Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

The others he did not know about, but as for himself, he somehow knew that his and Master Simeon’s fates were intertwined. They would witness the fall of Heaven together, and watch the world and the universe around it, gradually return to darkness.

Simeon stepped into the lobby, his dark eyes fixed upon the demons.

The others averted their gazes, but Beleeze was not afraid.

“Take me to the island,” their master commanded, pulling at the white cuffs of his shirt just below the sleeves of his dark sports jacket. “Let’s see what I can do to keep this from turning into one huge cluster-fuck.”

Overjoyed that they were not murdered, Beleeze watched as Dorian and Robert conjured a circle of transport upon the lobby floor that would take them all to their destination.

And toward what Beleeze believed would eventually be his destiny.

Remy found his way back down to the first floor of the mansion alone, exiting from the secret door into Montagin’s path.

“Where have you been?” the angel demanded, eyeing him, and the door, as Remy closed it behind him with a click.

“Finding stuff out,” he said.

“Stuff?” Montagin asked. “What kind of stuff?”

The angel moved around Remy to examine the door. “Where does this go?” he asked. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Remy said. “Seems as though your boss might have been keeping some things pretty close to the vest.”

“Things?” Montagin questioned with a sneer.

“Looks like Aszrus was a little more infatuated with this world than he led you to believe.”

He could see that the assistant’s demeanor was changing, his ire on the rise. There was nothing somebody like Montagin hated more than to not be aware of the total picture.

“Explain, Seraphim,” Montagin demanded.

Remy looked him straight in the eyes with a stare that suggested he back off.

The angel’s demeanor softened.

“Did you find something that could explain who . . .”

“Maybe,” Remy said, starting back toward the study with Montagin eagerly walking beside him. “It seems that your boss liked to hit the town some nights, and he used a limousine service to get there.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out,” Remy said as they approached the study doors. Montagin used his key to open the door, and they were greeted by the sight of Malatesta kneeling beside the dead angel’s body, one of his hands buried deep within the open wound that had allowed the angel’s killer access to his heart.

The sorcerer looked up from his work.

“I’m not quite finished here, but—”

“I have to leave,” Remy interrupted. “Finish what you started and lend a hand if necessary.” He turned to Montagin again, and saw that spark of panic ready to ignite once more. “You just keep it together until I get back with some answers.”

“I’ll try,” Montagin replied, his eyes drifting over to the globe-shaped liquor cabinet in the corner of the room.

Remy was just about to leave when he remembered something he would need. He stopped, turning back toward Montagin.

“Do you think I can borrow a car?” he asked. “I hear there’s an entire underground garage of the things.”

Pope Tyranus’ carriage followed the line of soldiers sworn to defend the holy man and his mission at any cost.

Remiel sat across from the Pope, the wings that he had yet to summon itching beneath the guise of humanity he wore, eager to perform the task that had been requested of him.

He could have flown to their destination on his own, but Tyranus required his company on the ride. The angel had no choice but to obey.

“Tell me,” the Pope began, pulling aside a red velvet curtain to gaze out upon the bleak, English countryside. The weather was foul, as it had been for days, as if in anticipation of the conflict against the forces of darkness to come. “Tell me why you walk the earth.”

Remiel did not wish to speak of it, but the words came nonetheless.

“There is a simplicity here that speaks to me,” he said.

Tyranus chuckled. “Where you see simplicity, I see the complexities of this world . . . complexities that I must master.”

Remiel remained silent, hoping no more questions would come, but knowing better.

“How could you leave your God?” the old man asked. “For is He not your everything? Your sole reason for existing to answer His every whim?”

“It was.”

The images came again, the war and the killing of his brethren.

The death of so much more.

“There came a time when I could be there no more,” Remiel offered. “When the difficulties of Heaven weighed far too heavily upon my winged shoulders.”

Pope Tyranus studied the angel, his head resting against the back of the red velvet seat.

“Where is the difficulty in serving your master?” the Pope finally asked. “If there is trust in Him, there should be no question.”

Remiel saw the deaths of those he had once loved, those corrupted by the message of the Morningstar. He had hoped there would be another answer, that the Lord God Almighty would find a solution other than war.

But Remiel had been forced to take a side, and the solution was death to those who fought against His holy word.

“There was trust . . . ,” Remiel said softly. “For a time.”

This response seemed to rankle the holy man. “Are you saying that the Almighty is not to be trusted?”

“I’m saying that my trust in Him was tested,” Remiel explained. “And it was a test that I failed.”

The coach came to a sudden, lurching stop, leaning precariously to one side. Outside, Remiel could hear the chatter of the soldiers and the cries of horses in distress.

“What is happening?” the Pope asked, a slight tinge of fear evident in his voice.

Remiel cautiously opened the coach door, to be certain that they were not under attack. They were not, but somehow the soldiers had marched themselves deep into the center of a marsh, thick fog closing in on them from every direction. Several soldiers were attempting to lead their horses to solid footing, but to no avail, the panicked beasts’ cries echoing strangely across the misty moor.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Pope Tyranus demanded to know.

“Stay here,” Remiel ordered, leaping down to the muddy ground, slamming the carriage door closed behind him.

“Captain of the guard!” Remiel cried, feeling the earth suck at his boots, trying to lock him in place.

The sounds of the panicked horses, mingled with the screams of soldiers who had wandered into the bogs were eerily disturbing.

Remiel caught sight of the captain standing, holding tightly to his horse’s reins, staring out into the shifting mists.

“Captain,” he yelled, grabbing the man by the shoulder and spinning him around.

The man looked at him, eyes bulging with fear.

“How could you have led us into . . . ,” Remiel began to ask.

“We weren’t anywhere near a marsh,” the captain cried, shaking his head from side to side as his voice quaked with emotion. “A mist blew out onto the road, a mist so thick that . . .”

He stopped speaking and slowly turned back to the nightmarish scene as the wetlands claimed even more of the soldiers.

“And then we were here,” the captain finished. “May the Lord God Almighty preserve us, we were here.”

The captain let go of his horse’s reins, and the animal galloped madly off into the marsh. For a moment, Remiel lost sight of the animal in a writhing gray cloud, but then the cloud shifted; even the angel wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.