Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel

  He was suddenly sick of her babble and cast her aside without further thought. Again there was screaming, but he didn’t care. Dardariel was back at the stain. Reaching down with a finger, he scraped his elongated nail along the fibers, attempting to raise the scent.

  The smell grew stronger. He brought his finger to his nose and, moving past the chemical stink, took in the scent of blood. Then his tongue darted out, licking his fingertip, and his senses came alive.

  Dardariel found himself screaming, his head tilted back as he proclaimed his fury to the world. There was fire on his body now, radiating from his armor, his hands, his wings, and the top of his head.

  There was no more keeping it in. He had what he needed; there was nothing more to be learned in this place. And as for what had happened here, like the stain the human had been attempting to remove, it would be cleansed from the earth.

  The fire leapt from his body, engulfing a nearby chair and sofa, leaping onto the first of the bookcases, and the books upon the shelves.

  Marley had rolled onto her stomach, and was lifting her head to capture his eyes. Dardardiel rewarded her tenacity by looking at her.

  “I loved him,” she said, her voice a screeching mess as the flames blossomed, and rushed to claim her.

  The angel could not help but laugh as his wings fanned the burgeoning fire.

  “What does something like you know of love?”

  Dardariel listened, wondering whether she would try to answer him as she was consumed, but as he expected, he heard only screaming.

  With the scent of Aszrus’ life-stuff in his nostrils, the angel leapt into the air, crashing up through the ceilings and floors until he was hovering above the burning estate. He tilted his head back and cried out for his brothers, calling them to him, as he began to follow the trail.

  Following the scent of spilled angel blood that would lead them to their wayward general.

  • • •

  The general’s body was starting to stink.

  Francis and Montagin had moved Aszrus from his Newport abode to the basement apartment of the Newbury Street brownstone, and the corpse now lay on the floor of Francis’ living room, a trash bag shoved beneath him just in case he leaked.

  “A stinking body is bad,” Francis said, gazing down at the corpse, his hands on his hips. “A stinking angel body is really bad.” He paused, remembering the position of authority Aszrus held in the angelic hierarchy. “The stinking body of an angel general is so bad that I’m getting a headache even talking about it.”

  “We should have left him where he lay,” Montagin fretted. “With the sorcerer’s magicks at work, there was a chance we could have lasted until Chandler got back.”

  “A chance,” Francis said. “But a slim one. If the general’s playmates stopped by once, they’ll definitely stop by again. We couldn’t take the risk.”

  “But the smell,” Montagin said. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and held it to his nose.

  “Yeah, it’s getting pretty bad,” Francis agreed, staring at the bloated corpse on the floor. He’d met Aszrus a few times in Heaven, before the beginning of the war, and had never really liked him. The guy was pretty full of himself.

  Now look at him, he thought. Full of nothing but gas.

  “We gotta move him,” Francis said aloud.

  Montagin looked at him incredulously. “Again?” he whined. “We just moved him here.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Francis said. He was already heading toward the door. “But we can’t just leave him here, stinking to high heaven. A smell like this could lead the general’s buddies right to my door.”

  “Where would you suggest we put him, then?” Montagin asked. “There’s not a place on earth that—”

  “Exactly,” Francis interrupted. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He climbed the stairs from the basement to the lobby, and on up to the third floor. The smell of violence lingered in the hallway, and Francis remembered that someone had tried to punch Angus Heath’s ticket there the other day. He noticed a dark, ashen stain on the rug in the corridor, and made an educated guess as to what had left it.

  Francis approached the door and gave it a solid kick. “Hey,” he said, leaning in close. “Quit spanking it to porn and open the door.”

  The door opened suddenly and Francis was staring down into the ugly, hobgoblin face of Squire.

  “What, do you have a fucking hidden camera in here?” he asked with a snarl.

  “Nope,” Francis said, pushing his way into the apartment. “Just figured that’s what you’d be doing.”

  “To what do I owe this visit?” Squire asked, slamming the door behind him.

  Francis saw the large shape of Angus Heath lying on the couch. He was covered with several blankets, but he was still shivering. “He all right?” he asked the hobgoblin.

  “He got himself poisoned by a Bone Master,” Squire said.

  “Bone Master?” Francis repeated. “Sounds like what you might’ve been watching when I knocked.”

  “You’re a fucking riot,” the hobgoblin said as he walked past the angel and approached the shivering sorcerer, laying a stubby hand upon his brow. “He’s still pretty feverish, but he does feel cooler than he did a while ago.”

  Francis glanced over to the television and was surprised to see what seemed to be a show about cupcakes. “Cupcakes?” he asked.

  “What can I say,” the hobgoblin answered with a shrug. “Fucking shoot me, I like cupcakes.”

  Heath mumbled something unintelligible, and began to thrash, knocking his blankets to the floor.

  “Did you pop by to borrow a cup of sugar?” Squire asked, picking up the blankets and draping them over his friend. “Or is there something else?”

  “Something else,” Francis said.

  “Go on,” Squire urged.

