Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

They were silent for a bit, and Francis had begun to drift off when Montagin’s voice called him back.

“Do you seriously believe it will matter?”

“What?” Francis asked. “What Chandler’s doing? Yes . . . yes, I do.”

Montagin chuckled. “You obviously haven’t been around them—the soldiers and generals. They’re just looking for an excuse. I’m surprised that Aszrus has actually managed to hold them off this long. He was as hawkish as any of them, but it was as if he was waiting for something, that one last thing that would say it’s time.”

Francis felt Montagin’s gaze upon him.

“Maybe it was his own murder he was waiting for,” Montagin continued, “and he just didn’t know it.”

“Or maybe it was the success of Toddlers In Tiaras ,” Francis suggested.

The dungeon fell silent again, which was fine by him.

“I hate that show,” Montagin said after a few minutes, and Francis could not help but laugh, which ended up being one of the most excruciating experiences that he’d endured in quite some time.

“Serves you right,” Montagin added, which only made Francis laugh all the more.

The laughter eventually subsided, and then it was the wait for the pain to die down. The cell was silent, occasionally interrupted by the rattle of chains and moans of discomfort from Heath.

Francis was lost in pain-addled thought, wondering where they might go from there. They had no idea if Remy had been successful, and the former Guardian was sure that information wouldn’t be shared by their captors. Angels could be real cocks when they wanted to be, and since they had them, why would they bother to let them go?

Especially since they had such a hard-on for his employer.

Francis thought about his current boss, and wondered if the Morningstar was fully aware of the situation. Lucifer knew that Azsrus was murdered, and that it could be used for political purposes, which was why he had put Francis on the case.

But Francis had to wonder how in the loop his boss actually was. He decided that it probably couldn’t hurt to find out.

He shifted again, grunting in pain as his limbs made it known they didn’t care to move in those specific directions.

“Can’t you just die in your sleep or something?” Montagin asked. “I’m tired of hearing the two of you voicing your discomfort.”

“I’m going to try something,” Francis said, searching for a section of the cell where the darkness seemed almost liquid.

“What?” Montagin asked.

“I’m going to try to contact my boss,” he said.

“You’re what?” Montagin questioned. “Are you mad? Do you seriously believe that Lucifer Morningstar would intrude on a stronghold held by one of Heaven’s legions?”

“You’ve forgotten how strong he is,” Francis said, focusing on the darkness. “And if he can get us out of here, why the fuck not? Especially if we’re all going to die anyway.”

“I want nothing to do with this,” Montagin said, and Francis could hear the angel trying to move as far away from him as possible, while Heath moaned about the the invasion of his space.

“Fine,” Francis said. “I’ll leave you here to rot, and Angus and I will take off. Right, Angus?”

Francis heard a noise that he took to be an affirmative answer.

He was concentrating on the darkness, reaching out with his mind to where he imagined the Morningstar would be. He had no idea if this would work, but he didn’t see any other options.

“What are you doing?” Montagin demanded.

“I’m trying to contact him.”

“Will that work?”

“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“I wish you’d been beaten to death,” the angel snapped.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Francis suddenly felt the pull of the darkness on him. Concentrating all the harder, he attempted to follow the pool of shadow down to its source.

To a sea of bottomless black, and beyond that, to what he hoped would lead to his master’s ear.

Something moved in the ebony pool, surging up from the inky gloom. His concentration momentarily broken, Francis sat back.

“Well?” Montagin questioned.

Francis wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I don’t know,” he said, keeping his crusty eyes on the shadows.

The darkness undulated, as if something moved behind it.

“What have you done?” Montagin demanded. “If you’ve brought more ruin upon me, I will do everything in my power to—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Francis said. “But before you get your panties in more of a bunch, why don’t we make sure that I’ve actually done something, all right?”

The shadows grew denser, like oil, beginning to churn as whatever it was that was concealed beneath it moved closer.

Francis gazed quickly away from the moving patch to see Montagin staring, mesmerized, Heath leaning slowly forward, his eyes also drawn to the spot where something was about to appear.

He didn’t know why he said it—he really didn’t know why he said half the shit he did—but he just couldn’t help himself.

“Thar she blows!” Francis cried as something pushed upon the veil of shadow, causing it to stretch outward as if made from rubber.

It actually made a kind of wet, ripping sound as the shape tore away from the liquid embrace, and landed upon the jail cell floor.

It took Francis a moment to realize that his call had not reached his intended, and that he had gotten the wrong number. “You’re not Lucifer Morningstar,” he said.

“No shit,” Squire said, wiping oily drippings of concentrated darkness from his shirt and pants. “You haven’t gotten any smarter in the month you’ve been gone.”

“Month?” Francis exclaimed. “It’s only been a day.”

“Yes!” The hobgoblin pumped a fist in the air. “Thought I’d get here too late and find a big fucking crater or something.”

“You’ve been looking for us for a month?”

Squire nodded. “Looks like it,” he said, sitting down on the floor. He rubbed his stubby hand along the back of his neck. “The shadow paths can be pretty tricky, even for the experienced,” the hobgoblin said. “Must’ve taken a wrong turn someplace.”

“Tell me about it,” Francis said. “How did you track us anyway?”

“Your blood,” Squire said. “Fallen angel blood has a real distinct odor—can’t miss it. Shot back to the apartment after you’d been taken, used an old sock to soak up some of your juice, and here I is.”

“What’s it smell like?”

“What? Your blood?” Squire asked. “You know those little sheets that you throw in the dryer to keep your clothes smelling fresh and the static cling away?”

“Yeah. It smells like that?”

“No,” Squire said shaking his head. “Smells worse than shit, really.”

Montagin cleared his throat.

“Hey, Mary! I didn’t know you were here, too.”

Heath leaned forward so Squire could see him.

“Angus . . .” The hobgoblin noticed what had been done to his sorcerer friend. “Holy shit, does that hurt?”

Heath tilted his head in a way that said, What the fuck do you think?

Squire reached into one of the pouches on his belt and withdrew a pair of scissors. He approached his friend carefully.

“Hold still,” he said, and started to snip at the stitching that held the sorcerer’s lips closed.

With each cut of the thread, Francis could not help but wince. Heath’s lips had started to bleed again, blood running down from his face onto the T-shirt that he wore.

“How’s that?” Squire asked as he cut the last of the threads.

“Better,” Heath managed.

“So,” Francis said, lifting the golden manacles that hung from his wrists. “You wouldn’t happen to have a paper clip in that bag of tricks, would you?”