Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel

  Remy waded among the dead men, allowing himself to be surrounded. “Erect a bubble of magick around me and my playmates,” he ordered.

  Malatesta looked at him, hesitating.

  “Just do it,” Remy urged.

  And the sorcerer did, weaving a spell of crackling white energy that encased the Seraphim and the zombies that threatened to bring him down in a sphere of magick.

  Remy caught the magick user’s eye and gave him a little nod, before he allowed his body to go completely nova.

  It felt good to allow his body to shine as it once had in the presence of the Holy Father—an angel showed its true respect for the Almighty being that had created it by willing its body to glow like one of the stars in the sky.

  Then he called the fire back, taking it within his body, allowing his flesh to cool and the human visage that he wore to heal. Since reconciling with his angelic nature, the regeneration process of his human skin and attire was much quicker, and certainly far less painful.

  Remy was kneeling amidst piles of ash—all that remained of the animated dead men that had been trying to kill him. He looked toward Malatesta and nodded again, and the Vatican sorcerer opened the bubble of magick with a wave of his hands.

  “It was getting stuffy in there,” Remy said offhandedly, returning to a more human guise.

  He walked past the open door, giving it a sideways glance. “Think you could maybe shut that for a bit longer?” he asked Malatesta.

  Again the magick user did what was asked of him, using a spell of reassembly to make the door whole.

  “What are we doing?” Malatesta asked. “Don’t you think it would be wise to get out of here?”

  Remy passed Bobbie as he strode to the back of the room where Prosper had disappeared. She was most certainly dead, and he made a silent promise to her that Prosper would be held accountable.

  “He just disappeared,” Remy said as the magick user joined him. “One minute he was here, and the next . . . gone.” He searched for a sign of a secret door or passage that would have allowed the club owner to escape. “I can’t see anything,” he said, his frustration mounting.

  Malatesta was running his hands along the wall as well, his eyes tightly closed. “It isn’t supposed to be seen,” he explained.

  Remy looked over to him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sensing the use of magick here,” Malatesta said. “Powerful stuff.”

  “What kind of magick?” Remy wanted to know, feeling himself growing excited.

  “A spell of passage,” Malatesta replied.

  He opened his eyes and looked to Remy. The magick user still looked sick, and Remy couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

  He quickly brushed it aside; there would be time for that when the threat of war wasn’t breathing down their necks.

  “Can you find the opening?” Remy asked.

  Malatesta sighed, closing his eyes again. “I get a sense, but I don’t have a key.”

  “Pick the lock,” Remy suggested.

  Malatesta looked at him.

  “Pick the lock?”

  “Yeah, if you call yourself a powerful sorcerer, pick the lock.”

  The man seemed flustered, stepping away from the wall.

  “You don’t understand what I’ve just been through,” he said. “It’s taking everything I have to keep it together . . . to keep what’s inside me from—”

  “Which won’t matter at all if Heaven and Hell turn the planet into a battleground,” Remy finished.

  Malatesta glared at him for a few moments as Remy’s words appeared to sink in.

  “I’m not saying I can do this,” he finally said.

  “Sure you can,” Remy urged. “I’ve got faith in you.”

  The magick user extended his arms, fingers splayed. He closed his eyes, and Remy watched as his expression turned to one of exertion and strain.

  “Anything?” he asked, impatiently.

  “Shut up,” Malatesta commanded.

  Remy continued to watch as a sheen of sweat broke out on the man’s brow and upper lip.

  “I’m not sure how much longer . . . ,” Malatesta said, his voice shaking with exertion.

  Remy could hear scuffling from the hall outside the office and doubted that they had much time before the next assault wave started.

  “I don’t know if you can hear that but . . .”

  “Shut up!” Malatesta cried again, his hands moving in the air as if he were untying some huge, invisible knot.

  The man suddenly went rigid, air exploding from his lungs as if punched.

  “Constantin?” Remy questioned.

  Malatesta was standing perfectly straight now, head bowed, hands by his sides.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” said a voice that Remy recognized as belonging to the spirit entity. “Let’s see what I can do.”

  Remy wasn’t sure exactly how to react, and found himself simply watching as the possessed man again worked his hands in the air, sparks of magickal energy leaving glowing trails as they moved with incredible speed.

  And then he stopped, taking a step backward with an enormous grin on his face.

  There was pounding now on the office door behind them.

  Remy glanced at it, then returned his attention to the possessed Malatesta. “Well?” he asked the evil spirit, again in control of its host.

  “What do you think?” the Larva asked, still grinning.

  The air before them was shimmering ever so slightly; images of another place were briefly visible on the other side.

  The dark entity extended his hand, gesturing for Remy to pass through.

