Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel

  Simeon stumbled to one side as the castle again quaked.

  “The spell that prevents their access will not stand up to much more of this assault,” Hallow said. He was making his way toward the stairs, beginning his climb.

  “Where are you going?” Simeon demanded.

  “I’m going to meet our guests,” the magick user told him.

  “No.” Simeon rushed up behind the old man, grabbing at the back of his robes.

  Hallow lost his balance and fell backward into Simeon’s arms.

  “I won’t let you kill yourself,” Simeon told him.

  “Is it that obvious?” Hallow asked. “Not even about to give me a fighting chance.” He chuckled sadly.

  “You’re still a great necromancer,” Simeon said, helping to steady the old man. “Show it.”

  Normally for such impertinence he would have been beaten, or worse—killed, and maybe killed again—but this time was different.

  “I’m tired, Simeon,” Hallow said. “My brother and I have been fighting this war for far too long.” He paused, catching his breath.

  “It’s time for it to end.”

  Simeon reached out, gripping the necromancer’s arm. He was shocked at how bony it felt through the heavy cloth of Hallow’s robes.

  “Everything that I have has been put into the castle’s defense,” he said, “but still he advances.”

  “You must continue to fight,” Simeon told him.

  The old man nodded. “And fight I will,” he said. “Until I cannot fight anymore.”

  “You yourself said that Tyranus cannot be allowed to win.”

  “No truer words were ever spoken,” the necromancer said. He started to climb the stone steps again. “Of that, I have no intention.”

  Hallow reached the doorway.

  “In days past it was all about the battles, who would win, and who would lose,” he said. “But now, in my waning years I’ve come to understand that the answer I sought—that my brother and I both sought—masked a lie.”

  The structure trembled again, the iron chandeliers that hung above the grand room swaying in the rubble that crumbled down from above.

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Simeon said. He had his hands atop his head to protect himself. “What lie?”

  “Victory,” the old magick user said. “There can be no victory in this game.”

  The building shook again, and Simeon fell to one knee, as his master clutched the doorframe with a withered hand.

  “I don’t . . .”

  “We exist to maintain a balance,” Hallow spoke, over the sounds of his home under siege. “If one defeats the other, what is maintained with that? Nothing. The balance is lost no matter who lives, or dies.”

  There came a commotion from outside that told him that the magickal barriers had fallen, and he looked toward the huge, wooden doors. The demon staff was scrambling to place heavy pieces of furniture in front of the opening, hoping to buy more time.

  “But someone will reign victorious,” Simeon said.

  Ignatius Hallow shook his head. “None must be victorious. For balance to be restored, the Keepers must be removed from the equation.”

  “But . . .” Simeon began, not quite sure he understood.

  “With both of us gone, nature will take its course—a natural balance will eventually occur.”

  “So much power going out into the world.”

  “Better it go out into the world than be in the hands of one,” Hallow said.

  The doors into the castle blew inward with a deafening roar, the pieces of furniture laid before it doing little to prevent what wished to gain entrance from coming inside.

  Simeon had been blown down from the explosion, rising to his feet to see that his master now stood in defiance of what had entered.

  It was a visage of power, a soldier of Heaven clad in armor that appeared to be forged from the surface of the sun; in its hand was a sword seemingly broken from the point of the nearest star.

  Simeon could do nothing but stare, and loathe it with all his heart and what little remained of his soul.

  • • •

  He dreamed of a time when he was not in control.

  Images exploded from the darkness. Remy, the Seraphim, had been riled to war, finally battering down the magickally fortified doors to the castle, allowing him and the Pope’s soldiers inside.

  There was such anger then, with nary a thought as to why he would feel so much rage for someone that he didn’t even know. But if Tyranus wished Hallow vanquished, that was more than enough for him.

  And Remiel didn’t even think to question that.

  The images came fast and furiously, accompanied by a droning sound track of Latin prayer.

  He didn’t think that this had been the case back then, the screams of those dying in battle being the only score that he could recall accompanying the siege.

  His entire focus then was to find the necromancer and destroy him utterly, for that was what Pope Tyranus had commanded. It was all so very simple; he needed to do what the Pope told him to do.

  And he did so, with nary a question.

  The Latin prayer was louder now, and he realized that he could not understand it. How was that even possible? Remiel could understand all prayers, all languages. . . .

  What’s going on?

  It felt as if he was falling . . . so very fast, but his wings would not come.

  And he struck the earth, shattering his every bone and causing his skin to split and all that was inside him to spill out into the world.

  And then all was darkness.

  • • •

  Remy awoke with a start. He quickly looked around, trying to get his bearings, and to remember what had happened.

  He was in a storage room, cartons of alcohol and crates of wine stacked against cinder block walls.

  The sound of Latin prayer still echoed in his mind. Turning his head toward the other side of the room, Remy realized that he wasn’t alone. Constantin Malatesta was slumped in a wooden office chair beside him, hands bound behind his back.

  And Remy realized then that he, too, was bound.

