Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“By fighting fire, with fire,” Pope Tyranus confided. “Darkness used in the service of light, against darkness.”

The angel considered this, and found the concept interesting, but still could not quite fathom why he had been summoned here. What was his part to play in all of this?

“And my role in this battle against the encroaching shadows?” he asked.

Pope Tyranus smiled, his icy eyes twinkling.

“The lord in whose house we now reside summoned me with knowledge of an item of incredible power.” The old man spoke in a whisper that only they could hear. “A ring once given to the great King Solomon by the Archangel Michael.”

Remiel immediately perked up, remembering the ring, and how it would give whomever possessed it control over the demonic.

“I can see that you know of this item,” Pope Tyranus spoke.

“The sigil ring,” Remiel said. “As far as I know, it was lost after the death of the wise king.”

“And for a time it was,” the Pope acknowledged, slowly nodding. “But it was eventually found, though not by any who shared the great king’s connection to the divine.”

Tyranus paused, playing with a silver ring upon his finger, slowly turning it around, and around.

“The ring found its way from one eager finger to the next, as all who possessed the powerful, magickal artifact fell victim to an evil successor.”

“And the lord who succumbed?” Remiel asked. “He had knowledge of who now possesses the sigil ring?”

“Oh yes,” the Pope said, his voice a chilling hiss. “He had succumbed to the plague before my arrival, but that did not prevent me from . . . extracting the information by supernatural means.”

Remiel looked at the holy man, offended by what he was suggesting.

“Fire with fire, soldier of God,” he clarified. “Though it pained me to do so, I recalled his spirit to the earthly realm, and for the good of the world forced it to give up the ring’s current owner and location.”

“Who now possesses this artifact?”

“It has come into the possession of a powerful necromancer,” the Pope said. “One who has learned to harness the power of the dead and dying.”

“Where?” Remiel asked, already suspecting he knew the answer.

“Somewhere right outside this door, angel,” Pope Tyranus said. “Can you think of a better place for one who harnesses the power of death, than a region besieged by plague?”

“His magick will be strong,” Remiel said.

“But not as strong as a soldier of Heaven,” Pope Tyranus said, leaning back in his chair, again fiddling with the ring upon his finger.

“You’re going to help me, angel,” the Pope told him. “You’re going to obtain Solomon’s sigil ring, and do your part in keeping the world from sliding into darkness.”

Remiel was stunned, shocked that one such as Tyranus felt that he could give orders to an angel of the holy host Seraphim as if he were a mere lackey.

But for reasons then unknown to him, the angel Remiel held his tongue, knowing that he would do everything in his power to perform this chore, and to obtain the ring of Solomon for the one who asked it of him.

For Pope Tyranus of the Holy Roman Empire.

“I’m sorry,” Remy told the Vatican representative. “I have no interest in working for you, or the Keepers, or anybody else associated with the Vatican.”

Malatesta just stared.

“I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but—”

“No,” the man interrupted. “After reviewing what I could find on your original involvement with us . . .”

“I’m surprised there was anything left for you to review,” Remy said. “Since Tyranus’ name was removed from the lineage of popes.”

“Even though his reign was erased, there are still some records to be found about the Black Pope, and his actions during the Middle Ages.”

Remy chuckled. “Kinda like that stain on the rug you can never get completely out.”

Malatesta tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “A stain on the rug?” he asked, obviously not getting what Remy was talking about.

“It’s nothing,” Remy said. “Just trying to draw a comparison.”

Malatesta nodded, sliding to the edge of the chair to drive home his point. “The Keepers have given me full authority to apologize profusely for any past transgressions, and to offer you substantial payment, within reason, for your time and services while working with us.”

Remy shook his head.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m just going to have to say no.”

It felt good saying no to the Vatican representative, not at all like when he was dealing with Pope Tyranus.

“There’s nothing that I can say or do to change your mind?” Malatesta asked.

Remy shook his head again. “I’m afraid not.”

Malatesta looked as though he was going to continue, but then appeared to think better of that. “I guess there’s nothing more to say,” he said, standing up.

Remy stood also.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Chandler,” Malatesta said, and extended his hand.

Remy reached out, taking his offered hand, and as their flesh touched . . .

There was a flash, and a hum, like unrestrained power coursing through a live wire lying in wait upon a street after a storm. If there had been any doubt that this man, this Constantin Malesta, had some sort of a knack for the arcane art of magick, there wasn’t any now.

His power coursed through Remy, amplifying the sensations that he had been experiencing for quite some time, reminding the angel of what was out there in the world, and the dangers that it would soon be facing.

“Perhaps another time,” Malatesta said with a final squeeze, before releasing his grip.

And before Remy could even respond, the Keeper agent was gone. But what he had stirred up in Remy with just a touch remained, and it lingered disturbingly for the remainder of the day.

The next few weeks passed without incident.

The world rolled on, the trivial and the not so trivial, the kinds of events Remy had grown accustomed to in his time with human civilization, as days passed into weeks.

But that did not mean he wasn’t waiting for the so-called other shoe to fall. He found himself staring out the windows of his office and down onto the city streets far more attentively, watching the evening news broadcasts, and trolling the Internet with more frequency as he looked for signs.

He found nothing serious enough to alert him to impending doom, and started to eventually let his level of caution drop; still, he kept one eye open and his superhuman senses on alert for any notable change in the ether.

But life marched on; it had the habit of doing that, and Remy found himself more fully engaged in his ordinary human life than he had been for quite some time.

Business was good—not great, but good—enough to keep money coming in to handle the rent on the office space, and pay for the inordinate amount of coffee he drank.

On a personal level things couldn’t have been better. The more time he spent with Linda, the more the trepidation that he’d felt at becoming involved again—falling in love again—slowly crumbled away. He needed a partner to be whole, to be the person he wanted, and needed, to be. Linda was that partner—of that he no longer had any doubt.

The August night had been dreadfully humid, but a quick-moving thundershower while they had been out on a walk with Marlowe had brought with it a welcome drop in temperature. Refreshing cool breezes made the curtains in the house flap and wave like something out of an eighties music video.

While he dried Marlowe off with a towel, which was more of a tug-of-war match than anything of real use, Linda kicked off her sneakers and peeled her soaking-wet T-shirt and running pants from her body. She left the wet clothing where it had fallen, in a trail that led to the stairs that would take her up to the bedroom.