  “You first,” he said, grabbing Malatesta by the shoulders, pushing him into the passage.

  Malatesta was gone from the office, and from what Remy could see, had made it to the other side without any mishaps.

  The pounding on the door was growing more insistent, and cracks began to appear in the wood. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then dove into the magickal passage toward the unknown, as the door crumbled behind him.

  • • •

  The demon Beleeze was worried.

  Something was happening on the island. If he’d been braver he would have approached his master Simeon and told him that they should just find a safe place.

  If he were braver.

  The normally horrible weather on the Pacific island was suddenly worse, crackling bolts of a strange energy reaching up from somewhere within the ruins of the mining city to entice the storm’s fury. The clouds grew darker, heavier, dropping closer to the rooftops, as the rain continued to fall in drenching sheets.

  Beleeze watched his master standing at the end of the street, gazing up curiously at the odd atmospheric conditions.

  He sensed a presence move closer and glanced over to see that Dorian had come to join him. He was tempted to place his arm around her shoulder in comfort, but he restrained himself. That was not behavior befitting a demon of his stature.

  “What is he doing?” Dorian asked very quietly.

  Beleeze was surprised that she had even uttered the words, but could certainly relate to her curiosity.

  “It is not my place to ask,” he answered, just as quietly.

  Robert, who had once been called Tjernobog, paced back and forth, muttering beneath his breath. It was obvious that he could sense it as well.

  Something was happening.

  There came a terrific boom of thunder, so loud that it caused what little glass remained in a nearby building to shatter, falling to the street with the rain.

  Beleeze advanced partway down the street, in case his master needed him, but Simeon appeared safe—for now.

  The sky had become like night, the energy shooting up from the street beyond and striking the clouds, illuminating them eerily.

  It was within that illumination that he saw them: human figures flying up into the storm
, to be lost among the clouds.

  “It’s what I was afraid of,” Simeon said, finally turning away from the view of the sky to look at Beleeze. “The murder of one’s sire. It must have been a catalyst of sorts.”

  Simeon strode past the demon, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Now change is upon them.”

  Beleeze followed, as Simeon continued to speak.

  “And they are becoming so much more than anyone could have ever dreamed.”

  Beleeze practically crashed into his master’s back as Simeon came to an abrupt stop.

  “A threat to one and all,” he said.

  And as if in response to his master’s words, the sky shook, and just barely audible over the roar of thunder, Beleeze thought he heard the sound of laughter.

  “A danger to both Heaven, and Hell,” his master said.

  Of that, the demon Beleeze had no doubt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Prosper stumbled from the passage into the freezing rainstorm.

  He hated this fucking island more than anything, but it had been Simeon’s choice, and who was he to argue with the mysterious figure.

  A chill, surprisingly not caused by the rain dripping down the length of his spine, caused him to shudder.

  First, it had been losing track of one of the kids and the chaos that followed. Now, it was the angel Remiel flipping over rocks and getting too close to their business. Prosper could already hear Simeon’s words: Why didn’t you just kill them?

  It was a good question—one that he really didn’t have the answer to at the moment. He was too fucking busy trying to keep himself alive.

  Thunder boomed so loudly above him that he found himself recoiling from the intensity of the burst. “What the fuck?”

  Prosper began to run, the rain falling so hard that it obscured most everything around him. It took him a moment to realize that there weren’t any of the usual security teams present to meet him.

  That just made him all the more angry.

  The rain was falling harder now—if that was even possible—and Prosper stopped momentarily in the deluge to get his bearings. He placed a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the severity of the storm. He couldn’t remember ever feeling more miserable.

  Something moved ahead of him, dark shapes behind a curtain of rain.

  “You there!” Prosper called over the hissing downpour.

  There was no response, and the fallen angel’s ire rose to an unbridled level as he trudged ahead, hand still shielding his eyes from the heavy rain.

  The sky was suddenly filled with a flash of unearthly light. At first he believed it to be lightning from the storm—what else could it be? But something didn’t feel quite right.

  Prosper stopped, scanning the tumultuous sky, seeing only fat, billowing storm clouds, like smoke. He waited, curious to see if the strange phenomenon would repeat itself.

  Again it happened, the sky lighting up as a snaking tendril of raw, luminescent energy shot up from somewhere ahead of him, to illuminate the sky. Prosper was drawn to the source of the flash, but not before there came another explosion of thunder. The sky grew bright, as if lit up by multiple klieg lights, and for the briefest of moments, before his eyes were seared, he saw . . .

  Prosper froze, averting his gaze, rubbing at his stinging eyes. To be sure of what he thought he saw, he again turned his vision skyward.

  A figure floated in the air, gazing down at him. He recognized her; she was one of the children. Her name was Mavis.

