Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“The Lord God gave you a very special gift, Fraciel, and this is how you repay Him?”

Francis tensed, pulling on his chains. Let me tell you about the Lord God’s special gift, he wanted to spit, but thought better of it.

God did not send him to the prison of Tartarus with the other traitors, but he’d been given over to the angelic host, the Thrones, to serve as their assassin—removing those they deemed a threat to the edicts of Heaven. It was a less than pleasant position, but one that he’d endured for millennia in pursuit of God’s forgiveness.

Francis was still waiting.

“Just being polite,” Francis said, holding back the bile that threatened to spill from his lips.

Michael moved without being seen, suddenly close enough to shove the burning coal against the prisoner’s chest and hold it there.

Francis ground his teeth together and tossed his head back against this latest assault upon his senses; the sound of his flesh cooking, the sickly sweet smell of roasting meat, the feel of the coal—kept insanely hot by contact with the Archangel—as it tried to melt its way through his chest to his heart.

“We know that you are serving him again,” Michael said. “And to say that the Almighty is disappointed—”

“Never . . . wanted to . . . disappoint,” Francis managed, the pain threatening to take him someplace dark, and cool, and away from the perpetual agony. “Only trying . . . trying to keep the peace.”

Much to his surprise, and relief, Michael took away the coal.

“Tell me, Fraciel,” he said. “Is the act of murder how your master attempts to keep the peace?” The burning coal fell from the Archangel’s hand to smolder upon the wet, stone floor.

Francis’ head slumped to his chest. His breath came in pants, but he kept his eyes fixed upon the white-hot stone that gradually cooled on the ground in front of him. He imagined the coal as his pain, slowly—ever so slowly—being dialed back.

“As I told your handsome partner . . . ,” Francis began, shifting his eyes briefly from the coal to Dardariel, who had stepped obediently aside when the big guns had shown up. He saw the angel tense, clearly wanting another crack at him.

Shit, who wouldn’t?

“I had nothing to do with the general’s untimely demise,” Francis finished.

The Archangel strolled back to the brazier, helping himself to another of the burning coals. “Then, pray tell,” he said, casually tossing the white-hot object up into the air and catching it, as somebody would with a pebble found on the beach. “How did his body come to be found in your dwelling?”

Francis tried to assemble the facts inside his head into some discernible order before speaking.

“My companions and I . . .” He suddenly remembered Montagin and Heath and wondered if they were being treated as well as he was. “How are my companions by the way?”

“Quite well,” Michael answered. He was holding the coal between thumb and forefinger, blowing on it to make it glow all the hotter. “I just checked on them myself.”

Francis didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing he could do.

“We didn’t want the general’s body to be found,” he explained. “So we brought it to my place for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?” Michael repeated. He continued to toss the coal, and it appeared to be getting hotter each time it landed on the Archangel’s palm.

“Somebody murdered General Aszrus. There isn’t any doubt about that. But who actually did it, is where it gets tricky.”

Michael listened, the coal going up, and then down.

“The situation between Heaven and . . . my employer is nothing short of volatile, and now that the general’s death has been revealed, we’re dancing on the cusp of what my companions and I feared would happen.”

Dardariel must have been feeling brave, because he interrupted the grown-ups talking.

“He lies,” the angel proclaimed. “This one was untruthful to the Lord God Himself; do you seriously believe that—”

Michael flicked the coal away, striking Dardariel in the forehead.

“Silence,” the Archangel commanded.

Dardariel scowled, but he did as he was told.

“Your companions,” Michael said to Francis. “The angel Montagin, the human sorcerer, Heath . . . Am I forgetting anyone?”

“There was a hobgoblin, but he had some things to do and couldn’t stick around for all the fun.”

“Anyone else?” Michael prompted.

Francis smiled, realizing what the Archangel was getting at.

“Yeah, Remy’s involved in this,” he said, watching as Michael’s expression changed from bored to interested.

The Archangel stepped closer to Francis, his mere presence making him feel as though he was being crushed against the stone wall.

“What part does he play?”

Francis tried to suppress his smile, but he couldn’t. He looked up into Michael’s eyes. “The most important part of all: He’s trying to keep it all from turning to shit.”

Remy took point, moving down the corridor as quickly and as carefully as he could, Malatesta at his heels. His first instinct was to get the hell out of Dodge, but to come this far, with still so much unanswered, he decided that he was going to go for broke.

Besides, there was far too much at stake to stop now. For the briefest of moments, he imagined what the world would be like as Heaven went to war with Hell. It was all a little overwhelming.

He turned to make sure that the Vatican magick user was keeping up.

“You with me?”

“Unfortunately,” Malatesta said, leaning against a plaster wall.

They were in a lower part of the charnel house. It wasn’t very fancy, and Remy guessed that this was some place the customers seldom saw.

He suddenly tensed as he heard the sound of multiple voices coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. He motioned for Malatesta to follow him and cautiously moved forward.

The voices were female, and they were coming from behind a heavy wooden door to their left. Remy stepped closer to the door, and listened. One of the voices was definitely the woman who had questioned him about Aszrus’ photo.

The woman who still had answers that Remy wanted to hear.

“We’re going in,” Remy told Malatesta.

The magick user looked as though he was about to protest, but Remy was already turning the knob, and quickly darted inside.

The women stopped talking immediately, all five of them looking toward the door as Remy and Malatesta stepped in, closing the door behind them.

Remy recognized Natalia, who had gone off with Malatesta, Morgan, and the older woman.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan asked, a look of shock on her beautiful face.

“I’ll call security,” one of the others said, heading for an old-fashioned phone on the wall.

A blast of magickal energy struck the woman in the side, hurling her backward into the wall, where she dropped to the floor unconscious.

Remy turned to Malatesta, seeing his hand crackling with the residue of the spell he’d cast.

“No security,” the magick user said, and Remy had to consider if it was the Larva or the man who was with them now.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Remy said, as much to Malatesta as the women. “We just need some answers.”

“I’ll give you answers,” Natalia said, holding up her hand as the bright red fingernails began to grow longer.

“Knock it off, Nat,” the older woman said.

Remy noticed then that older woman was still holding the baby photo in her hand.

“But, Bobbie . . . ,” Natalia started to protest, before a cold look from the woman silenced her.

“I think this one might have some answers to our own questions,” Bobbie said, shaking the photo.