Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

The captain’s horse was struggling mightily in the mire, which appeared to be hungry. When it seemed that the muscular beast would manage to free itself, something Remiel could not quite discern in the haze reached up from the water and mud to drag it back from whence it had escaped.

The Seraphim glanced toward the captain and realized he was no longer beside him. Remiel saw him wandering off in another direction, as if answering some siren call.

It was then that the angel sensed it. It had been hidden at first, mingling with the damp, heady smell of the marshlands, but the angel found it as the screams of animal and man intensified, and the shapes of things that might have once been human pulled themselves up from the clutches of the moors to shamble through the fog.

It was the scent of dark magick.

Remiel reached beneath his robes for the sword that hung there, the blade immediately igniting as it became engorged with the fire of the divine.

The light of the blade cut through the unnatural shadows and shifting mist, illuminating the horrors that were making their way directly toward him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Pope Tyranus cried out, clambering out of the carriage onto the moist ground. “I do not care to be kept waiting!”

It took a moment, but the Pope finally saw what was illuminated in the light of the angel’s sword.

“What in the name of all that is holy?” he stated, staring numbly ahead at the sight of the men, women, and children that had been sacrificed to the bogs so many years ago, their strangely preserved bodies . . .

Now returned to ghastly life.

It didn’t take Remy long to find Neal’s address, seeing as there was only one employee with that first name working at the Elite Limousine Company out of Warwick, Rhode Island. Doubting that they’d be willing to hand out personal information over the phone, Remy had paid a visit to the office.

It was quiet at Elite that morning, and willing himself unseen, Remy had whispered in the office manager, Ginny’s, ear that things were incredibly slow, and maybe she should go grab herself a coffee over at the Dunkin Donuts down the street to keep herself awake.

Ginny had heeded his suggestion, leaving him with access to the company’s files, where, after a little searching, he found the address of one Neal Moreland of Providence.

Seeing as the Mercedes that he’d borrowed from Aszrus’ garage had a GPS, it didn’t take long at all to find the driver’s residence in downtown Providence. Remy parked the car as close to the old apartment building on Pequot Street as he could, and walked around to the back of the building. There was a back door, and Remy quietly climbed the six steps up to it, peering in through the curtained window to see an entryway, and a back flight of stairs leading to the apartments above. He took a brief look around to see whether anybody was watching before unfurling his wings. He quickly wrapped himself in their embrace, and thinking about the hallway on the other side of the door, suddenly appeared there. According to Elite’s schedule book, Neal had had a late-night international pick-up at Logan last night and was supposed to be driving somebody back to the Boston airport later that afternoon, so this would probably be an awesome time to catch him. Remy slowly climbed the steps up to the second floor, and was making his way to the third when he felt it.

It was like walking into a curtain of spiderwebs, a strange tickling sensation across his bare skin alerting him that something of an unearthly nature had recently manifested itself in the area. He immediately went on guard, focusing his preternatural senses on his surroundings.

The wood creaked as he stepped onto the third-floor landing. A short hallway was before him, Neal’s apartment at the end.

Remy listened carefully to the sounds of the old building, hearing only the creaks of centuries-old wood, the distinct hum of multiple refrigerators, and in one apartment, the contented purr of a cat. Attuning his hearing to the apartment he wanted, Remy didn’t hear any signs of life, and was fearful that Neal had already left for the day.

Standing in front of the driver’s door, Remy was about to knock, just to be sure, when . . .

“He ain’t home,” said a voice from behind him, nearly causing him to explode out of his skin.

It took a second or two to realize that he knew that voice.

Remy turned to see Francis leaning against the wall behind him.

“Where the hell were you hiding?” Remy asked, annoyed, but also glad to see his friend. A second set of hands was always helpful.

“I’ve been right here all along,” the balding assassin said. “Guess those ninja correspondence courses were da bomb.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working,” Francis said, pushing off the wall to approach the door. “But the person I was sent to check on isn’t home.”

“Huh,” Remy said, interested in the fact that they seemed to be here to see the same person. “And you’ve been sent here to see this person by your current employer?”

“I was.”

“This has the potential to be very bad,” Remy said to his friend.

He assumed that his friend’s mysterious new employer was Lucifer Morningstar, although Francis had never actually confirmed that.

“Care to share?” Francis asked, his eyes a cold and piercing gray behind his dark-framed glasses.

Remy wasn’t sure how much to say, for if Montagin’s suspicions about the legions of the Morningstar being responsible for Aszrus’ murder were correct, then this could very well blow up in his face, and spread exponentially from there.

“Let’s just say that I’m working on a potentially explosive case, and wanted to talk to the individual who lives in this apartment.”

Francis stroked his chin with a long-fingered hand. “A potentially explosive case,” he repeated. “And it just so happens to be somebody that I’m checking up on as well. What are the odds of that?”

“Those are some pretty crazy odds,” Remy agreed with a slow nod.

“Aren’t they?” Francis replied.

His friend had already turned to the door, and was reaching inside his pocket for the knife that had once belonged to one of Heaven’s most powerful angels. Francis had learned that he had been manipulated by this angel, part of his memory cut away by the very blade he now had in his possession.

Francis had killed that angel for the indignity, and for his troubles, had kept the knife.

He inserted the ultrathin blade into the lock on the door, and slowly turned it. The door swung open.

“Would you look at that?” Francis exclaimed. “It’s unlocked.”

“Imagine that,” Remy said, following the former Guardian angel inside.

The door opened into a small kitchen. They both looked around.

“See anything?” Francis asked.

The apartment was relatively tidy, all things considered, and Remy didn’t see anything that set off any alarm bells. Silently, he walked toward the living area, focusing on a tiny desk against the wall and the laptop that was resting there.

“Well, since you’re not being all that forthcoming, let me start,” Francis said. He was in front of the refrigerator, examining some notes held in place by magnets.

“Neal Moreland is doing some work for my employer.”

Remy quickly turned his gaze to his friend.

“A limousine driver from Providence, Rhode Island, is working for Lucifer Morningstar?”

Francis glanced at Remy, then back to the fridge.

“I never said who my employer was.” There was a hint of coldness in his tone.

“Cut the shit, Francis. I know,” Remy said. He was poking around the desk, careful to not mess anything up.