Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“I’m going to need to take this with me and . . .”

“I think you should both leave,” she said, slowly rocking in her chair, her clenched fist held close to her heart.

“Certainly,” Remy said, gesturing for Francis to head toward the door. “I’ll return the key to you just as soon as . . .”

“I want nothing from you,” she snarled. “Go.”

And having finally found what they had been searching for, Remy and Francis did just that.

Respecting the woman’s wishes.

The Seraphim soldier was ecstatic to be free.

Remiel flapped his powerful wings, hovering over the marshland, in the midst of battle with the animated corpses that had once rested beneath the muddy mire.

They came at him in force, gliding atop the spongy surface as if insubstantial, but they were far from that. Remiel dropped down, snatching one up from the gaggle, and carrying it above the fray.

The mummified corpse struggled in his grasp, and Remiel stared deeply into sockets that had once held windows to the soul, but now only contained cold, oozing mud. He needed to be sure there was nothing there, that there wasn’t some fragment of God’s spark still residing within the animated corpse, before he unleashed his power.

Before he unleashed the full fury of the Seraphim.

There was nothing inside these things but dark magick, and Remiel felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him as he allowed the divine fire of Heaven to flow through his body and into his hands, to set the sodden flesh and rags of the struggling corpse aflame.

Remiel waited until the flailing body was fully engulfed, before casting it down to the other monsters below. The burning corpse exploded on contact with the others of its kind, God’s fire leaping hungrily from one bog mummy to the next.

Remiel dropped among them with a predator’s cry, ripping into the moving corpses with the zeal of a warrior long devoid of purpose.

There were far more of them than he had imagined; for every single one that the Seraphim destroyed, three more rose up from the wetland to come at him.

But Remiel did not mind, for it had been too long since his penchant for battle had been satisfied. He destroyed them with abandon, one after the other, animated flesh turned to so much ash by Heaven’s fire.

The marsh was alight with burning bodies, and Remiel gave an eagle-eyed search through the fog and smoke for the location from which the next assault upon him would come. He saw some of the Pope’s men struggling to pull themselves from the clutches of the mire, but they were not his concern. He turned his nose to the fetid wind; it stank of dark magick, making the hair at the back of his neck stand erect.

“Is it done?” asked the Holy Father from somewhere in the shifting fog.

“Stay where you are!” Remiel commanded, catching sight of Tyranus as he left the safety of the carriage.

He spread his wings to their fullest, readying to return to the Pope’s side, but the muddy ground began to seethe as something larger than a mummified human body surged up from beneath. His instincts at full attention, Remiel pushed off from the soft surface. But he wasn’t fast enough.

A massive vine unfurled from the bubbling mud, lashing out to entwine the angel’s ankle, preventing his escape. Remiel cried out as thorns like teeth punctured his divine flesh. Wings pounding the air frantically, he struggled in its grasp, but the thorns bit deep, holding fast to his skin. Remiel hacked at the unholy growths with his sword of fire, but another vine, and then another, shot up from the swamp to wrap around his wrist and arm, preventing him from swinging his burning blade.

The Seraphim strained against the multiple tendrils of biting vine. He let the fire come, oozing from his skin to burn away the intrusive vegetation, but the dark magick was strong, and even more of the vines whipped out from beneath the muddy ground.

Though he struggled mightily, the angel was gradually pulled to the ground. Filth-encrusted corpses lifted their heads from the bubbling mud, waiting to aid the accursed vegetation in taking him down.

His wings restrained, Remiel had little choice but to fall, the frothing surface beneath him now opening like a hungry mouth to pull him inside. The viscous fluids hissed and bubbled with the intensity of the heat thrown from his body, but the bog knew no pain, steadfastly continuing its purpose of disposing of the angelic threat he comprised.

The muddy water was freezing against his white-hot flesh, and Remiel continued his struggle to keep his face above the swamp’s clutches, but his labors appeared to be for naught.

He was going down.

The sound that preceded the blast was like something emitted from Gabriel’s horn. The clamor moved the very air, and caused the mud that was attempting to draw him down to tremble. There was magick in that tremulous sound, and it moved across the swampland with purpose.

Remiel felt himself wrenched from the hold of the vines and mud, picked up like a child’s toy and tossed away. It took him a moment to recover, but when he did, he found himself lying upon solid ground.

Solid ground, dry and smoldering.

Through the dissipating haze, Remiel saw it before him, looming and ancient looking: a castle, once hidden by powerful magicks but now revealed.

The angel climbed to his feet, fluttering his wings to remove the dust and remains of the muck and vines. He turned to see those that remained of the Pope’s men also standing upon the solid surface. Pope Tyranus was there as well, stooped, and holding on to the side of his carriage as if tired.

“Go,” the Pope said, eyes fixed upon Remiel. “Go and bring me back what is rightfully mine.”

And the angel Remiel had no choice but to do so.

Malatesta’s question lingered in the air like an offensive smell.

“Did you hear me, Remy Chandler?” the Vatican magick user asked, his voice raised over the roar of the sports car’s engine. “I said, perhaps after this situation is remedied, you might reconsider the Keepers’ invitation to . . .”

“I heard you just fine,” Remy said as he shifted the fire-engine red Ferrari into a higher gear, the engine’s powerful whine growing louder as the car surged forward.

“And?” Malatesta persisted.

Remy did not answer, hoping that his silence would speak for him. But from the corner of his eye he saw the sorcerer smile slightly, nodding his head.

Besides, there were far more important things that required his attention. And who knew, within days there might not even be a Vatican— or a world, for that matter —to work for.

Finding the charnel house that Aszrus had visited the night before his death was a piece of the puzzle that they desperately needed.

“This place we are going to,” Malatesta began. “This . . . charnel house, did you call it?”

“Yeah,” Remy said, keeping his eyes on the road, as well as the speedometer. The Ferrari Enzo was probably the fastest thing he’d ever driven, the ride so smooth that it was easy to go over the speed limit without even realizing it. Since he had never been to the address that Marley had given them in her trancelike state, he’d had to borrow one of Aszrus’ many cars, the Enzo being the fastest choice.

“Charnel houses,” Remy explained. “They’re like houses of ill repute—whorehouses. This particular one is named Rapture.”

“Why would a place of pleasure be called a charnel house?” the sorcerer questioned.

“I’m no expert, but from what Francis tells me, these houses exist on multiple planes. The magick that keeps them hidden attunes to a specific kind of negative energy in order for them to manifest themselves in a specific place, and that energy happens to be the kind left behind in locations where pain, sadness, and misery were the norm.”