Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“Any suggestions?” the magick user asked, casting a spell that pushed several zombies away with a deafening clap of displaced air.

Remy waded among the dead men, allowing himself to be surrounded. “Erect a bubble of magick around me and my playmates,” he ordered.

Malatesta looked at him, hesitating.

“Just do it,” Remy urged.

And the sorcerer did, weaving a spell of crackling white energy that encased the Seraphim and the zombies that threatened to bring him down in a sphere of magick.

Remy caught the magick user’s eye and gave him a little nod, before he allowed his body to go completely nova.

It felt good to allow his body to shine as it once had in the presence of the Holy Father—an angel showed its true respect for the Almighty being that had created it by willing its body to glow like one of the stars in the sky.

Then he called the fire back, taking it within his body, allowing his flesh to cool and the human visage that he wore to heal. Since reconciling with his angelic nature, the regeneration process of his human skin and attire was much quicker, and certainly far less painful.

Remy was kneeling amidst piles of ash—all that remained of the animated dead men that had been trying to kill him. He looked toward Malatesta and nodded again, and the Vatican sorcerer opened the bubble of magick with a wave of his hands.

“It was getting stuffy in there,” Remy said offhandedly, returning to a more human guise.

He walked past the open door, giving it a sideways glance. “Think you could maybe shut that for a bit longer?” he asked Malatesta.

Again the magick user did what was asked of him, using a spell of reassembly to make the door whole.

“What are we doing?” Malatesta asked. “Don’t you think it would be wise to get out of here?”

Remy passed Bobbie as he strode to the back of the room where Prosper had disappeared. She was most certainly dead, and he made a silent promise to her that Prosper would be held accountable.

“He just disappeared,” Remy said as the magick user joined him. “One minute he was here, and the next . . . gone.” He searched for a sign of a secret door or passage that would have allowed the club owner to escape. “I can’t see anything,” he said, his frustration mounting.

Malatesta was running his hands along the wall as well, his eyes tightly closed. “It isn’t supposed to be seen,” he explained.

Remy looked over to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sensing the use of magick here,” Malatesta said. “Powerful stuff.”

“What kind of magick?” Remy wanted to know, feeling himself growing excited.

“A spell of passage,” Malatesta replied.

He opened his eyes and looked to Remy. The magick user still looked sick, and Remy couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

He quickly brushed it aside; there would be time for that when the threat of war wasn’t breathing down their necks.

“Can you find the opening?” Remy asked.

Malatesta sighed, closing his eyes again. “I get a sense, but I don’t have a key.”

“Pick the lock,” Remy suggested.

Malatesta looked at him.

“Pick the lock?”

“Yeah, if you call yourself a powerful sorcerer, pick the lock.”

The man seemed flustered, stepping away from the wall.

“You don’t understand what I’ve just been through,” he said. “It’s taking everything I have to keep it together . . . to keep what’s inside me from—”

“Which won’t matter at all if Heaven and Hell turn the planet into a battleground,” Remy finished.

Malatesta glared at him for a few moments as Remy’s words appeared to sink in.

“I’m not saying I can do this,” he finally said.

“Sure you can,” Remy urged. “I’ve got faith in you.”

The magick user extended his arms, fingers splayed. He closed his eyes, and Remy watched as his expression turned to one of exertion and strain.

“Anything?” he asked, impatiently.

“Shut up,” Malatesta commanded.

Remy continued to watch as a sheen of sweat broke out on the man’s brow and upper lip.

“I’m not sure how much longer . . . ,” Malatesta said, his voice shaking with exertion.

Remy could hear scuffling from the hall outside the office and doubted that they had much time before the next assault wave started.

“I don’t know if you can hear that but . . .”

“Shut up!” Malatesta cried again, his hands moving in the air as if he were untying some huge, invisible knot.

The man suddenly went rigid, air exploding from his lungs as if punched.

“Constantin?” Remy questioned.

Malatesta was standing perfectly straight now, head bowed, hands by his sides.

“You all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” said a voice that Remy recognized as belonging to the spirit entity. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Remy wasn’t sure exactly how to react, and found himself simply watching as the possessed man again worked his hands in the air, sparks of magickal energy leaving glowing trails as they moved with incredible speed.

And then he stopped, taking a step backward with an enormous grin on his face.

There was pounding now on the office door behind them.

Remy glanced at it, then returned his attention to the possessed Malatesta. “Well?” he asked the evil spirit, again in control of its host.

“What do you think?” the Larva asked, still grinning.

The air before them was shimmering ever so slightly; images of another place were briefly visible on the other side.

The dark entity extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to pass through.

“You first,” he said, grabbing Malatesta by the shoulders, pushing him into the passage.

Malatesta was gone from the office, and from what Remy could see, had made it to the other side without any mishaps.

The pounding on the door was growing more insistent, and cracks began to appear in the wood. It wouldn’t be long now.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dove into the magickal passage toward the unknown, as the door crumbled behind him.

The demon Beleeze was worried.

Something was happening on the island. If he’d been braver he would have approached his master Simeon and told him that they should just find a safe place.

If he were braver.

The normally horrible weather on the Pacific island was suddenly worse, crackling bolts of a strange energy reaching up from somewhere within the ruins of the mining city to entice the storm’s fury. The clouds grew darker, heavier, dropping closer to the rooftops, as the rain continued to fall in drenching sheets.

Beleeze watched his master standing at the end of the street, gazing up curiously at the odd atmospheric conditions.

He sensed a presence move closer and glanced over to see that Dorian had come to join him. He was tempted to place his arm around her shoulder in comfort, but he restrained himself. That was not behavior befitting a demon of his stature.

“What is he doing?” Dorian asked very quietly.

Beleeze was surprised that she had even uttered the words, but could certainly relate to her curiosity.

“It is not my place to ask,” he answered, just as quietly.

Robert, who had once been called Tjernobog, paced back and forth, muttering beneath his breath. It was obvious that he could sense it as well.

Something was happening.

There came a terrific boom of thunder, so loud that it caused what little glass remained in a nearby building to shatter, falling to the street with the rain.

Beleeze advanced partway down the street, in case his master needed him, but Simeon appeared safe—for now.

The sky had become like night, the energy shooting up from the street beyond and striking the clouds, illuminating them eerily.