Walking In the Midst of Fire

The Larva turned its bloody face to him and smiled, a flap of zombie flesh dangling wetly from the corner of his face as he continued to chew.

“Give me Constantin back,” Remy said, moving closer.

The evil spirit chuckled, licking his bloody fingers one by one.

“Constantin is gone now,” the Larva told him in its horrible voice. “Now only I am here.”

Remy surged forward, catching the creature by the throat as it was about to leap up onto the ceiling. The Larva screeched and struggled in his grasp.

“You will give me Constantin Malatesta or I will destroy you, and this host body,” Remy ordered.

The Larva continued to struggle. “You lie, Creature of God.”

Remy willed fire into his grip, starting to burn the flesh of the host body’s throat. From the sound that came from the spirit entity, it was quite painful.

“I never lie,” Remy told the monster, looking into its horrible, dark eyes. “Give me what I want, and you return to the darkness inside the sorcerer and continue to exist. Deny me . . .”

The Larva snarled, spitting a wad of bloody spit into Remy’s face. The blood sizzled on Remy’s cheek as he let his internal fire begin to intensify.

“It will never be as deep again,” the Larva said. “It will always be so very close. . . . We’ll be just like brothers,” the damnable spirit went on, cackling crazily, before suddenly stopping.

Malatesta went suddenly limp in his hands, and Remy let him slump to the floor. He watched the Vatican magick user, waiting for a sign that he was again in control.

Malatesta moaned.

“Are you all right?” Remy asked.

“Fuck off,” Malatesta growled, pushing himself into a sitting position.

By the sounds of it, the human side of the man had regained control.

* * *

The youngest of the Bone Masters waited in the shadow of a cellar alcove in the building where the human lived. He had been there for days, the shadows draped over him like a cloak, watching the comings and goings of his human target, and waiting to be activated.

The Master reached into the leather pouch at his side for sustenance. The worms were about a finger’s length, and twice as thick. He shoved one into his mouth, biting off the head before it could let out its high-pitched squeal.

He knew that others of his ilk had been hired as well, each assassin ordered to observe those who were close to the Seraphim called Remy Chandler. But he was growing impatient. He listened to the sounds of the building, knowing that his target wasn’t at home, tempted to leave his hiding place and explore the dwelling. Perhaps he would find another to satisfy his urge to kill.

This was his first assignment since reaching the level of Bone Master, and he was eager to show what he was capable of. The Liege Masters that had trained him in his art had warned against his immaturity, saying that he needed to control his impatience, and use the energy that it created in a more productive manner.

The Bone Master just wanted to kill something.

His weapon hummed eagerly in his grasp, and he reached out to pet the spiny ridge of bone that ran the length of its body. It, too, was eager to prove itself, to perform the task for which it was bred.

But he—they—had to wait for their final instructions from the one who had hired them, even though they were certain what those instructions would be.

Why else would one go to the effort of hiring a Bone Master?

Time passed ever so slowly, and the young Master entertained himself with thoughts of how he could eliminate his prey. Using his weapon was of course the ultimate choice, but there were times when the weapon could not be used.

He remembered his training, the feel of the lesser beings used for educational purposes dying in his grip. How many had he strangled? Bludgeoned? How many necks had he broken? All in the name of learning to be the perfect killer.

A perfect killer bored nearly out of his mind.

The young Master wanted to scream. He thought about eating some more worms, but that just made him all the more anxious.

He heard his prey returning before he saw him. From the sounds of the human’s heavy breathing, the Master would be doing him a favor by taking his life.

The front door to the building opened, and his prey walked in, closing the door behind him. The Master smelled the sickly scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and fatty meat.

It was as if this human was begging to die.

The killer continued to listen as the man slowly climbed the stairs to his dwelling. He heard him take keys from his pocket, unlock the door, and step inside, closing it behind him.

The young Bone Master felt his every instinct come alive; here was his assigned prey ready for the killing.

And all that stood in his way was the designation of time.

It was not yet time for death to be delivered. He had not received his final order, even though he’d been told that it was inevitable.

He seethed in the shadows. Here was the perfect situation, the perfect opportunity to show the Seraphim Remy Chandler that no one was safe, that he and all that he cared for were targeted by the Bone Masters.

The young assassin doubted that the moment would ever be better.

And the killer made a decision that his trainers would have frowned upon, although it was not unheard of from more experienced Masters. He would act, taking down his quarry, to show off his superior skills.

It was decided—the Bone Master left his place in the shadows and silently climbed the stairs.

To at last perform the act of murder.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A good beating was often like a time machine.

And Francis was back in time with a front-row seat, watching as he screwed up on a monumental level.

But to be fair, at the time he really did believe the shit the Morningstar was shoveling; God didn’t love them anymore, and they were going to be replaced by humanity.

That pretty much summed it up.

In hindsight, it was amazing how much damage was done because of this petty, selfish notion.

Francis saw himself as he’d been, adorned in armor stained with the blood of those who had not believed as he had—as Lucifer had—leading an army toward the Golden City to confront their Lord and Creator.

Had the idea that Lucifer might have just been a jealous prick started to tickle his brain yet? he wondered. He couldn’t really remember.

It was painful to watch his own acts of war, the brothers who tried to fend off his advances cut down by his blistering sword of fire.

Francis found it interesting that on most days he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but he could still remember every single angel he had killed in the name of the Morningstar’s mission. He saw their faces as they died, as enthralled with fighting for God as he had been about Lucifer’s message.

We will not be cast aside.

But that’s what happened anyway, for those who had opposed God’s plan were sent away, imprisoned, banished to a world teeming with life deemed more worthy than theirs.

And maybe it was, but Fraciel—Francis—had been on that world a very long time now, and from what he could see humanity was just as fucked up as the angels were.

It made him wonder if the Lord of Lords had a plan after all, or was He making it up as He went along, flying by the seat of His oh-so-holy pants. It was certainly something worth considering, especially during times like this,