Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“Yeah, it’s pretty dark there on the shadow paths.”

Montagin wasn’t a particularly emotional being—most angels were not—but during his time upon Earth, he’d found that certain human characteristics had begun to rub off on him. He’d developed quite the affection for the general over the course of his service to him.

For a being that had once burned with the light of divinity, to now be stored away in darkness . . . it just seemed so incredibly sad.

“Do you want to say a few words?” Squire asked. “Y’know, before the angel apocalypse rains down on our fucking heads.”

Montagin turned his gaze from his former master.

“Just do it, you foul thing,” he said with a snarl.

“Only because you asked nice,” Squire said with a crooked grin as he cracked his knuckles.

The hobgoblin squatted at the edge of the shadow, reaching out and allowing just the tips of his fingers to brush against the floor where the darkness lay.

“That should do it,” he said, tilting his head to the side like an artist admiring his canvas. Then he turned to the angel. “Help me drag him over.”

“No,” Montagin said. “I’ll do it myself.”

The angel placed his arms beneath the body of General Aszrus, and lifted the corpse with ease. At the edge of the shadow, he stopped and peered down into the darkness. It reminded him of a pool of oil.

“What should I do now?”

“Lower him down,” Squire explained. “This particular passage looks as though . . .”

The shadow exploded upward in a geyser of liquid black. Montagin recoiled. Stumbling back, he lost his balance and fell to the floor with the stinking body of the angel general atop him.

“What is this?” he managed, rolling the body aside to see a giant tentacle, its underside covered in what looked to be hungry mouths, waving in the apartment air before them like a cobra waiting to strike.

“I hate when that happens,” Squire said, watching the monstrosity.

The tentacle lashed out, its movement a blur as the muscular appendage wrapped around one of Aszrus’ legs, dragging the corpse toward it.

It was bad enough that the general was going to be put into the darkness , Montagin thought as he allowed the divine power that churned within him to ignite his body, but he would be damned if he was going to allow his angel master to end up in the belly of some shadow-born abomination.

The fiery sword cut a crackling swath through the air not far from Francis’ face.

“Fuck,” the former Guardian growled as he leapt back from the blade’s path. He hadn’t hit this particular soldier of Heaven hard enough.

The angel soldier roared, his ivory wings carrying him through the air toward Francis. Francis dove out of the way, but he was too slow and the angel’s booted foot caught him on the temple, sending him sprawling to the hallway floor.

Through blurred vision Francis watched as the angel touched down, and strode eagerly toward him, burning sword ready for another strike.

Was that a smile he saw on the angel’s chiseled features?

Francis managed to push himself up into a sitting position, reaching into his suit coat as the angel prepared to deliver what was certain to be a killing strike.

“Hold that pose,” he said as he withdrew the Pitiless pistol and fired a bullet into the angel’s armored knee.

The scream was horrible. The soldier of Heaven pitched to one side, his fiery blade burying itself in the hardwood floor, angrily sputtering and crackling. He looked as though he were about to say something, but Francis didn’t wait to hear it.

“Say good night, Gracie,” the former Guardian said as he struck his foe on the side of the head with the butt of the gun.

The angel went down with a grunt, but fought to remain conscious, another weapon of fire beginning to materialize in his grasp.

Francis hit him again, and then one more time for good measure. He waited a moment to be sure that the angel was down, using the time for a much needed breather. He was surprised that he felt so winded after having dealt with only five of the home invaders. Too much living the good life is probably the answer, he thought.

There was still one more angel to go, and he was pretty sure that it was the leader, and would likely be tougher than the others.

He took a deep breath, put the gun away, and pulled out the knife again. He was just about to slice into the fabric of time and space when he caught movement from the corner of his eye—the angel he had thought was out for the count launched himself at Francis with a predator’s shriek.

The enraged soldier of God tackled Francis, sending the blade of the knife he was about to use into the substance between here and there, slicing a crooked line sideways as the two flew backward to the floor.

The angel screamed like some bird of prey, flapping his wings crazily while raining blows down upon Francis, finally knocking the special knife from his grasp.

“Son of a bitch,” Francis hissed as one of the angel’s fists connected with his face, knocking off his glasses and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. He tried going for his gun, but the fists just fell all the faster.

Fuck —a few more hits like that and Francis was sure that he wouldn’t even remember his name.

He knew what he had to do to survive.

It was the same sort of decision he’d made while standing before the Lord God, when he’d thrown himself on the mercy of his Creator. He’d known he’d fucked up in taking the side of Lucifer Morningstar and hadn’t been afraid to admit it.

And he’d fucked up again now, letting this piece-of-shit angel get the jump on him.

He called upon the special reserve of strength he always set aside for times like this, arched his back, and launched himself up toward his attacker, the flat of his forehead connecting with the angel’s face. Francis took a certain amount of pleasure in the snapping sound the angel’s nose made as it broke.

The angel was stunned as blood poured from his nostrils. Francis grabbed the angel by his breastplate and threw him to the floor. The angel yelled, his wings beating wildly. Francis had had enough. Reaching into the mass of feathers and taking hold of the angel’s wings, he savagely bent and twisted until he heard the sweet, sweet sound of snapping, followed by a wail of agony.

But Francis did not stop there. He straddled the angel, driving his own fists down upon the warrior to stun him further, and then taking hold of his head slammed it down repeatedly against the floor. Before long, the angel soldier wasn’t moving anymore, and Francis made sure that he wasn’t playing possum by giving the back of his head a few more hits before letting it limply fall upon the floor.

His own face felt broken and sore, and he could have used a few hours of rest, but he knew he still had one more soldier of Heaven to deal with. He was about to continue on his way, when he felt himself being grabbed from behind.

“You have got to be shitting me,” he managed as he was yanked backward, into the jagged rip that had been accidentally cut through time and space.

Simeon had Tjernobog, also known as Robert, construct a shelter from an old tarp, and the forever man was now sitting in what would have been the mining city’s square when the coal town had welcomed its first inhabitants back in 1887.

He was curious, and felt that this might be the perfect way to satisfy that curiosity without raising concerns. The rain was coming down in sheets, but the makeshift lean-to was doing an adequate job of keeping him dry. A small fire burned in front of him under the shelter of the tarp.

He had ordered his servants not to disturb him, but he knew they kept a watchful eye on him from the cover of some nearby buildings. Simeon really did admire their loyalty, but sometimes it proved to be a little too much. Who would have thought that the promise of Heaven destroyed could elicit such devotion?