“That war is still coming,” he finally said quietly.
Remy was about to reassure the youth, but he never got the chance.
The sound came from across the water, multiple rotor blades spinning with blinding speed as a helicopter drew closer.
“This is it,” Gareth stated, and then sighed, his eyes turning toward the gunmetal-colored sky, before looking directly at Remy.
“The beginning of the end.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In an area of the island that had once been set aside for the children of miners, was a park, now overgrown with a thick, tall grass that bent in the artificial winds created by the Chinook helicopter as it slowly descended from a darkening sky.
The copter touched down, back end pointed toward Remy and the collected children. There was a high- pitched whine of hydraulics, and the back of the large craft began to open; a loading ramp slowly lowered to the weed-covered lot.
Malatesta left the gathering, running across the grassy expanse toward the helicopter, shielding his eyes from the debris kicked up by the craft’s slowing rotor blades.
“Am I going in that?”
Remy looked down at the child who had temporarily repressed the sorcerer’s demon. He’d learned that the boy’s name was Apple, because he liked apples. “Yeah,” he said. “You all are. It’s going to take you to your new home.”
Remy was watching Malatesta standing before the loading ramp, waiting for his superior, when he felt the tiny hand find its way into his. He glanced back at Apple to see him staring up at him, a smile that was almost blinding on his dirty features.
“Thank you,” the little boy said, and all Remy could do was smile back, and give his small hand a gentle squeeze of assurance.
An old man, dressed in a black cassock, a golden crucifix about his neck, carefully descended from the loading ramp. He extended his hand toward Malatesta, who bowed his head and kissed the man’s ring.
The two talked as the rotors spun above them, and Malatesta briefly looked back in Remy’s direction. The sorcerer’s body language seemed to be trying to tell him something.
“Are we leaving now?” Apple asked, hand still in Remy’s.
“Not quite yet,” Remy said as several other men, also dressed in the robes of their faith, began to exit the belly of the mighty Chinook and spread out.
The angel let go of the boy’s hand, and walked toward them. Malatesta turned and Remy caught sight of the look on his face. Immediately he knew they were in trouble.
The Keepers acted as one, suddenly raising their hands and uttering an ancient spell in some long-forgotten language. The atmosphere became instantly charged with unnatural energy, calling forth another storm.
“What’s going on?” Remy demanded, still heading for Malatesta.
The Vatican sorcerer extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to stop. The old man standing beside him glared at the angel, and Remy saw a glimmer of something he’d seen long ago in the eyes of their church’s leader—the cold detachment of an act of betrayal.
The magickal force erupting from the hands of the Keepers wove a canopy over their heads, an undulating dome of supernatural energies hovering above the overgrown playground.
Remy stopped cold, as the magick turned the gray sky to a blood red.
His wings came on reflex, and the fires of Heaven raced from where they churned in his chest to pool in his hands. But he had no opportunity to act, for Malatesta’s magick lashed out like the tail of a whip, wrapping itself around his neck as he attempted to take to the sky. The power coursing through him was overwhelming. He struggled to flap his mighty wings, but they were no longer in sync, and floundering he dropped to the ground, the tendril of humming magick still wrapped about his throat.
Remy dug his fingers beneath the band of preternatural force, desperately trying to rip it from his neck, but it seared his fingers, leaching away his strength even as he fought.
“I’m sorry Remy,” he heard Malatesta say, realizing that the sorcerer was controlling the leash of magickal energy that was attempting to strangle him. “For the good of us all it must be this way.”
Remy thrashed upon the ground, turning toward the children. The Keepers had used their spells to corral the children, and they cried out in surprise—and fear.
Another group of Vatican agents had separated the mothers from their children, moving them away, toward the transport chopper.
“What are you doing?” Remy managed, his voice rough and full of rage.
The old priest from the chopper walked over to stand above Remy. “Calm yourself, soldier of Heaven,” he said.
“I’m nobody’s soldier,” Remy rasped. “What are you doing to those kids?”
The priest closed his old, watery eyes. “The appearance of innocence is deceiving.”
“What are you talking about?” Remy fought to stand, his wings beating the wet ground as he struggled to his feet.
The priest stepped back.
“They are not as they appear,” he said. “And they must be dealt with before . . .”
An icy claw gripped at Remy’s chest.
“What do you mean dealt with?” he demanded. “What are you thinking of . . .”
“To keep peace and strengthen the covenant,” the old man continued. “Decisive action must be taken.” He turned and walked away.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Remy screamed. “What are you going to do? Keep the peace between who? Tell me!”
The old priest stopped, and turned ever so slightly.
“Without our intervention, there would be war,” he said. “The threat to this fragile peace must be eliminated; the truce must remain strong.”
The horror of the situation suddenly sank in. The children were being offered up as a sacrifice to prevent two opposing factions from going to war.
“Please,” Remy begged the old man. “There has to be another way. . . . They’re just kids; they have no idea of what—”
“It is not for me to decide their fate,” the priest announced, looking past Remy as there came the crashing of thunder and flashes of lightning followed by what he knew at once to be the flapping of wings.
So many wings.
Two groups of angels appeared, one on each side of the dilapidated playground—one side representing God’s Heaven, the other Lucifer Morningstar’s Hell.
And between them both cowered the frightened children brought into the world through no choice of their own.
Malatesta and the old priest walked toward the gatherings, dragging Remy behind them by sorcerous tether.
“Who shall speak for Heaven and who shall speak for Hell?” the priest asked the two sides.
“You can’t let this happen,” Remy cried out to Malatesta.
The sorcerer continued to stare straight ahead, as the representatives from each side came forth. “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “It’s all too big, and there’s far too much at stake.”
Remy was about to argue, but his eyes were drawn to the powerful form of the Archangel Michael as he approached the priest.
The warrior angel was clad in his armaments of war, a fiery spear clutched in one hand as he came to
