Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

It was within that illumination that he saw them: human figures flying up into the storm, to be lost among the clouds.

“It’s what I was afraid of,” Simeon said, finally turning away from the view of the sky to look at Beleeze. “The murder of one’s sire. It must have been a catalyst of sorts.”

Simeon strode past the demon, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Now change is upon them.”

Beleeze followed, as Simeon continued to speak.

“And they are becoming so much more than anyone could have ever dreamed.”

Beleeze practically crashed into his master’s back as Simeon came to an abrupt stop.

“A threat to one and all,” he said.

And as if in response to his master’s words, the sky shook, and just barely audible over the roar of thunder, Beleeze thought he heard the sound of laughter.

“A danger to both Heaven, and Hell,” his master said.

Of that, the demon Beleeze had no doubt.

Prosper stumbled from the passage into the freezing rainstorm.

He hated this fucking island more than anything, but it had been Simeon’s choice, and who was he to argue with the mysterious figure.

A chill, surprisingly not caused by the rain dripping down the length of his spine, caused him to shudder.

First, it had been losing track of one of the kids and the chaos that followed. Now, it was the angel Remiel flipping over rocks and getting too close to their business. Prosper could already hear Simeon’s words: Why didn’t you just kill them?

It was a good question—one that he really didn’t have the answer to at the moment. He was too fucking busy trying to keep himself alive.

Thunder boomed so loudly above him that he found himself recoiling from the intensity of the burst. “What the fuck?”

Prosper began to run, the rain falling so hard that it obscured most everything around him. It took him a moment to realize that there weren’t any of the usual security teams present to meet him.

That just made him all the more angry.

The rain was falling harder now—if that was even possible—and Prosper stopped momentarily in the deluge to get his bearings. He placed a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the severity of the storm. He couldn’t remember ever feeling more miserable.

Something moved ahead of him, dark shapes behind a curtain of rain.

“You there!” Prosper called over the hissing downpour.

There was no response, and the fallen angel’s ire rose to an unbridled level as he trudged ahead, hand still shielding his eyes from the heavy rain.

The sky was suddenly filled with a flash of unearthly light. At first he believed it to be lightning from the storm—what else could it be? But something didn’t feel quite right.

Prosper stopped, scanning the tumultuous sky, seeing only fat, billowing storm clouds, like smoke. He waited, curious to see if the strange phenomenon would repeat itself.

Again it happened, the sky lighting up as a snaking tendril of raw, luminescent energy shot up from somewhere ahead of him, to illuminate the sky. Prosper was drawn to the source of the flash, but not before there came another explosion of thunder. The sky grew bright, as if lit up by multiple klieg lights, and for the briefest of moments, before his eyes were seared, he saw . . .

Prosper froze, averting his gaze, rubbing at his stinging eyes. To be sure of what he thought he saw, he again turned his vision skyward.

A figure floated in the air, gazing down at him. He recognized her; she was one of the children. Her name was Mavis.

“What—what are you doing?” he stammered, realizing how foolish the question sounded as it left his mouth.

The girl drifted closer, as if carried by invisible wings on the rain-swept winds.

He heard her laugh then. “Poor Prosper,” she taunted. “Not even enough sense to come in out of the rain.”

Before he had a chance to react, she flew at him like a bullet, snatched him up from the ground, and carried him into the sky—up into the storm.

Prosper saw that they were not alone.

And once again, he knew the power of fear.

Francis had some difficulty opening his eyes.

He’d thought that he would avoid more beatings by mentioning Remy Chandler to Michael, but instead, the Archangel had simply left the dungeon, leaving him alone with Dardariel.

The cold stone floor actually felt good against his swollen face, but he decided to forgo the pleasure to assess his current situation.

He managed to push himself up along the stone wall into a sitting position. Through swollen, blood-encrusted eyes Francis saw that he wasn’t alone.

“Well, look at that,” Montagin said. “You’re alive—your middle name must be Lazarus.”

“You wouldn’t have a couple of Advil on you, would you?” Francis asked, exhausted from the effort of righting himself.

He heard Montagin make a sound of disgust, not even bothering with a reply.

He caught sight of a larger shape huddled in the corner beside the angel, and guessed it was Heath. The sorcerer wasn’t making any noise.

“How are you holding up there, Angus?” Francis asked.

Angus grunted, which at least told Francis that the magick user was still alive. Then Heath shifted his weight so the faint illumination from the lone skylight in the ceiling shone on his face.

Francis actually gasped at what he saw.

Heath’s face was bloody and swollen, his lips sewn together with thick black thread.

To prevent him from uttering any spells, Francis gathered.

Heath’s bloodshot gaze bore into his.

“That certainly doesn’t look pleasant,” Francis said.

Heath grunted, and leaned his bulk back against the wall.

Francis moved his arms, feeling the weight there, and hearing the rattle of chains. He looked down to see the golden manacles, etched with angelic sigils.

“Shit,” he grumbled. “Anybody got a paper clip?”

“Could you really pick those locks if you had a paper clip?” Montagin asked.

“Probably not,” Francis admitted. “But I’ve seen it done in movies lots of times. How hard could it be?”

“Idiot,” Montagin grumbled.

“At least I had an idea,” Francis retorted. “What have you got?”

“What does it matter?” the angel answered. “We’re all as good as dead.”

“That’s the one thing I like about you,” Francis said. “Your upbeat attitude.”

It sounded as if Heath tried to laugh, but it turned to a moan.

“Sorry, Angus,” Francis said.

Montagin continued to be a ray of sunshine. “I should never have gone to Chandler,” he complained. “I should have gone right to Michael and shown him what had happened.”

“And what good would have come of that?” Francis asked.

“I wouldn’t have been tortured and thrown into a filthy jail cell with the likes of you two. I wouldn’t be awaiting my inevitable demise for withholding information from the legions of Heaven.”

“No, you’d be watching the earth being turned into a battleground, with humanity caught right in the fucking middle.”

“That will happen anyway,” Montagin said. “Right now we’re only delaying the inevitable, and have signed our death warrants in addition.”

Francis tried to get comfortable on the damp, stone floor, but no matter how he maneuvered, his body ached. “We did exactly what we were supposed to do.”

“What, die?” Montagin demanded. “We were supposed to die? I don’t remember volunteering to—”

“We needed to buy him time,” Francis interrupted. “Let’s just hope that Remy found what he needed to keep all the flaming swords in their sheaths.”