Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

Mulvehill counted to three before tensing his muscles and sliding up the wall to stand upon trembling legs. He almost laughed aloud with relief when he realized that he was all right. Every inch of him ached and burned, but that was just his body reminding him that he was still alive.

That he had survived.

His eyes fell to the floor, and he saw that there were yellow pieces of bonelike material scattered about—the remains of his attacker’s weapon.

There had been nothing graceful about their fight. It was a fight to the death, and it was ugly.

The monster had been strong. Any pretense that Mulvehill had of being civilized was quickly thrown aside, and he allowed his survival instincts to usurp any civility. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to take his opponent down, and he did just that, arms and fists flying, never letting up.

Things had become lost in a red haze, and he’d continued to deliver blow after blow, even long after his foe had ceased to move.

Mulvehill looked down at his hands, flexing them to make a fist, and remembering the feeling as he’d pummeled the creature that had invaded his home—the feeling of its flesh ripping as he rained down blow after blow.

The monster lay upon its stomach, its face hidden from him. He remembered the thing’s face in the flashes from his firing gun, and bent over with a moan of pain. His back was killing him.

Grabbing a handful of its robe, Mulvehill turned the body over to look upon his attacker.

Its appearance was even more disturbing in the light of morning.

Nothing could look this way and not be a killer of some kind. Its flesh was pale and gray, the teeth jagged like a shark’s. It wore an expression of surprise, almost as if it could not believe that it had died by his hands.

But it had.

Hate bubbled up inside him as Mulvehill looked upon the thing that had wrecked his evening. Bringing up something thick and nasty from his throat, he spat upon the corpse.

The beginning of a question sparked in his tired brain.

Why? Why me?

There was no reason other than the obvious: It had something to do with Remy.

The monster had fallen upon the landline phone, and Mulvehill reached down to pick it up from the floor. He hit the preprogrammed number for Remy’s cell.

“This is Remy Chandler,” the message began.

Mulvehill waited for the beep, then started to unload.

“I don’t know what the hell you’ve gotten me involved with now, Chandler, but something just tried to fucking kill me,” he said, feeling more tired than he had felt in his entire life.

He leaned back against the wall for support.

“It didn’t succeed, just in case you’re interested.”

Remy walked through the doors of Rapture out onto the steps of the abandoned Prometheus Arms in Connecticut.

He turned back, watching the slight shimmering of the air as the charnel house left him where he’d first arrived.

He’d returned to Rapture from Gunkanjima to find Squire and Montagin saddled up to the bar, and the women who had left their jobs to be with their children already back to work as if nothing had happened.

“Buy you a drink?” Squire had asked as he passed them.

“No.”

“I want to thank you,” Montagin began from behind him.

Remy turned to look at the angel.

“For all you did in trying to determine who killed the general,” Montagin finished, and raised his glass of scotch in a toast.

It wasn’t much, but at least it was something to show that a creature such as Montagin could muster some gratitude. At this point, Remy would take whatever he could get.

“See how much you feel like toasting me after you get your bill,” he said, continuing on across the bar to a table in the corner where a healing Prosper sat.

“Remiel,” the angel said nervously. His face was still bandaged and bruised, but he appeared to be on the mend. “What can I do for you? Anything you want . . . on the house of course.”

“How about a ride home?”

The charnel house gone on to who knows where, he walked down the steps from the abandoned arms factory to where he remembered leaving Aszrus’ Ferrari.

Remy was glad to see that the car was still where he’d left it. Fishing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, and leaned inside to flip open the glove compartment where he’d left his phone. Leaning atop the hood of the sports car, he checked his messages. Linda had called three times, and he listened to each of them. Hearing her voice made him smile. She’d just wanted to say hi, and ended each call by telling him that Marlowe was looking forward to him getting home, and that she loved him.

Hearing something like that after all that he’d been through made all the difference in the world. It gave him a reason to go on; a reason to fight if indeed they ever did come for him.

Remy was going to call Linda back, but saw the time and decided he might give her another hour or so to sleep before disturbing her. Mulvehill had left a message not long ago, so he hit the keypad to listen.

His blood froze in his veins; the sound of his friend’s voice was chilling. Remy flexed the muscles in his shoulders, calling forth his wings, and was about to travel to Steven’s Somerville apartment when the last of his friend’s message struck a very specific chord.

“Not sure who the hell you pissed off this time, but if they’re coming for me to get back at you . . .”

The words slowly turned, and burrowed into Remy’s gray matter.

“Ugly son of a bitch in a hooded cloak . . . used some kind of gun that looked like it was made from bones.”

A Bone Master, Remy realized. He was confused for a moment, recalling that Prosper had called off the contract, but then he remembered.

Prosper said that he hadn’t hired them.

The Bone Masters were attempting to fulfill another contract, one that appeared to include his friends as well.

And if they’d gone after Mulvehill . . .

Complete panic almost overtook him, but he realized that he had to remain calm. Calling upon his wings, he wrapped himself within a cloak of feathers, picturing inside his head where he wanted to go.

Where he needed to be.

Remy appeared in the tiny backyard of his Pinckney Street brownstone, already on the move toward the back door. The door was locked, but that was not a worry. He destroyed the lock as he tore the door open and forced his way into the house.

“Linda!” he called out, hoping that he’d find her terrified by the abruptness of his arrival, but safe. He could make up something to explain his worry later; he was good at things like that.

But neither she nor Marlowe were there, and his panic started to grow. He raced around the home, searching for any signs that something might have . . .

Remy forced the thought from his head.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, and was about to call Linda’s cell when he heard sounds from the foyer. He dropped the phone and rushed to the door, opening it in time to see Linda and Marlowe coming into the entryway with a bag of groceries.

“Hey you,” she said with a smile that nearly took his breath away. “Have you checked the mail?”

She was turning toward the mailbox, Marlowe excitedly trying to get to him but restrained by his leash.

“No. I just got in myself,” Remy answered. He was coming toward them when his eyes caught the hint of movement behind her. Something had entered with her, something that moved in such a way that normal eyes did not—could not—focus upon it.

Something that moved silently, and with a deadly purpose.

A shift in the makeup of his eyes made it possible for him to see the hooded Bone Master assassin as he flowed into the foyer, one arm disappearing within the folds of his cloak to emerge holding the yellowed, skeleton weapon that had once lived, but now delivered death.