Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“Love what you’re doing with the place,” Remy said sarcastically.

“Can you believe that somebody was throwing this chair out?” Squire asked. With the hand that wasn’t clutching his snack, he found the remote control and pointed it at the television.

The sounds of moans and shrieks of pleasure filled the apartment, and Remy glanced toward the screen to see a naked man and woman in the midst of a pornographic act that was probably illegal in at least fifteen states.

“Really?” Remy asked, looking back to the grinning creature.

“Not a fan of the arts?” Squire asked with a cackle. He pointed the remote again and turned the porn off. It was replaced with The Price Is Right.

“So, what do you need Angus for?” the hobgoblin asked, taking a huge bite of his sandwich as some of the contents between the two bread slices spilled out from the bottom onto his shirt.

Squire really didn’t seem to care.

“I need a magick user for a case I’m working on,” Remy answered. “Any idea where he went?”

“Pretty sure he headed over to Methuselah’s,” Squire answered with his mouth full. “Said something about planning the dinner specials for the week.”

Remy nodded, reminded that the sorcerer was the cook at the tavern located at the edge of multiple realities.

“Let me finish my snack and I can open a shadow path and take you over,” Squire suggested.

“Wouldn’t want to take you away from your art,” Remy said with a smirk.

And the hobgoblin began to cackle, the last of the sandwich unappetizingly visible from his open maw.

The corridor of shadow opened up just outside the large, wooden door with the neon sign flashing METHUSELAH’S hanging above it.

“I always thought you needed a key to find this place,” Remy said. He had a key. It had been Francis’, but he’d left it back on Beacon Hill.

“Yeah,” Squire replied. “But I’ve got a knack for finding shit that ain’t supposed to be found.”

“Good to know,” Remy said.

The hobgoblin and Remy stood in the stone alleyway, total darkness at their backs.

“Are you coming in?” Remy asked. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Naw,” Squire said. “I gotta get back to the apartment. I’m getting cable installed and they’re supposed to be there between ten and five.”

“No worries,” Remy said. “I owe you one, then.”

“And don’t think I won’t take you up on it,” Squire said, turning back to duck inside the shadow portal.

Remy was walking toward the ancient, wooden door, when Squire called out from behind him.

“Hey, Remy.”

He turned to see the hobgoblin peering out from inside the passage as it grew smaller around him.

“Don’t tell Angus you found me in his place,” Squire said. “You wouldn’t believe how sensitive he is about that shit.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Remy said, giving him a wave before turning back to the entrance to Methuselah’s.

The door opened before he could even knock.

A minotaur loomed over him in the doorway, its nostrils flared and dripping.

“What do you want?” the brown-furred beast demanded, its eyes dark and reflective in the strange glow of the alleyway.

“Is that any way to talk to a customer?” Remy asked, advancing to push past the beast.

The minotaur moved to block his entrance. “If I owned the place I wouldn’t let you holier-than-thou types through the door,” he growled.

“Good to know,” Remy told him, looking deep into his eyes. “When Methuselah hangs it up, I’ll be sure to lose the address.”

The monstrous bouncer was giving it his best, trying to outstare him, but Remy didn’t have the time for this kind of nonsense. He was about to get a bit more physical with the door beast, when the bar’s owner called out from inside.

“Let him in, Phil,” the gravelly voice of Methuselah ordered.

The beast turned its massive, horned head to look inside the bar.

“You heard him, Phil,” Remy said, shoving the large-bodied mythological doorman aside to step into the dingy bar.

Remy could sense the minotaur coming up quickly behind him, and spun around just as Methuselah called out from behind the bar.

“Phil, you heard me!”

The minotaur had raised his huge fists, like twin cinder blocks, and was preparing to bring them down on Remy.

“Do it and pay the consequences,” Remy warned, the power of the Seraphim now coursing through his body, causing his voice to echo. “Don’t and we both go about our business. It’s really pretty simple.”

Phil loomed above him, nostrils wet and pulsating as he clenched his huge fists.

“What’s it going to be . . . Phil?” Remy asked, the fire of Heaven blazing in his eyes.

“It’s a good thing Francis is your friend,” the minotaur said, lowering his muscular arms and returning to his post in front of the door. “Wouldn’t want to offend him by stomping your holy ass.”

Remy let it go, sidling up to the bar.

Methuselah, in his stone golem body, placed an empty glass on top of the bar and began to fill it from a dust-covered bottle of whiskey.

“Sorry about that, Chandler,” Methuselah said, filling the glass by half with golden liquid. “Phil has just never warmed to you angel types.”

He slid the glass across to Remy.

“On the house.”

Remy didn’t want to seem rude by refusing the offer. He picked up the glass, tossing back its contents in one gulp. He was certain that if he’d allowed himself to feel the alcoholic effects of the beverage, his head would have been spinning.

“Hit you again?” Methuselah asked, ready to pour some more.

“I’m good,” Remy said, placing his hand over the mouth of the glass.

“So what brings you in?” Methuselah returned the dusty bottle to the display behind the bar. “Sorry to say that it’s usually nothing good.”

The bar was pretty empty, only sporadic tables here and there occupied by customers.

“No wonder Phil doesn’t like me,” Remy said. “Is Angus around?”

“Heath?” Methuselah asked. “Yeah, he’s out back in the kitchen.”

Remy slid from his stool, heading toward the double doors that would take him out back. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead,” Methuselah said, waving one of his squared, stone hands. “Try not to wreck the place.”

Remy passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, eyes scanning the good-sized room for a sign of Heath. He was surprised at how clean it actually was.

Three creatures of some insectlike species watched him with their bulging, compound eyes. One had grabbed a rather large knife.

“Angus Heath,” Remy said, speaking the language of the insect creature. “Is he around?”

The insect kitchen worker, startled by Remy’s question and how it was asked, pointed with the knife blade to an area in the back, near the walk-in freezer.

“Thanks,” Remy said, walking where the insect had pointed.

He found Heath leaning upon a scratched and gouged butcher block table, a legal pad laid out before him. It looked as though Squire had been right about what the sorcerer was doing here. He was planning the dinner specials.

“I bet you make a mean shepherd’s pie,” Remy said as he approached.

The heavyset sorcerer looked up. “Fancy seeing you here. To what do I owe the occasion?”

“I need a favor,” Remy said.

“Let me guess,” the rotund sorcerer stated. “Something, something, something . . . the end of the world.”

Remy smirked but with little humor.

“Yeah, a little something like that.”

It didn’t take Heath long to agree to help once Remy explained what was at stake.