Thomas Sniegoski - In the House of the Wicked

Scrimshaw was suddenly standing behind Ashley’s chair, holding her knife, still stained with the blood of her meal, against her tender throat.

“And I warned you,” Deacon stressed.

The tension in the room was escalating.

“Stand down, Mr. Chandler,” Deacon snarled. “Your god commands you.”

Remy could hold it in no longer. But as his wings exploded from his back and the fires of Heaven swirled around his head, the blaring sound of an alarm distracted everybody in the dining room. Using the distraction, he sprang into the air and, flying across the table, landed in a crouch before the addled Ashley. He lashed out with a wing, swatting at Scrimshaw, sending him crashing across the room.

“I’m getting us out of here,” Remy told Ashley as he pulled her from the chair and into his arms.

Teddy began to howl, tugging on the leash still attached to the collar around Ashley’s neck. Remy yanked the leash from the boy’s grasp, driving the wild child back with a ferocious glare.

Ashley in his arms, Remy was about to take flight when Scrimshaw made his move. Remy hadn’t heard his approach over the clanging alarms, and suddenly the artificial man was on his back, throwing his powerful arms around him, constricting his wings. Remy roared with unbridled fury as the three of them fell atop the table, then crashed to the floor with the dishes.

Remy recovered quickly, wanting to burn the life from this mockery of a man, but Ashley was too close.

Scrimshaw took advantage of that, inhumanly powerful blows striking relentlessly at Remy. The Seraphim spread wide his wings and lashed out at his attacker. Scrimshaw rolled back and away, then leapt to his feet, ready to attack again. But he hesitated.

And Remy saw a smile creep across his face.

The angel began to turn, his senses on full alert, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Steel needles were thrust into his back, just beneath his wings. He cried out, wings flailing, as the metal rods scraped along his rib cage.

But that was nothing in comparison to the pain of the needles being activated. Remy spun around, reaching out for the trailing wires, but the infernal feeding device had already started its work.

He could feel his strength waning as the fury and the fire that was the essence of the Seraphim was drawn from his body. He crashed to the floor as if a rug had been pulled from beneath his feet. He tried to summon the fires of divinity, but all he could produce were small bursts of flame that quickly flickered and died.

Remy could feel himself dying, everything that he was being drained away. He fought to his feet, calling on every ounce of strength he had left, but Scrimshaw was suddenly there, a savage kick sending Remy back to the floor to writhe in the grip of agony.

From where he lay, he could see Deacon, an expression of euphoria on his face as he tasted divinity, even as the old man’s mechanical skeleton began to smoke. The sorcerer had no idea of the power he was playing with. Remy tried to warn him, but Scrimshaw kicked him again.

He rolled onto his side, trying to protect himself, and caught a glimpse of Ashley cowering in the corner of the room, Teddy jumping up and down beside her. Remy didn’t want her to see this, as all that he was was taken into Deacon’s infernal machine.

But it would not go quietly.

It would not go without a fight.

He rose to his knees, his body a quivering mess. Scrimshaw came at him again, but the Seraphim, desperate to live, was now in charge. As Scrimshaw’s foot descended for another kick, Remy lashed out, grabbing the ankle with a twist, and hurled the artificial man away.

Remy stood on shaking legs. His wings, his glorious wings, were fading. Feathers fell to the floor like autumn leaves. He was dying… This man…this sorcerer was killing him. He looked at Deacon, crackling wires still trailing from the external skeleton that he wore over an ancient tuxedo and into Remy’s back.

The Seraphim grabbed at the wires, wrapping them about his fingers. They burned his hands, and the stink of his melting flesh wafted into the air as he savagely pulled. Deacon lurched toward him, but the wires held. With smoldering hands, Remy dragged the sorcerer closer. The old man struggled with surprising strength, trying to plant his feet, but the soles of his black dress shoes were smooth, sliding across the wooden floor.

Remy was weak, weaker than he could ever remember being.

Would this be the time? Would this be what finally ended his existence? This pathetic old man ravenous for revenge. He thought of Francis, what his friend would think, and managed to be embarrassed.

The struggling Deacon was closer. The man appeared younger, his flesh healthy, flushed tight with blood. The mechanical skeleton he wore had started to spark, to whine in protest, for the supernatural energy that filled it was too much.

Too powerful.

Something designed and created by humans was not meant to contain the power of Heaven.

“Is this what it feels like?” Deacon gasped, his voice little more than a breathless whisper above the still blaring alarms. “To be this close to God?”

Remy caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was the artificial man-Scrimshaw-coming back to help his master, but then he realized who it was who stood in a patch of shadow, and wasn’t surprised at all.

Israfil was there, watching, waiting.

The Angel of Death had come for Remy Chandler.

But Remy wasn’t ready.

He looked away from the death specter and his eyes fell on the cowering form of Ashley Berg, whose life had been transformed into a living nightmare because of her association with him.

Remy had to fix that; he had to make it right. Then death could come for him, as it had for his beloved Madeline.

But not right now.

The angel that he was rallied from the brink of surrender, like one of the great fishes of the ocean being drawn in on a line and finding that deep, hidden reserve of strength for one final attempt at freedom.

“Give it to me,” Deacon hissed, his face obscured by smoke and the stink of ozone. “Give it all to me.”

And as crazy as it seemed, Remy did just that.

A flash of brilliance exploded from his body, a flash so bright that it chased away all the darkness in the room.

So bright that it chased away Death’s angel.

Deacon’s scream joined with Remy’s as the room was consumed in light.

There was a moment of nothing, of sweet oblivion, but it didn’t last long before the chaos returned. Alarms wailed, growing steadily louder as Remy regained his awareness.

He was lying flat on his back, a cracked and seared ceiling coming into focus above him. He sat up and surveyed his surroundings. The room had been obliterated by the release of energy. What appeared to be the broken shape of Deacon was lying among the wreckage of the heavy dining room table, and Scrimshaw was furiously working to uncover his master’s remains. Ashley still cowered in the far corner of the room, the animalistic Teddy crouched beside her.

Remy rose unsteadily to his feet, incredible pain in his back causing explosions of color to detonate before his eyes. Reaching awkwardly behind him, he found the metal spines of Deacon’s feeding apparatus and tore them from his back. It was an agony the likes of which he’d only experienced a few times, agony that should have had a special place in the pain hall of fame. He started to drop to his knees again as his body rebelled against the damage being heaped upon it, but he fought on.

It was what he did. What he always did.

He focused on Ashley. He’d made a promise to her mother to find her, to bring her home, and that was what he was going to do.

“Ashley,” he said, as he stumbled across the room. His voice sounded weak, rough, as if he’d just woken from a long slumber.