Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

A timer was ticking away, and it was attached to something akin to an atomic bomb, only worse. At least an atomic bomb would be quick.

“I’m really not sure,” he told her, glancing over to the car, and at Malatesta, who was leaning against it, watching the building with an unwavering eye, waiting for something to happen.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”

Suddenly they weren’t alone. More cars approached, headlights blazing as they carefully made their way down the severely damaged stretch of road that would bring them to the factory.

Malatesta had turned, and was looking toward him. It must have been time.

“Listen, I have to go,” Remy told Linda.

She told him to be safe, and not to worry about them, that they were doing just fine.

He then joked about what might have been hiding in that tree. They had a good laugh, and she told him that his dog was likely insane.

“All right, I gotta go,” he said, not wanting to, but knowing that he must. His only consolation was that the quicker he figured out who was responsible for killing the general, the faster that he could get back to her.

They both ended the call with “I love you,” and Remy tucked those feelings away for when he could appreciate them. For love would be seriously out of place where he and Malatesta were going.

“Everything all right?” Malatesta asked, standing beside the car.

Remy opened the passenger door of the Ferrari and placed his phone in the glove compartment. He doubted that he would need it where they were going, and didn’t want to lose yet another phone.

They had parked in a deep patch of shadow, away from the fence that had been erected around the abandoned factory grounds.

A quick Google search back in Rhode Island had shown that Prometheus Arms in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had been one of the biggest producers of guns on the East Coast for at least twenty-five years before eventually shutting down in the early eighties.

The place had a history of safety violations that spanned most of its existence. The old place had seen a lot of death and pain in its day.

It was no wonder that it was the chosen location for the charnel house to appear.

“It seems that we are not the only ones to use this particular entrance,” Malatesta said.

They watched from the shadows as figures left their vehicles, walking toward the fence that surrounded the abandoned building.

“We might want to get ready,” Remy said, watching as the first of the individuals reached the padlocked, chained gate. Within moments, the rusted chain had fallen with a loose jingle to the ground, and the gate had swung wide to allow all of them access.

Malatesta had closed his eyes, and was mumbling something entirely alien sounding beneath his breath. Remy took notice of the fact that the flesh of his face had begun to tremble violently, so violently that the movement created a kind of blurry aura that began to spread from his neck, to his shoulders, and downward.

Within minutes the Vatican sorcerer had transformed himself into the angel, Aszrus.

“Impressive,” Remy said, walking around the sorcerer to see the entire package. “It would fool me.”

“Let’s just hope that it’s good enough to get us inside,” Malatesta answered, straightening his suit coat, and adjusting his tie.

“We’ll never know until we try,” Remy said, gesturing for the magick user to proceed.

The two of them walked toward the doors of Prometheus Arms, and into the arms of the unknown.

Prosper could barely recall what he had once been, and was the happier for it.

He vaguely recalled Heaven in faded fragments, visions that would come to him in tattered images when he had imbibed to excess.

But what followed Heaven were the memories that proved more distinct—the tortures of Tartarus, the prison where angels who had sided with the Morningstar were incarcerated, forced to relive their sins against God until deemed worthy of release. But once freed, Heaven was still denied those angels; instead they were forced to continue their penance on the world of God’s favorite pets, humanity.

Penance, Prosper thought with a grin as he walked into the howling winds and rain that tried to push him back. He doubted there was a single thing he’d done since arriving on Earth that could be considered penance.

He had found the world of man to be cruel and decadent, but he’d managed to build a life for himself far away from the fragmented memories of Heaven. Prosper had built his own paradise in the hundreds of years he’d been exiled, and gladly let the recollections of God’s kingdom slip away.

It was the vices that he learned to exploit, the twisted pleasures enjoyed not only by man, but the other supernatural beings that had found themselves upon the Earth. His places of forbidden pleasures—his dens of inequity—were the bane of his rivals. None could offer what he did, and the human, as well as the unearthly, sought out his establishments with vigor.

Fighting the wind-swept rain, he paused long enough to realize that he was being watched. He shielded his eyes against the stinging downpour and looked at the gray, concrete buildings around him. Prosper wanted to know which of them had chosen to skulk in the shadows, watching him, reveling in the idea that he had been summoned here now.

Eager to see him punished as he often punished them.

If he had his way they would all be dead, and the current situation that was causing him so much grief would never have transpired.

Prosper scowled as he gazed at the seemingly empty windows, hoping that they saw the displeasure upon his face.

He reached the building that housed his office, and found one of Simeon’s demon lackeys waiting for him in the entryway.

“Prosper,” Beleeze said with a courteous nod.

“He’s already here?” Prosper asked, moving toward his office door.

“Oh yes,” the demon replied. “He’s been waiting for quite some time.”

Damn it all, Prosper thought, managing to appear cool on the outside. He had been hoping to reach his office before Simeon arrived.

He knew the forever man would have one question after another and had wanted time to prepare.

Damn it all to Hell.

“Simeon,” Prosper said with a smile as he threw open the door. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I was in the middle of—”

“I’ve been waiting longer than I care to,” Simeon interrupted. He was sitting on a leather couch in the darkest part of the office.

“I’m sorry about that,” Prosper said. “There were some loose ends that needed cutting.”

He made his way to his desk, pulling out the high-backed leather chair. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked before sitting down. “Maybe a snack?”

“I should be snacking on your still-beating heart,” Simeon snapped, standing bolt upright, seemingly without bending his legs.

“Now, Simeon,” Prosper said, attempting to soothe the man. “There’s no need for that.”

“No need?” Simeon asked, slowly walking toward the desk. “One of your charges slips away and commits murder, shitting on plans that I’ve had in motion for years, and you don’t think I have reason to be upset?”

“Honestly?” Prosper asked. “No, I do not.”

Prosper didn’t even see him move. Suddenly he felt himself lifted from his seat and thrown viciously over the desk to the floor beyond. He lay on his back, stunned, with the grinning visage of Simeon looming above him.

“Do I look like someone who enjoys being fucked with?” the forever man asked, his eyes bulging so wide that they looked as though they might pop from his head.