  “Got a favor to ask.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got the body of an angel general rotting in my basement apartment,” Francis said matter-of-factly. “I was wondering if for storage you could stick it in one of those shadow places you so often frequent.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Squire replied, rolling his eyes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Remy and the glamour-wearing Malatesta approached the entrance to Rapture.

  A doorman, a huge specimen of inhumanity squeezed into a black tuxedo, was greeting people at the door and checking their keys.

  “Do you have the key?” Remy asked from the side of his mouth.

  “Got it,” Malatesta said, holding it up for Remy to see.

  In front of them, an elderly woman and a much younger male were greeted and allowed to step inside with just a casual glance, and Remy hoped that it would be just as easy for them.

  Malatesta presented the black key for the doorman to see, looking straight ahead as he was about to pass through the entrance. Remy hugged closely behind the sorcerer, thinking that maybe something would go right for them.

  The doorman’s large hand planted itself in the center of Remy’s chest, stopping him.

  “Excuse me, General,” the doorman said. His voice was rough, as if it were a strain to speak.

  The hand resting upon Remy’s chest was like ice, and closer examination of the man showed that he probably hadn’t been alive for quite some time. Zombies were all the rage in supernatural circles, he was hearing. They never got tired, and he guessed that they seldom complained about the long hours, and the low pay. They were probably just happy not to be rotting in a grave someplace.

  This particular walking dead man must have been a professional wrestler or some sort of bodybuilder before he shuffled off this mortal coil to Zombieville.

  Malatesta turned, wearing a look of annoyance perfect for the face of the angel general.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The zombie shifted on cinder-block-sized feet. “Actually, sir, there is.”

  Malatesta glared like a true champion.
He’s good at this, Remy thought. Damn good.

  “And what might this problem be?” Malatesta demanded in his best authoritative tone.

  “We know who you are,” the zombie said. “But who is he?”

  The walking dead man pointed a finger at him that looked like a big, gray Italian sausage.

  Remy decided to keep his mouth shut, and trust Malatesta’s skills. If he had been working for the Vatican all these years, he must have learned something about throwing weight around.

  “He is my guest,” Malatesta declared.

  “Yes, of course,” the zombie stammered. “But the rules of the house state—”

  “The rules of the house don’t apply to someone like me,” Malatesta growled. “Do you have any idea what my presence in your establishment does for your reputation?”

  “I’m sure that—”

  “I don’t think you do,” the disguised sorcerer said, stepping in close to the animated dead man.

  “Sir, we must have the proper verification of all guests before—”

  “He is Remiel, of the host Seraphim,” Malatesta spoke in his most booming voice. “One of Heaven’s finest warriors, who fought by my side during the Great War with the Morningstar.”

  The zombie looked away from the general to fix Remy in a milky stare.

  “I don’t like to brag,” Remy said with a smile and a shrug of modesty.

  “I believe that is all you really need to know,” Malatesta said.

  The zombie looked as though he might continue the argument, but thought better of it.

  “That’s more than sufficient,” the zombie said, with a nod to the general. “Enjoy your evening, General.”

  He turned his dead gaze to Remy.

  “And you as well, sir.”

  The doorman then looked away from both of them, before something else could arise, and began to speak with those who were lined up behind them.

  “Are we going in?” Malatesta asked of him.

  “I guess we are,” Remy said, following the form of the angel general through the doorway and into the building.

  Remy could feel it immediately, his location shifting from the Prometheus Arms building to someplace else completely.

  “Did you feel that?” Malatesta asked quietly.

  “I certainly did,” Remy replied.

  They were suddenly standing in front of two enormous double doors, intricately carved with depictions of various sexual acts, vases of flowers, and fruit.

  “Tasteful,” Remy said.

  Malatesta’s eyes seemed transfixed as they moved over the surface of the dark wood.

  Remy reached for the door handles and immediately felt the pulsing beat of blaring music from the other side tickling the flesh of his hands.

  “This should be good,” he said, moving the handles down, and pushing the doors open to allow them inside.

  It was like a sensory attack, the music loud, with voices raised in conversation and laughter heard over throbbing dance tunes. The air was thick with the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke, as well as anything else that could be rolled and puffed upon. And there was also the smell of hundreds of sweating bodies, eager to do—or continue to do—what they came to this sinful place for.

  The lights were turned down low, casting just about everything in thick, liquid shadow as Remy and Malatesta moved from the doorway and into the writhing crowd.

  The room was cavernous with small alcoves in the walls, where people, and things not of the earth, were enjoying themselves in as many ways as one could, or could not conceive.

  A woman holding a silver tray of drinks approached who she believed to be General Aszrus and with a sly smile handed him a golden goblet of something. Malatesta accepted the offering, and Remy watched as the woman stood upon her toes to kiss the angel’s cheek. A faint glimpse of her tongue showed as she quickly licked the side of his face, before continuing on with her tray of drinks.

  Malatesta casually looked in Remy’s direction, goblet in hand, and raised it.

