issues that needed to be dealt with.

He knew that trying to break his bonds was probably futile, but he couldn’t help but give it the ole Seraphim try. The backlash of the magick was something incredible, almost sending him back to the dark place he’d been before waking up.

A place where he hadn’t been in control, and wasn’t even aware.

Shaking off the pain, he looked around for something, anything that might trigger a useful thought.

He couldn’t help but look to Malatesta, who had started praying again, even as the evil spirit inside the man struggled to emerge once more.

The door to the basement storage swung open with a creak, distracting Remy from another futile attempt at trying to break the chains around his wrists.

A man sauntered in as if he owned the place, which he probably did. Remy guessed that this was the guy Prosper that Morgan had talked about. He was followed by two exceptionally large zombies.

Where the hell does he find these guys? Remy wondered. It wasn’t as if behemoths of this size were dying every day, but then again, maybe they were and he just wasn’t being told. Wouldn’t have been the first time he was kept out of the loop.

“I’d get up and shake your hand,” Remy started. “But I’m a little tied up.”

Prosper didn’t even crack a smile, staring at the two bound figures before him like somebody might study a particularly troubling stain upon a carpet.

“I can’t believe you ended up here,” Prosper said, barely containing his annoyance.

Remy stared at the man, realizing that he was an angel, but one of the fallen kind—a Denizen.

Denizens had served time in the Hell prison of Tartarus, before being released to Earth to serve out the remainder of their penance.

Remy wasn’t really sure how many Denizens actually ever finished their sentence. This might be something to ask the Big Guy upstairs, if they ever got a chance to chat again.

But right now Remy had more pressing concerns.

“It’s great that you found yourself a good living,” Remy said. “But do you think that whorehouses are on the accepted list of businesses for parolees?”

Prosper just stared blankly.

“I can see why the Black Choir hates your fucking guts,” he finally said.

Malatesta’s praying started to get louder, creating a distraction.

“Shut up,” Prosper ordered, to no avail.

Remy could see a spark of something not quite right go off in Prosper’s eyes, telling him that the fallen angel probably hadn’t learned the error of his ways while imprisoned after the war.

“I said to shut your fucking mouth.” Prosper leaned in closer to Malatesta, speaking louder, as if the Vatican sorcerer was hard of hearing.

Malatesta kept right on praying, and Remy could see that this wasn’t going any place good. He made an attempt to defuse the situation by trying to get Prosper’s attention.

“So tell me about the Choir,” Remy said. “Did they talk about me a lot? Did they mention what I did that bugged them . . .”