More of the demonic surged into the entryway, and the angel spun toward them.
“Hold!” the necromancer commanded, and the demons did as they were told.
The angel looked back to him with eyes that burned with rage, but there was a question there as well.
“You are compelled to slay me, but I am certain that if you ask yourself the reason, you’ll find nothing to justify such an insatiable hunger for my death.”
The necromancer’s words appeared to be having some physical effect upon the angel. He blinked rapidly, then tried to raise his fiery sword, only to have it drop harmlessly to his side.
“You are bewitched, angel,” the necromancer stated, lifting his withered hand to show him the sigil ring upon it. “By the sibling of this very ring, created by the powerful magicks of Solomon.”
Simeon could not believe what he was seeing. His master was actually having some success in taming the fiery power of Heaven sent to destroy him. He emerged from his hiding place, desperate to bear witness to the unimaginable events transpiring.
“My ring gives me sway over the demonic, while its sister—”
The lance pierced the oily smoke wafting up from the bodies of the burning demons. It impaled the necromancer through the chest, exiting from his back in a hissing spray of crimson.
“No!” Simeon cried, as his master these past years fell limply to one side. He ran out into the open, dropping to his knees on the stone floor beside the injured man.
Hallow was still alive, but barely, eyes fixed upon the angel of God, the churning smoke behind him, and the figures that now emerged.
“Where is it?” demanded a figure clothed in the elaborate garb of the Pope of Christendom. “Where is the ring?”
The Pope’s cold, reptilian eyes touched upon the fallen necromancer.
“Remiel,” he growled. “Kill him for me.”
The angel immediately rushed forward to do as he was bidden.
He did not stop, but continued to question his own actions as he advanced upon the prone body of his enemy. The necromancer had been trying to convince him that he was somehow not in control of his actions.
Wings of crackling, Heavenly fire spread wide upon his back, the angel Remiel loomed above the necromancer, preparing to strike him dead.
The man did not appear afraid.
A servant bravely leapt to his master’s defense, standing between Remiel and his quarry.
“I curse you and all that you stand for,” the young man pronounced. “There will come a day when I see you, your brethren, and Heaven itself fall into ruin.”
“Do not waste my time!” Pope Tyranus commanded, eager for his Heavenly servant to complete his task.
Remiel slapped the young man aside, feeling the bones in his face turn to paste with the ferocity of the blow.
“Kill him,” Tyranus ordered. “Kill him now so I may claim my prize!”
Remiel reached for the dying man, who continued to cling to life, gazing up at him defiantly.
“This ring . . . this ring controls the demonic,” the necromancer managed, rich arterial blood oozing up from his destroyed innards, flowing over the sides of his mouth. He plucked the ring from his finger, and strange wails rose up from the demons to echo through the castle halls.
Remiel reached down to close his burning hand around the man’s throat, and began to squeeze.
“Its sister controls that of Heaven,” the necromancer struggled.
“The angelic . . . A second ring controls the angelic.”
The words sank in, permeating the thick fog that had seemed to encase Remiel’s brain since . . . since first encountering the pope, Tyranus.
The old man was burning in the angel’s grasp, skin bubbling to fluid-filled blisters.
“Take it,” the necromancer croaked, pressing the ring against him. “Take it . . . take it and break the other’s hold upon you.”
“Kill him and allow me my prize!” Tyranus shouted from somewhere behind him.
Remiel continued to gaze into the necromancer’s eyes as the life left him. He could feel the ring pressed against his own armored chest-plate, as if it were attempting to melt through the metal forged in Heaven to the divine flesh beneath.
“Take it,” were the last words uttered by the magick wielder called Hallow.
And again, Remiel did what was asked of him, taking the golden ring from the burned and crumbling hand as the necromancer’s body fell away, breaking into smoldering pieces that hissed upon the floor.
The ring was like a piece of the harshest winter, yet at the same time it burned in the palm of his hand.
“Where is it?” the Pope demanded. “Give it to me.”
Remiel saw the brother ring adorning the holy man’s finger, as he closed his hand over what had been given to him by his dying enemy.
“Give it to me!” Pope Tyranus roared, extending his spidery hand greedily.
The angel Remiel’s thoughts became suddenly clear, and he understood the magnitude of what had been done to him.
And he became very angry.
Remy placed his hands upon Malatesta, trying to keep the man from hurting himself as he convulsed on the ground.
He could feel the sorcerer’s skin ripple, and saw the bones beneath his face distorting as he attempted to fight the evil that tried to usurp his control. From the looks of it, he wasn’t doing too well.
The disturbing sound of popping joints and the elastic-band snap of tearing tendons filled the space, and all Remy could do was beg the man to fight.
Prosper was suddenly awake and beside Remy, begging the angel to show the man some mercy, and put him down—for his sake, and for the sake of the world.
For a moment Remy actually considered the request.
The demon peered out through the Vatican magick user’s eyes, as he twisted and writhed on the floor, trying to escape the bonds that still held him. And then Remy noticed its gleeful expression change.
“Who is that?” the Larva asked, his struggles intensifying.
Remy turned to see a small shape standing just inside the door. It was one of the children.
“Hey,” Remy said, trying not to scare the youth.
The little boy, who appeared no older than six, shuffled farther into the room, the cuffs of his overly long sweatpants practically covering up his shoes.
“That man has something bad in him,” the child said, squatting down next to Remy, his gaze never leaving the panicking Malatesta.
“Keep him away,” the Larva roared, eagerly trying to get his hands free.
“I can see it,” the child said. “I did when he first got here, too.”
“You can see the bad thing?” Remy asked.
The child nodded. “I can see the good . . . and the bad.”
The child’s eyes seemed to twinkle with an eerie incandescence as he looked at Remy. “You’re a good guy,” he said, smiling. He was missing his two front teeth.
“I like to think so,” Remy replied.
Malatesta’s hand broke free of his bonds then. His fingers were horribly distended, and adorned with razor- sharp claws. He grabbed at the boy, but Remy was faster, grasping the deformed arm of the possessed by the wrist.
“He doesn’t like you,” Remy said to the boy.
“Yeah,” the child said, rubbing a filthy finger beneath his nose. “He knows I can see him hiding inside. . . .
