Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Morgan snatched the picture from the woman and advanced on Remy.

Malatesta looked as though he might be getting ready to let loose again, when Remy turned to him.

“It’s all right.”

“Where did you get this?” Morgan demanded. Her eyes were shiny and wet, most likely from crying.

“I’m sure Bobbie already told you,” Remy said.

“You tell me,” she demanded.

“I found it in Aszrus’ place. Hidden . . . as if he didn’t want anybody to see it.”

Morgan was staring at the image again.

“It means something to you.” Remy stated the obvious.

Her moist eyes locked on his. “Yeah, you might say that.”

“That’s a picture of her child,” Bobbie announced. “She’d know it anywhere. . . . I’d know it anywhere. . . .”

“I was told my baby died at birth,” Morgan said, not taking her eyes from the photo. “Does this look like a dead baby to you?”

Remy shook his head. “No, it does not.”

It was Natalia’s turn now. “What’s it mean?” she asked, her nails having receded back to their normal length. “We’ve all been knocked up by angels, given birth to corpse babies. . . .

“If this one is alive,” Natalia said, reaching for the picture held by Morgan, “could my baby be alive, too?”

Morgan let Natalia have the photograph for a moment, but then quickly took it back.

“Do you know, angel?” Bobbie asked.

“All I know is that Aszrus is dead . . . murdered,” Remy told them. “And I think whoever was responsible is somehow connected to this.”

“Prosper said that he was fine after that business the other night,” Bobbie said. “Which is why I wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d shown up tonight.”

“Prosper seemed pretty upset that we were here poking around,” Remy said. “I don’t know about you, but I think somebody might have a guilty conscience.”

One of the other girls who’d been silent until then spoke up.

“He told me that my baby was dead,” she said, holding back tears.

“Prosper?” Remy asked.

She nodded. “He held my hand, talking all sweet to me,” she said, sounding as if she were there again. “He said that she was just like all the others, born dead—just too damn different to live.”

They all seemed to be listening to the woman, as if they could feel her pain as well.

“What if he was lying?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“I think we need to find out,” Malatesta said, leaning against the door.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed, looking at the women.

“So, who wants to take us to Prosper’s office?”

The demon sat alone, at the far back of Methuselah’s tavern indulging in its fourth libation of fermented basilisk blood and grain alcohol.

He exuded a cloud of menace, only the bravest of waitresses coming over sporadically to see if he wanted another of the foul drinks. Normally he would have had something to eat as well, but when he thought of his stomach, and what he could fill it with, it just made him remember how he had ended up this way.

The memory of how he’d lost face with his clan.

The incident had happened there, at Methuselah’s. The day had been no different from multiple others, the demon locating a passage to the tavern to slake his thirst and fill his hungry belly.

He hadn’t even noticed the Seraphim or his beast, and why should he? They were no matter to him.

That was how his species had managed to survive as long as they had: sticking to the shadows, keeping to themselves, drawing little attention to their actions.

It was a practice that would serve them well when their kind was ready to emerge and reclaim what had been stolen from them.

He had ordered a libation and an appetizer—something he had grown to love called a blooming onion. He had been about to take his first bite of the delicious, fried onion treat, when the angel’s beast had approached his table. It had looked upon him hungrily, its eyes demanding food.

The demon had no intention of sharing, and had ordered the beast go away. However, it appeared to have no intention of leaving, and had demanded that he share the blooming onion.

The demon brought his drink to his mouth, taking gulps of the thick fermented blood, as he continued to recall that troubling evening.

He had insisted the beast go away as peaceably as he was able, but the black-furred animal remained.

Eventually bringing its master to the table.

The Seraphim appeared, the light of the divine nearly blinding the demon. He’d had no quarrel with the angel, and had attempted to shy away, but the Seraphim would not have it, belittling the demon in front of the tavern’s patrons, causing him to lose face.

News of the event had traveled like the most virulent of plagues, and those of his tribe were aware of what had occurred within hours.

His entire reputation was destroyed in a matter of days.

Because of what the Seraphim had done to him, he was deemed unworthy, ostracized. Tribal law dictated that he should kill the Seraphim and his beast, but he knew it was an impossible task, his own hunger for survival canceling out any desire to attack the divine creature of light.

But in not slaying the angel, he was shunned by his kind, as if dead.

The demon had some more of his drink, mulling over the decision that he had made.

It had taken all the wealth that he’d squirrelled away to hire the assassins. But the Bone Masters were well worth the price, for once they had completed their task, he would be resurrected.

Reborn in the eyes of his people.

The demon raised a pale hand to summon a waitress. He was suddenly feeling a bit hungrier at that moment, and decided to take a chance on a blooming onion.

Before the moment of optimism could pass.

Just being in the presence of the angel had made Prosper’s hands begin to shake.

The owner of Rapture took a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. He’d been around all kinds of angels before—for fuck’s sake he was one himself—but he hadn’t been affected like this by any other.

Images sparked inside his brain, flashes of events that he hadn’t thought about— hadn’t remembered —in centuries. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all, and for making him suffer, he decided to make Remiel and his little friend suffer as well.

The thought of the indignities that would be heaped upon the Seraphim in the bowels of Rapture made Prosper smile as he leaned back in the leather chair behind his desk. Some of his customers were real sick fucks.

The memory came unbidden, like a rock thrown through a piece of frosted glass to reveal the images behind it. He saw a scene of war, and all the horrors it entailed. He had been part of the battle, fighting just as much for his life as for the cause of the Morningstar.

He hadn’t yet become Prosper; his name was Puriel, and as his compatriots had died around him, he’d wanted nothing more than to run and hide until the madness abated.

Prosper steeled himself against the flood of memories, trying to keep them back. He didn’t want to remember what had been.

How it used to be before . . .

He was attempting to get away, the air thick with an oily black smoke that rose from the burning bodies of his comrades. Puriel had been wrong in siding with the Son of the Morning, and just wanted this to stop . . . wanted it to be the way it had been.

Blindly he had leapt into the air, his tattered yellow wings carrying him over the battlefield. Something hissed as it sliced through the air, cutting into one of his wings and sending him spiraling down to the corpse-littered ground.