Walking In the Midst of Fire

The shadows grew denser, like oil, beginning to churn as whatever it was that was concealed beneath it moved closer.

Francis gazed quickly away from the moving patch to see Montagin staring, mesmerized, Heath leaning slowly forward, his eyes also drawn to the spot where something was about to appear.

He didn’t know why he said it—he really didn’t know why he said half the shit he did—but he just couldn’t help himself.

“Thar she blows!” Francis cried as something pushed upon the veil of shadow, causing it to stretch outward as if made from rubber.

It actually made a kind of wet, ripping sound as the shape tore away from the liquid embrace, and landed upon the jail cell floor.

It took Francis a moment to realize that his call had not reached his intended, and that he had gotten the wrong number. “You’re not Lucifer Morningstar,” he said.

“No shit,” Squire said, wiping oily drippings of concentrated darkness from his shirt and pants. “You haven’t gotten any smarter in the month you’ve been gone.”

“Month?” Francis exclaimed. “It’s only been a day.”

“Yes!” The hobgoblin pumped a fist in the air. “Thought I’d get here too late and find a big fucking crater or something.”

“You’ve been looking for us for a month?”

Squire nodded. “Looks like it,” he said, sitting down on the floor. He rubbed his stubby hand along the back of his neck. “The shadow paths can be pretty tricky, even for the experienced,” the hobgoblin said. “Must’ve taken a wrong turn someplace.”

“Tell me about it,” Francis said. “How did you track us anyway?”

“Your blood,” Squire said. “Fallen angel blood has a real distinct odor—can’t miss it. Shot back to the apartment after you’d been taken, used an old sock to soak up some of your juice, and here I is.”

“What’s it smell like?”

“What? Your blood?” Squire asked. “You know those little sheets that you throw in the dryer to keep your clothes smelling fresh and the static cling away?”

“Yeah. It smells like that?”

“No,” Squire said shaking his head. “Smells worse than shit, really.”

Montagin cleared his throat.

“Hey, Mary! I didn’t know you were here, too.”

Heath leaned forward so Squire could see him.

“Angus . . .” The hobgoblin noticed what had been done to his sorcerer friend. “Holy shit, does that hurt?”

Heath tilted his head in a way that said, What the fuck do you think?

Squire reached into one of the pouches on his belt and withdrew a pair of scissors. He approached his friend carefully.

“Hold still,” he said, and started to snip at the stitching that held the sorcerer’s lips closed.

With each cut of the thread, Francis could not help but wince. Heath’s lips had started to bleed again, blood running down from his face onto the T-shirt that he wore.

“How’s that?” Squire asked as he cut the last of the threads.

“Better,” Heath managed.

“So,” Francis said, lifting the golden manacles that hung from his wrists. “You wouldn’t happen to have a paper clip in that bag of tricks, would you?”

* * *

The rain was torrential. Remy unfurled his wings, extending them in such a way as to provide cover from the onslaught as he scanned his surroundings.

He saw that he was in a city of some kind, but from its dilapidated appearance, it had been abandoned for quite a long time. An electric chill passed down his spine, as he was reminded of a recent cable television program that tried to show what the world would be like after mankind had gone.

After humanity had died.

From what Remy could see, this was pretty damn close, and the bleak surroundings also reminded him that a fate even worse-looking than this could very well be waiting for the planet if he didn’t get all the facts straight about a certain murdered angel general.

He took to the air, flying above the cracked and weed-covered streets, the vegetation pushing up defiantly through the asphalt. The air was rich with the smell of the ocean, and as he flew higher he saw that he was on an island in the middle of a choppy gray sea.

Interesting, he thought, gliding back down, still on the lookout for Malatesta and, if he was lucky, Prosper. Searching for something—a sign that would give him a clue as to where he was—he landed in front of what looked to be an administrative building. Sticking out from a clump of twisting vines beside the building, Remy found a rusted sign with what appeared to be Japanese characters on it. He brushed away some mud, and could just about make out the name: GUNKANJIMA.

“Gunkanjima,” said a young voice over the pelting downpour. “Battleship Island.”

Remy spun around, hiding his wings away.

“That’s all right,” the pale little girl in the tattered, pink Hello Kitty raincoat said. “I already know what you are—no sense in hiding it.”

“Hi,” Remy said, dropping the bent metal sign. “What is this place?”

She was wearing torn and faded blue jeans, and sneakers split at the sides, as if too small for her growing feet. “Used to be a coal-mining facility, but then it got turned into a prison during a big war . . . the second one . . . war number two.”

“World War Two?” Remy helped her.

She nodded and he got a better look at her. The child couldn’t have been any older than eight, but her skin was terribly pale and sickly looking.

“The Japanese kept Koreans here and forced them to work really, really hard,” the little girl stated. She was poking around in the dirt with the toe of her sneaker. “A lot of people died here.”

Remy moved a little closer.

“Do you live here?”

She stopped digging with her toe when she saw that he was getting closer. “Of course I do,” she said, warily. “I live here with my brothers and sisters.”

The little girl was Nephilim, of that he had no doubt. This was where they were kept, for what reason he had no idea.

But he was going to find out.

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I was you,” the child warned.

Remy stopped where he was. “I don’t mean you any harm,” he told her. “My name is Remy. . . . What’s yours?”

“Kitty,” she said, smiling simply. She pointed to the chubby white corporate symbol on her torn raincoat. “That’s what they call me ’cause I always wear this coat.”

“That’s quite a coat, and a really nice name,” Remy told her.

“Thanks,” she said, kicking at the dirt in earnest.

“So you live here with your brothers and sisters?” Remy asked.

“Uh-huh,” she answered. She squatted and began digging with her hands.

“Do you think that I might be able to meet them?”

Kitty stopped digging, turning her pale gaze toward him.

“I know what you’re up to,” she said.

Remy shook his head. “Not up to anything, Kitty.”

“You’re like that other angel,” she said. “The one who was all nice and everything, but was really mean.”

Remy could see that she was getting upset. He backed away a bit, hoping that if he kept his distance . . .