  There was a brief pause in the music, before a new tune that sounded pretty much like what had already been playing began. Remy made his way through the lingering crowds, many of whom were locked in what appeared to be heated conversations. Every form of life that he had ever encountered in his long existence was represented here: angels and devils, beast-men, and vampires. There were things that he’d previously only glimpsed from the corners of his eyes, and had wondered whether they were even real.

  And they were here, and partying hardy at the Rapture.

  Remy became aware of a presence staring at him close by, and turned to look into the face of a very attractive woman. She, too, was holding a serving tray.

  “Drink?” she asked him.

  “What do you have?”

  “What do you like?”

  “How about a scotch on the rocks,” Remy said, leaning in close so that she would hear him over the racket disguised as music.

  She lowered the tray and moved her hand over a glass filled with ice. There was a crackle of white energy and the glass was filled with what he had asked for.

  Remy was impressed, but didn’t want to let on.

  She handed him his drink with a lingering look and a grin, and angled her way back into the crowd, on to her next customer.

  The scotch was good, really good, he noticed as he stopped for a sip while searching the sea of faces and bodies for a sign of Malatesta.

  Remy saw that he was standing within one of the sunken alcoves locked in what appeared to be a rather intimate conversation with a woman clad in a black leather jumpsuit, its zipper pulled down past her navel.

  Navigating the crowd, Remy made his way toward them, catching Malatesta’s eye as he approached.

  “Ah, here he is now,” Remy heard the sorcerer say.

  The woman looked in his direction and smiled predatorily.

  “Hello there,” she said. He was surprised that she wasn’t licking her lips as she gave him the once-over.

  “Hi,” Remy said.

  “This is Morgan,” Malatesta said. “She and I enjoy each other’s company.”

  Could he have said that any more awkwardly? Remy wondered. A couple more lines like that and red flags would be going up all over Rapture.

  “Oh you do?” Remy said. “Is she one of the ones you were telling me about?” He sipped his drink, gazing over the rim of his glass at the woman, who covered her mouth demurely as she laughed.

  “It’s not polite to talk to your friends about our personal business,” Morgan said to Malatesta, wagging a scarlet-nailed finger.

  He chuckled, sipping from his goblet. Remy wondered what the golden cup contained, and whether it was healthy for the sorcerer to be drinking.

  “He didn’t tell me much,” Remy interjected, causing the woman to turn her attention to him. “Only the juicy parts.”

  He imagined Linda hearing him speak like that, and the beating that would have followed.

  Morgan laughed, gliding closer to him.

  “And how did he describe my juicy parts?” the woman asked without even cracking a smile. He was amazed that she had the ability to say something like that and not start laughing.

  “Spectacularly?” Remy suggested, taking a long sip from his drink.

  “Sounds about right,” Morgan said, and entwined her arm with his, leading him from the alcove. “Why don’t we go someplace where you can judge for yourself?”

  Remy turned to see that Malatesta had been approached by yet another employee of Rapture. It appeared that the general was quite familiar with, and popular among, the staff of the charnel house.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Morgan said, squeezing his arm. “She’s almost as good as I am.”

  And as they walked, the crowds moved aside, like Charlton Heston as Moses, parting the Red Sea, leading his people to salvation.

  Remy doubted that there would be anything even slightly reminiscent of salvation to be found at the end of this journ
ey.

  • • •

  “I swear he’s gotten heavier,” Montagin said with exertion, holding on to Aszrus’ shoulders as they maneuvered the angel general’s corpse through the opening Francis had slit in reality from his basement apartment to where Squire was waiting.

  “Maybe it’s the stink,” Francis said, gripping the corpse’s legs as he stepped through the fluttering passage. “Stink has to weigh something, right?”

  Montagin came through and they prepared to lay the body down.

  “Got any tarps or trash bags handy?” Francis asked, remembering how the body had leaked.

  “Got a few Boston Heralds lying around,” Squire responded.

  “Yeah, that’ll do,” Francis said.

  The hobgoblin shot into the kitchen, returned with a small stack of newspapers, and began to lay them on the floor.

  “Got it,” he said as he finished.

  Francis had begun to position himself to lower the bottom half of the dead Aszrus down, when Montagin released his end, the angel general’s skull sounding like a dropped bowling ball as it bounced off the hardwood floor beneath the newspaper.

  Francis just glared at the angel.

  “What?” Montagin protested. “It isn’t like he’s going to feel it.”

  He was about to wipe his hands on his pants when he thought better of it.

  “I need to wash my hands,” the fussy angel proclaimed.

  “Go right ahead,” Squire told him. “But I’m fresh out of lavender bath soaps.”

  Montagin fixed the hobgoblin in a withering stare.

  Squire looked right back at him, refusing to back down.

  Francis knew that he liked the little guy for a reason.

  Montagin left the scene disgusted as he went in search of a sink to wash his hands.

  “Don’t forget to lift the seat, Mary,” Squire grumbled beneath his breath as the angel passed.

  The passage Francis had cut from his apartment to here healed shut noisily with a sucking sound, leaving nothing behind to show that the tear had ever been there.

  “Now what?” Francis asked.

  “Now we get him someplace where it won’t matter if he stinks to high fucking hell.”