  “Hey,” Remy said, tugging on the restraints, but finding that they held him fast. They hadn’t used rope on him; his restraints were made from chains, and as he moved he could feel the tingle of enchantment coursing up the lengths of his arms.

  He remembered the zombie security guards, and how they’d been protected from his angelic talents.

  Rapture. The charnel house. This place was all set to deal with folks like him if things got out of hand.

  “Constantin . . . hey,” Remy called out again. “Listen to me.”

  The praying at last stopped, and the Vatican agent slowly turned his gaze to him.

  Remy didn’t like what he saw at all.

  “What have they done to you?” he asked.

  Malatesta looked as though he’d aged twenty years, his face battered, bruised, and covered with drying blood.

  “It’s this place,” the man said, his voice trembling. “It makes you weak . . . unable to fight. . . .”

  Malatesta began to squirm then, crying out as if suddenly in torment.

  And from the look of what was happening to his body, he was. It was then that Remy knew that the Vatican magick user had a deadly secret.

  His flesh began to writhe and twist, as if there was something on the inside of him that was trying to get out. His eyes had gone completely yellow, and he looked to Remy with a pointy-toothed snarl.

  “Been awhile since I’ve been this close to the surface,” the monstrous entity growled. “Feels good.”

  And the creature laughed, before crying out in protest and pain as Malatesta tried to take control of his form once more.

  “Can’t let the Larva free,” the magick user told him. “But it’s so strong . . . so damn strong.”

  Remy could see that the effort was practically killing him, and wished that he could have done something to help the man, but
at the moment, there were some larger issues that needed to be dealt with.

  He knew that trying to break his bonds was probably futile, but he couldn’t help but give it the ole Seraphim try. The backlash of the magick was something incredible, almost sending him back to the dark place he’d been before waking up.

  A place where he hadn’t been in control, and wasn’t even aware.

  Shaking off the pain, he looked around for something, anything that might trigger a useful thought.

  He couldn’t help but look to Malatesta, who had started praying again, even as the evil spirit inside the man struggled to emerge once more.

  The door to the basement storage swung open with a creak, distracting Remy from another futile attempt at trying to break the chains around his wrists.

  A man sauntered in as if he owned the place, which he probably did. Remy guessed that this was the guy Prosper that Morgan had talked about. He was followed by two exceptionally large zombies.

  Where the hell does he find these guys? Remy wondered. It wasn’t as if behemoths of this size were dying every day, but then again, maybe they were and he just wasn’t being told. Wouldn’t have been the first time he was kept out of the loop.

  “I’d get up and shake your hand,” Remy started. “But I’m a little tied up.”

  Prosper didn’t even crack a smile, staring at the two bound figures before him like somebody might study a particularly troubling stain upon a carpet.

  “I can’t believe you ended up here,” Prosper said, barely containing his annoyance.

  Remy stared at the man, realizing that he was an angel, but one of the fallen kind—a Denizen.

  Denizens had served time in the Hell prison of Tartarus, before being released to Earth to serve out the remainder of their penance.

  Remy wasn’t really sure how many Denizens actually ever finished their sentence. This might be something to ask the Big Guy upstairs, if they ever got a chance to chat again.

  But right now Remy had more pressing concerns.

  “It’s great that you found yourself a good living,” Remy said. “But do you think that whorehouses are on the accepted list of businesses for parolees?”

  Prosper just stared blankly.

  “I can see why the Black Choir hates your fucking guts,” he finally said.

  Malatesta’s praying started to get louder, creating a distraction.

  “Shut up,” Prosper ordered, to no avail.

  Remy could see a spark of something not quite right go off in Prosper’s eyes, telling him that the fallen angel probably hadn’t learned the error of his ways while imprisoned after the war.

  “I said to shut your fucking mouth.” Prosper leaned in closer to Malatesta, speaking louder, as if the Vatican sorcerer was hard of hearing.

  Malatesta kept right on praying, and Remy could see that this wasn’t going any place good. He made an attempt to defuse the situation by trying to get Prosper’s attention.

  “So tell me about the Choir,” Remy said. “Did they talk about me a lot? Did they mention what I did that bugged them . . .”

  Prosper barely nodded, and one of the zombies stepped in, delivering a smashing blow that snapped Malatesta’s head viciously to one side. Remy was spattered with the magick user’s blood.

  “Hey, there’s no need for that,” Remy hollered.

  The distraction worked this time, and Prosper turned his cold, dead gaze to the angel. Again, there came the barely perceptible nod, and the zombie with the sledgehammer right hook was beside him, giving Remy a taste of hurt.

  The blow practically tore his head from his shoulders, but at least he had gotten the focus away from Malatesta.

  “So, as I was saying,” Remy said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “The Choir really has no love for me. Did they charge you, or did they agree to do me in for nothing?”

  Prosper pretended to smile, but Remy could see that there was no real happiness behind the facial contortion. He’d seen this in quite a few Denizens after they’d been freed from Tartarus. It was as if they had no idea what happiness was anymore, and any chance of knowing it again had been taken away.

