Thomas Sniegoski: Walking In the Midst of Fire

Stepping through the door, roiling fire at his back, the angel Remiel wondered how many more he would need to comfort on their way to death before the virulent plague ran its course.

The whinnying of horses distracted him from his thoughts, and the angel, clad in the clothes of a simple man, looked to see that he was now being watched.

The knights sat upon their horses, watching him with suspicious eyes. He could have easily willed himself invisible and gone on his way unhampered, but these armored soldiers, there was something about them.

Something that made him curious.

The shack behind him had become like a ball of fire, and he continued to watch the knights, their horses made nervous by the intensity of the divine flames.

“There was great sickness here,” Remiel spoke above the roar of the flames. “But I have put an end to it.”

The knights continued their silence, watching him with scrutinizing eyes.

“Is there something I can do for you, brave knights?” Remiel asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Our master wishes an audience,” said one of the soldiers.

“With me?” Remiel asked. “Why would someone of obvious power wish to speak with one such as me?”

“He knows what you are, soldier of God,” said the knight, bowing his head.

The other knights followed suit in reverence to the angel.

“Will you accompany us to nearby Bohner Castle to speak with the Holy Father?” the knight asked.

“Holy Father?” Remiel repeated, curious about the title they had given their master.

“Yes, warrior of Heaven,” the knight said. “The Holy Father, Pope Tyranus of the Holy See.”

They had brought along a riderless horse, and presented it to him.

“Will you ride with us?” the knight asked him, as the other knights watched. “Or would you prefer other means in which to reach our destination?”

Remiel had grown temporarily disenchanted with the wearisome task of ministering to the dying, and believed that this might be just the kind of distraction that he required at that moment.

“Take me to your master,” he said, climbing up onto his mount. The flaming home behind him collapsed with an animal-like roar, tongues of angelic fire lapping eagerly at the damp, night air.

“Take me to Pope Tyranus.”

Steven’s visit had left Remy’s mind buzzing.

After his friend had decided to pack it in for the evening, he’d stayed on the roof for a while pondering the questions of an uncertain future.

His dreams warning of an impending war, and now the Vatican looking for him, made him very anxious indeed.

But what to do about it?

Remy downed the last of his scotch, not allowing himself to feel the effects of the alcohol. Marlowe was looking up from the floor where he lay.

“We should think about heading down,” Remy said, his mind still annoyingly abuzz.

“Yes,” Marlowe agreed, in the voice of his species.

Remy stood, grabbed the nearly empty bottle of scotch and the two tumblers, and started for the doorway. Marlowe cut him off, zipping down the stairs in front of him to get inside first, his toenails clicking on the wood steps as he made his way down.

“Don’t make too much noise,” Remy warned the beast. “You don’t want to wake up Linda. You know what she’s like when you wake her up.”

Remy laughed as he heard Marlowe’s bark of a response. “Monster!”

“Exactly,” Remy replied as they reached the first floor.

Most of the lights were off, but Remy had no problem moving around in the darkness. With just a thought, he could adjust the structure of his eyes, and see in the black as though the sun was coming in through the windows.

Marlowe drank sloppily from his bowl of water in the kitchen corner as Remy set the bottle on the counter and put the dirty glasses in the sink.

No matter how hard he tried to slow it down, his brain simply refused to cut him that slack. Something was brewing, and he knew that it likely had to do with the return of Lucifer to the prison dimension of Tartarus to remake it in his own image.

To turn it into Hell.

Remy had always feared something like this happening—the forces of God once again pitted against the Morningstar.

He needed to know what was happening; needed to know how close the impending disaster was, and how much danger the world of man would be in.

It was time to make a call.

He moved away from the sink and caught sight of Marlowe watching him from the corner, his shiny black coat blending with the shadows. The dog’s tail immediately started to wag.

“What?” Remy asked.

“What?” the dog repeated in a throaty growl.

Remy was just about to ask him if he wanted to go for a ride, when suddenly they were no longer alone.

Linda sleepily rubbed at her eyes as she leaned against the kitchen doorframe. “What are you guys doing?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

Remy couldn’t help but stare at her. She was wearing the gray, extralarge Walking Dead T-shirt they had bought at Newbury Comics the week before and nothing else, her long, shapely legs looking even longer and shapelier than they usually did. Her hair was tousled, suggesting that she had been asleep for a bit. She ran her fingers through the long, dark locks, pushing them back from her face.

Though half-asleep, Linda smiled at him, and he felt that sudden flush of humanity that he had learned to appreciate so much.

“Want to fool around?” she asked, biting at her lower lip, her hair falling back over one half of her face.

She couldn’t have been sexier if she’d tried.

“What kind of a man do you take me for?” he asked, crossing his arms in mock indignation.

She padded toward him. “The kind that stands around in a dark kitchen with his dog, stinking of booze,” she said. She kissed him hard upon the lips, then pulled away.

“And tasting of booze, too,” she added, making a face.

She turned, heading back for the doorway, walking in such a way that he had no choice but to watch her. “If you have any interest at all in my offer, you know where I’ll be,” she called over her shoulder as she passed through the door into the room beyond.

“Huh.” Remy looked at Marlowe.

“Bed?” Marlowe asked, his blocky head cocked to one side.

“Eventually,” Remy said. “A little playtime first.”

“Playtime?” Marlowe repeated eagerly. He looked about the darkened kitchen for one of his toys.

“Sorry, pal. Not that kind of play.” He patted the dog’s head as he passed him. “People play.”

He heard Marlowe sigh pathetically behind him, and turned to see his friend sitting dejectedly, head low, in the darkened kitchen.

“I’ll tell you what. Once Linda and I are finished playing, I’ll take you out for a walk.” Remy told him.

The Labrador’s thick tail thumped furiously on the kitchen floor.

“Walk!” Marlowe barked, his sadness suddenly forgotten.

Remy placed a finger to his lips, warning the dog to be quiet. “After playtime,” he assured the dog, starting toward the flight of stairs that would take him up to his bedroom. Once again, Marlowe rushed past to get there first.

“Stay off the bed!” Remy warned as the dog bounded up the stairs. The sound of Linda’s surprised scream, followed by hysterical laughter and a dog’s playful growl proved that the one obedience class they’d attended had certainly done the trick.

England

1301

Since being touched by the Nazarene, Simeon could not die.

It was not as if he hadn’t tried; it was just that death would not have him.