Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Remy glanced over at the sorcerer.

“Places of hopelessness and death,” he said. “Metaphorically speaking, charnel houses.”

Malatesta stared straight ahead.

“And why would a creature of Heaven feel the need to frequent one of these sad places?”

Remy wasn’t sure if he wanted to open that can of worms—especially to someone in the service of one of the largest religious organizations on the planet.

“Let’s just say your perception of divine beings, and what they are like, might be a tad off,” he said, hoping to leave it at that.

“What is there to mistake about beings who serve the every whim of the Lord God Almighty?”

Here we go, Remy thought. He was going to have to maneuver this one carefully.

“That they might be a bit more self-serving than you realize,” he explained carefully. “That the Lord God might not always fit into their plans. They might say that He does, but that’s just a good excuse to do something they want to do.”

“Are you saying that God might not be aware of what His divine creations are doing?” The sorcerer chuckled with disbelief.

“I’m saying that He has a tendency to be a bit lax when it comes to holding on to His dogs’ leashes.”

Malatesta looked horrified.

“What can I say?” Remy said. “From what I’ve observed over the millennia I’ve been here, He really doesn’t appear to be paying attention a lot of the time.”

The sorcerer fell silent then, likely pondering Remy’s words and their meaning for the faith that he served, wondering whether the angel could be believed.

And wasn’t that what it always came down to? What to believe, and what not to.

Remy watched the speedometer climb past ninety, and took his foot from the gas. He was tempted to turn on the radio, but was afraid he might hear that the war between Heaven and Hell had begun.

Instead, he focused on the things that were currently in motion, things that would prevent what he feared most from transpiring.

“Why did you need me to come with you?” Malatesta asked, breaking the silence. “I would think that your fallen friend, Francis, would have been a far superior choice to enter a charnel house than I.”

There was no one on Earth, or any place else, that Remy would rather have watching his back than Francis, but the former Guardian had special skills that were best used elsewhere.

“Aszrus’ body needs to be watched over by somebody who can handle a potentially explosive situation,” Remy explained. “Francis is the right choice for that job.”

“And I am the right choice for this one?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Remy said. “You’ve handled yourself quite well. And that glamour you pulled to send those angels looking for Aszrus packing is exactly what I’ll need once we reach Rapture.”

“Thank you,” he said with a bow of his head. “Hopefully I won’t disappoint.”

“I hope so, too,” Remy said, steering toward their exit.

It was going to be interesting, especially when the imposter Aszrus tried to bring a guest to the party.

The Bone Master sat quietly in the tree across from the brownstone on Pinckney Street, watching the front entrance for signs of his prey.

He was cloaked in patches of black, having used the existing shadows from the trees to weave a quilt of darkness to hide in. The Master had been up there for quite some time, witnessing only the comings and goings of his prey’s female and his four-legged pet.

The angel had not yet returned.

The Bone Master rested his weapon across his legs, gently running the tips of his fingers along the curves of its ribs. A psychic response of pleasure vibrated in his mind, telling the assassin that his weapon was content, but would not know its own full potential until its current task was fulfilled.

Until death was delivered to their quarry.

He’d heard that one of the other Masters had met their fate—that the angel was proving to be a far more competent adversary than originally believed.

The Bone Master recalled his meeting with the client who wished the angel Remy Chandler killed. There was much rage in that one, and when asked why the angel needed to die, the client simply explained that the angel had insulted him, causing him to lose face.

Remy Chandler’s death would be an attempt to reclaim this honor. And the amount of honor lost must have been great indeed, for this Master knew that others of his assassins’ clan had been hired by this same client. But it was no matter, for he knew that he would be the one to take the angel down.

The Bone Master had accepted this venture, not really caring why he was killing the angel, only that he and his weapon would be allowed to do what they had been born to do.

Memories of his youth, when his weapon was still a living and breathing thing, flashed through his mind. Even then he knew that their bond was something special, that there would be nothing to stop them from achieving a special place in the history of the Bone Masters.

He wanted to be the greatest of them all, as did his weapon. They would be legendary in the annals of their demon sect. Their number of kills would be in the multitudes, and they would remember each and every one, each death a step in achieving the greatness for which they had been born.

But the Bone Master was getting ahead of himself; there were still many kills in his future, and his journey would continue with this latest.

There was movement from the dwelling, and the Master quickly changed his position, weapon at the ready.

The female stepped out from behind the door, the four-legged pet on a leash, tail wagging excitedly as they headed out on another walk.

The Bone Master’s eyes were following the pair, when the animal suddenly stopped, turning his snout to the air and beginning to sniff. It growled and barked, trying to pull the female across the street toward the tree where the assassin waited, concealed.

The Bone Master tensed, his weapon vibrating with the potential to deliver death. He reached up to his mouth, gripped one of his pointed teeth, and with a vicious twist and pull, removed the ammunition. He did this, again and again, loading the weapon. Finally he slid the last tooth into the weapon, and feeling its acceptance, waited to see whether its use would be necessary.

The woman spoke harshly to the animal, yanking him back to the other side of the street and reining him in. They then continued down the street, the dog trying to turn back, until they rounded the corner and were gone.

The weapon’s disappointment buzzed in his mind, and he reassured it that the chance to inflict death would be awarded soon enough.

It was just a matter of time, and patience.

And to achieve the greatness that was to be their destiny, they would have to have plenty of both.

Remy moved farther away from the car so he could have some privacy.

“I don’t have a clue. Maybe he saw something in the tree?” Remy suggested into the phone. He was speaking to Linda, who was complaining about Marlowe’s bad behavior on their walk.

“Well, tell him that you’re going to bring him to the pound if he gives you any more trouble,” Remy told her jokingly. “And tell him that I told you to do it.”

Remy chuckled as he heard her do just that, and then heard the sound of Marlowe barking wildly in protest.

His eyes wandered around his surroundings, and he felt his momentary lightheartedness quickly dispelled by the grim pall that seemed to hang over the dilapidated factory structure.

Linda then told him that Marlowe was mad, laughing as she did this. And then came the inevitable question of when he was coming home. Remy wanted to be there with her and Marlowe right then, would have loved to say fuck it to the whole current situation, but he knew that he could do no such thing.