Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Remy became aware of a presence staring at him close by, and turned to look into the face of a very attractive woman. She, too, was holding a serving tray.

“Drink?” she asked him.

“What do you have?”

“What do you like?”

“How about a scotch on the rocks,” Remy said, leaning in close so that she would hear him over the racket disguised as music.

She lowered the tray and moved her hand over a glass filled with ice. There was a crackle of white energy and the glass was filled with what he had asked for.

Remy was impressed, but didn’t want to let on.

She handed him his drink with a lingering look and a grin, and angled her way back into the crowd, on to her next customer.

The scotch was good, really good, he noticed as he stopped for a sip while searching the sea of faces and bodies for a sign of Malatesta.

Remy saw that he was standing within one of the sunken alcoves locked in what appeared to be a rather intimate conversation with a woman clad in a black leather jumpsuit, its zipper pulled down past her navel.

Navigating the crowd, Remy made his way toward them, catching Malatesta’s eye as he approached.

“Ah, here he is now,” Remy heard the sorcerer say.

The woman looked in his direction and smiled predatorily.

“Hello there,” she said. He was surprised that she wasn’t licking her lips as she gave him the once-over.

“Hi,” Remy said.

“This is Morgan,” Malatesta said. “She and I enjoy each other’s company.”

Could he have said that any more awkwardly? Remy wondered. A couple more lines like that and red flags would be going up all over Rapture.

“Oh you do?” Remy said. “Is she one of the ones you were telling me about?” He sipped his drink, gazing over the rim of his glass at the woman, who covered her mouth demurely as she laughed.

“It’s not polite to talk to your friends about our personal business,” Morgan said to Malatesta, wagging a scarlet-nailed finger.

He chuckled, sipping from his goblet. Remy wondered what the golden cup contained, and whether it was healthy for the sorcerer to be drinking.

“He didn’t tell me much,” Remy interjected, causing the woman to turn her attention to him. “Only the juicy parts.”

He imagined Linda hearing him speak like that, and the beating that would have followed.

Morgan laughed, gliding closer to him.

“And how did he describe my juicy parts?” the woman asked without even cracking a smile. He was amazed that she had the ability to say something like that and not start laughing.

“Spectacularly?” Remy suggested, taking a long sip from his drink.

“Sounds about right,” Morgan said, and entwined her arm with his, leading him from the alcove. “Why don’t we go someplace where you can judge for yourself?”

Remy turned to see that Malatesta had been approached by yet another employee of Rapture. It appeared that the general was quite familiar with, and popular among, the staff of the charnel house.

“Don’t worry about him,” Morgan said, squeezing his arm. “She’s almost as good as I am.”

And as they walked, the crowds moved aside, like Charlton Heston as Moses, parting the Red Sea, leading his people to salvation.

Remy doubted that there would be anything even slightly reminiscent of salvation to be found at the end of this journey.

“I swear he’s gotten heavier,” Montagin said with exertion, holding on to Aszrus’ shoulders as they maneuvered the angel general’s corpse through the opening Francis had slit in reality from his basement apartment to where Squire was waiting.

“Maybe it’s the stink,” Francis said, gripping the corpse’s legs as he stepped through the fluttering passage. “Stink has to weigh something, right?”

Montagin came through and they prepared to lay the body down.

“Got any tarps or trash bags handy?” Francis asked, remembering how the body had leaked.

“Got a few Boston Herald s lying around,” Squire responded.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Francis said.

The hobgoblin shot into the kitchen, returned with a small stack of newspapers, and began to lay them on the floor.

“Got it,” he said as he finished.

Francis had begun to position himself to lower the bottom half of the dead Aszrus down, when Montagin released his end, the angel general’s skull sounding like a dropped bowling ball as it bounced off the hardwood floor beneath the newspaper.

Francis just glared at the angel.

“What?” Montagin protested. “It isn’t like he’s going to feel it.”

He was about to wipe his hands on his pants when he thought better of it.

“I need to wash my hands,” the fussy angel proclaimed.

“Go right ahead,” Squire told him. “But I’m fresh out of lavender bath soaps.”

Montagin fixed the hobgoblin in a withering stare.

Squire looked right back at him, refusing to back down.

Francis knew that he liked the little guy for a reason.

Montagin left the scene disgusted as he went in search of a sink to wash his hands.

“Don’t forget to lift the seat, Mary,” Squire grumbled beneath his breath as the angel passed.

The passage Francis had cut from his apartment to here healed shut noisily with a sucking sound, leaving nothing behind to show that the tear had ever been there.

“Now what?” Francis asked.

“Now we get him someplace where it won’t matter if he stinks to high fucking hell.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Francis agreed.

Squire rubbed his stubby hands together. “First off, we need a nice piece of shadow.”

The hobgoblin was in the process of moving his sparse furniture around, so that the sun coming in from the unshaded window provided them with the largest area of shadow that they could have, when the explosion caused the apartment to shake.

“What the fuck?” Squire cried out.

Francis was already on the move, pistol in his hand as he left the living room, in pursuit of the commotion going on down the hallway in the first bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, and was relieved that it was only Montagin, his chest burning from where he had been struck. He rose to his feet, wings spread.

“You dare use your filthy magick upon me!” the angel bellowed, facing off against an unknown assailant in the bedroom.

A blast of crackling energy whipped out, striking where the angel had just been standing. He leapt above the latest assault, propelling himself into the bedroom with a thrust of his wings.

Francis aimed his pistol from the doorway, the racket of battle rising up from the skirmish unfolding before him.

“For the love of Christ,” he cried, slipping away his gun. “Break it up you two!”

He entered the room, careful to avoid magickal spells that were missing their intended target and striking nearby walls. If this kept up he could see some pretty hefty repair work in his building’s future.

“Knock it off!” the former Guardian angel screamed again as he watched Montagin and the sorcerer, Angus Heath, thrashing about on the floor of the bedroom.

There was a flash of divine fire, and Francis knew that things were about to get even more serious as he dove forward to grab Montagin by the shoulder, hauling him backward with a show of inhuman strength.

“Get your filthy hands off of me,” the angel said with a snarl, turning a flaming hand toward Francis.

The gun was shoved up underneath Montagin’s nose.

“I will turn the top of your head into a fucking Frisbee,” Francis snarled.

A blast of magickal energy struck Montagin from behind, causing him to cry out. He fell to the ground, his body crackling in a magickal corona.