Thomas Sniegoski - Walking In the Midst of Fire

“I guess.”

Marlowe had plopped down beside the woman, shimmying as close to her as he was able. He was a good judge of character; if Marlowe liked her, this woman was probably special.

They were silent for a bit, as old Dottie continued to stroke Marlowe’s ebony fur.

“He likes that,” she said, looking deeply into the dog’s dark eyes.

“That he does,” Remy said.

Dottie let her eyes leave Marlowe’s and fixed her gaze on Remy. He could see that she was staring really hard, squinting her watery eyes as if she was having some difficulty focusing her sight.

“What is it, Dottie?” Remy asked. “Something wrong with your eyes?”

“No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “No problem . . . just that I see things a little differently from most.”

Remy continued to listen to her, sure that she was about to say more.

“I see things about folks that they can’t see themselves,” she said.

“That another curse?” Remy asked her. He had moved closer to them, squatting down so that he, too, could pat his dog.

“All depends on how you look at it,” she said. “Makes it kinda tough to have a normal life . . . to keep a job and stuff.”

She was staring at him again, old eyes squinting.

“Do you see something with me?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do,” she said. “You’re not like everybody else, are you?”

Remy smiled. It wasn’t entirely unusual, but it was rare. There were a select few people out there in the world with the ability to see things—those who could peer into the shadows and see what was actually lurking there behind the veil.

Those who could see things as they truly were.

“No, I’m not,” Remy said, looking away from the intensity of her gaze.

“So, what’s your story?” she asked him, her face now very serious. “Haven’t come to take me, have you?”

Remy laughed as he patted Marlowe’s head. The dog was in heaven with all this attention.

“Not my job,” he told her with a shake of his head. “So no worries there.”

“Good,” Dottie said, happy that he wasn’t the Angel of Death. “Been seeing a lot of your types walking around recently, and have gotten a little nervous.”

Dottie’s words hit him hard, her observations worrying.

“You’ve seen a lot like me around?” he asked her to be sure.

The old woman nodded. “Oh yeah, just strolling around.” She waved a hand around in the air. “Like they were checking the place out or something.”

Or something, Remy thought, certain that the angels she had seen were doing reconnaissance . . . but for which side? Perhaps both? It was truly bothersome, but it made what he had come to the Old South Church for all the more pertinent.

“Was that what they were doing?” Dottie asked him, interrupting his train of thought.

“Yeah, it probably was.”

“Something up?”

“That’s something I need to find out,” Remy answered, rising to his feet and looking at the church before him.

He needed to get himself inside to do what he had to do. He had been planning on taking Marlowe in with him, but now maybe he wouldn’t.

“Hey Dottie, want to do me a favor?” he asked the old woman.

“Sure, if I can,” she said, stroking Marlowe’s side.

“Want to keep an eye on Marlowe while I take care of some business?” he asked her.

She smiled warmly, looking to the dog.

“What do you think, pal?” she asked him. “Can you stand to hang around here with Dottie for a little while longer?”

Marlowe panted heavily, his tail wagging happily in response.

“Will you be okay, buddy?” Remy asked the Labrador.

“Okay with Dottie,” Marlowe grumbled, extending his thick neck to give her another big wet kiss on the side of her face.

“That’s great. I should only be a little while,” he told the dog.

“Take your time,” Dottie called out as he started to walk around to the back of the building.

To make his direct call to Heaven.

Remy pictured in his mind’s eye the Old South Church as it was the last time he had entered, and willed himself inside with a rush of air and the flutter of wings.

He had attended a fund-raiser for the Congregationalist parish to help finance repairs of damage done by the ravages of age and nearby construction. Tonight, it was just as beautiful as he remembered, even in darkness.

Remy pulled his wings back into his body and strolled down the center aisle, admiring the elaborate woodwork and stained glass. His eyes fixed upon the enormous organ pipes to the left of the altar, and he remembered the glorious sounds they had made when played at the fund-raiser.

If he listened very carefully, straining his preternatural senses to their maximum capacity, he could still hear the lingering residue of the countless prayers that had been spoken here.

Now he was about to add his own to the fray.

Remy stood no more than a few feet from the altar and turned his gaze to the ceiling. Shedding his human visage, he appeared as the angel, Remiel, Seraphim and soldier of Heaven. Wings spread wide and armor-covered arms outstretched, the angel began to pray. Up through this place of worship, Remiel projected his petition, spoken in the language of the Messengers, hopefully to the ears of God.

Or whoever might be listening on His behalf.

Remiel needed answers. He had to know if the world that he cared so deeply for, the people that he loved, would be safe. He needed to know if there was anything that could avert the coming hardship.

It had been a very long time since Remiel had asked Heaven for anything, but now it was time to put aside old hostilities for the sake of something so much bigger.

Exhausted, Remiel fell to his knees, listening with all his might for an answer, but except for the sounds of the city coming to life outside, the place of worship remained silent. Slowly, the angel climbed to his feet, abandoning the guise of a Heavenly warrior and slipping comfortably back into the guise of humanity he had worn for so many years.

Remy looked around the church, senses on the alert, but still there was nothing.

Still there was no response.

Is this how it’s to be now? he wondered. Is no one listening to me anymore? Or is there some other reason that my prayers go unanswered?

Perhaps the drums of war beat much louder than even he suspected.

He was ready to leave, ready to reveal his wings again and take himself back outside to reunite with Marlowe and Dottie, when he felt a sudden change in the atmosphere of the church.

As if something had been added.

Remy turned, eyes scanning his surroundings, and he found it—someone sitting tall in one of the pews, staring straight ahead toward the altar.

“Hello?” Remy called out.

At first the figure did not react. But then he spoke, his voice soft yet powerful. “Hello, Remiel.

“I would have come sooner,” the figure continued as he turned eyes as dark as space to Remy, “but, as you can probably guess, things are terribly hectic.”

“There’s a war brewing, don’t you know.”

His name was Montagin, and Remy had not seen him since the first war against the Morningstar. How apropos that he would be the one to come to Remy now.

“How long has it been?” Montagin asked, turning to face the angel as Remy slid into the pew.

“Let’s just say that it’s been a long time,” Remy replied, trying to keep it friendly.

“It was right after the war, wasn’t it?” the angel asked. His eyes twinkled mischievously.

This was one of the many reasons that Remy had left Heaven: Angels were basically assholes.