  “Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you’re trying to make me do?” Prosper asked.

  The zombie stepped in again, and Remy tried to brace himself, but it really didn’t do much good.

  “Now why would I want you to do something like that?” Remy asked, feeling blood dribble from the corner of his mouth, and down to his shirt.

  “Maybe because you know what’s coming,” Prosper suggested, and again there was that smile, only this time there might have been something akin to pleasure behind it.

  “And what might that be?”

  “I hate to waste things,” Prosper said. “If I can turn waste into profit, I’m ahead of the game.”

  “So you’re gonna turn me—us—into profit?” Remy asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Prosper folded his hands in front of himself and stared. “In my business I have all sort of clients, and some of those clients have certain needs that are very specific, and quite difficult to fulfill.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Remy said. “Like General Aszrus, he liked to play a little rough.”

  This time Prosper didn’t wait for his living-dead bodyguard to do the dirty work. The fallen angel delivered a succession of blows that showed Remy he had struck a nerve.

  Go him.

  “You had to go poking around.” Prosper shook his hand out and Remy could see that his knuckles were torn and bloody.

  That’ll show him.

  “Just doing my job,” Remy managed from a mouth feeling swollen and out of shape. “Like you . . . making my client happy.”

  He thought he might get hit again, but Prosper managed some level of restraint.

  “Glad you understand,” he said instead. “I have clients who would give me anything I want for some time with the likes of a Seraphim.”

  Prosper smiled. There was definitely some pleasure there, but it was the dirty kind that made the hair at the back of the neck stand up, and the skin prickle.

  “Now would this be a dinner date, or just lunch?” Remy asked, knowing the question would probably be bad for him, but it felt good to ask.

  Prosper surprised him by laughing out loud. It wasn’t too pleasant a sound. “Yeah, you could call it that. A dinner date, yeah.” He was laughing again. “You’ll be the fucking dinner and they’ll be eating you alive, among other things.”

  That idea made him laugh all the harder. Remy could just imagine the perversity inside the fallen angel’s head, and was glad that he couldn’t share in it.

  A knock at the door interrupted their fun.

  One of the zombies opened it a crack, and Remy caught sight of a pretty, older woman standing outside.

  “What?” Prosper said, without even looking, annoyance in his tone.

  “Got a problem upstairs,” the woman said.

  He looked in her direction then. “What kind of problem?”

  “The kind that can cause a shitload of damage if it’s not taken care of,” she stated. “A Summerian battle god whacked out of his gourd on joy juice is threatening to rip the roof off the place if somebody doesn’t bring him a ten-year-old virgin.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Prosper spat, moving toward the door. “We don’t have any?” he asked as he and his zombie thugs pushed past her, closing the door behind them.

  Remy was left alone to deal with his own problem. He looked at Malatesta who was coming to, moaning as if being prodded with a hot poker.

  The doorknob rattled again, and he was half expecting to see Prosper back for more fun and games, but instead the woman entered, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Forget something?” Remy asked.

  The woman glared as she stalked toward him.

  “Where did you get it?” she asked, tension like that of a coiled spring ready to snap in her voice.

  “I don’t understand,” R
emy said, looking into her distressed eyes.

  “Where did you find it?” she repeated, as if English was his second language. She reached into her pocket and removed the picture that Morgan had picked up from the floor in her room. “This,” the woman held it out to Remy, “where did you get it?”

  She was frantic, her eyes darting between Remy and the door, obviously expecting Prosper and his buddies to return.

  “What does it mean?” Remy asked her.

  She looked at the picture, a look of genuine longing spreading across her face.

  “I was told they had died at birth,” she said. “But this . . .”

  “Why would Aszrus have that picture?” Remy asked, watching the woman’s reaction.

  “Aszrus,” she repeated. “You got this from Aszrus?”

  She was looking at the picture again, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Who is it?” Remy asked.

  She seemed to be struggling with his questions. “They weren’t supposed to be able to have babies,” she finally said, sobbing. “But here they were, pregnant.”

  “Who?” Remy prodded, desperate for answers. “Who was pregnant?”

  “My girls,” she said. “It wasn’t natural, but it happened.”

  “The Nephilim?” Remy asked. “The Nephilim were getting pregnant?”

  He’d never heard of such a thing, and as far as he knew, it wasn’t even possible. Nephilim were supposed to be sterile.

  There was a muffled sound from outside the room, and the woman turned, bolting for the door.

  “Who got the girls pregnant?” Remy asked as she turned the knob, ready to flee. “Was it the angels? Was it Aszrus?”

  The look on her face told him all he needed to know as she quickly slunk out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

  Remy had more than he did before, but the puzzle’s picture was still not yet defined. He had to get out of here.

  He looked over to Malatesta, who was again muttering in Latin.

  “Listen,” Remy said. “We’re in some pretty big trouble here,” he told the sorcerer.