  “What—what are you doing?” he stammered, realizing how foolish the question sounded as it left his mouth.

  The girl drifted closer, as if carried by invisible wings on the rain-swept winds.

  He heard her laugh then. “Poor Prosper,” she taunted. “Not even enough sense to come in out of the rain.”

  Before he had a chance to react, she flew at him like a bullet, snatched him up from the ground, and carried him into the sky—up into the storm.

  Prosper saw that they were not alone.

  And once again, he knew the power of fear.

  • • •

  Francis had some difficulty opening his eyes.

  He’d thought that he would avoid more beatings by mentioning Remy Chandler to Michael, but instead, the Archangel had simply left the dungeon, leaving him alone with Dardariel.

  The cold stone floor actually felt good against his swollen face, but he decided to forgo the pleasure to assess his current situation.

  He managed to push himself up along the stone wall into a sitting position. Through swollen, blood-encrusted eyes Francis saw that he wasn’t alone.

  “Well, look at that,” Montagin said. “You’re alive—your middle name must be Lazarus.”

  “You wouldn’t have a couple of Advil on you, would you?” Francis asked, exhausted from the effort of righting himself.

  He heard Montagin make a sound of disgust, not even bothering with a reply.

  He caught sight of a larger shape huddled in the corner beside the angel, and guessed it was Heath. The sorcerer wasn’t making any noise.

  “How are you holding up there, Angus?” Francis asked.

  Angus grunted, which at least told Francis that the magick user was still alive. Then Heath shifted his weight so the faint illumination from the lone skylight in the ceiling shone on his face.

  Francis actually gasped at what he saw.

  Heath’s face was bloody and swollen, his lips sewn together with thick black thread.

  To prevent him from uttering any spells, Francis gathered.

  Heath’s bloodshot gaze bore into his.

  “That certainly doesn’t look pleasant,” Francis said.

  Heath grunted, and leaned his bulk back against the wall.

  Francis moved his arms, feeling the weight there, and hearing the rattle of chains. He looked down to see the golden manacles, etched with angelic sigils.

  “Shit,” he grumbled. “Anybody got a paper clip?”

  “Could you really pick those locks if you had a paper clip?” Montagin asked.

  “Probably not,” Francis admitted. “But I’ve seen it done in movies lots of times. How hard could it be?”

  “Idiot,” Montagin grumbled.

  “At least I had an idea,” Francis retorted. “What have you got?”

  “What does it matter?” the angel answered. “We’re all as good as dead.”

  “That’s the one thing I like about you,” Francis said. “Your upbeat attitude.”

  It sounded as if Heath tried to laugh, but it turned to a moan.

  “Sorry, Angus,” Francis said.

  Montagin continued to be a ray of sunshine. “I should never have gone to Chandler,” he complained. “I should have gone right to Michael and shown him what had happened.”

  “And what good would have come of that?” Francis asked.

  “I wouldn’t have been tortured and thrown into a filthy jail cell with the likes of you two. I wouldn’t be awaiting my inevitable demise for withholding information from the legions of Heaven.”

  “No, you’d be watching the earth being turned into a battleground, with humanity caught right in the fucking middle.”

  “That will happen anyway,” Montagin said. “Right now we’re only delaying the inevitable, and have signed our death warrants in addition.”

  Francis tried to get comfortable on the damp, stone floor, but no matter how he maneuvered, his body ached. “We did exactly what we were supposed to do.”

  “What, die?” Montagin demanded. “We were supposed to die? I don’t remember volunteering to—”

  “We needed to buy him time,” Francis interrupted. “Let’s just hope that Remy found what he needed to keep all the flaming swords in their sheaths.”

  They were silent for a bit, and Francis had begun to drift off when Montagin’s voice called him back.

  “Do you seriously believe it will matter?”

  “What?” Francis asked. “What C
handler’s doing? Yes . . . yes, I do.”

  Montagin chuckled. “You obviously haven’t been around them—the soldiers and generals. They’re just looking for an excuse. I’m surprised that Aszrus has actually managed to hold them off this long. He was as hawkish as any of them, but it was as if he was waiting for something, that one last thing that would say it’s time.”

  Francis felt Montagin’s gaze upon him.

  “Maybe it was his own murder he was waiting for,” Montagin continued, “and he just didn’t know it.”

  “Or maybe it was the success of Toddlers In Tiaras,” Francis suggested.

  The dungeon fell silent again, which was fine by him.

  “I hate that show,” Montagin said after a few minutes, and Francis could not help but laugh, which ended up being one of the most excruciating experiences that he’d endured in quite some time.

  “Serves you right,” Montagin added, which only made Francis laugh all the more.

  The laughter eventually subsided, and then it was the wait for the pain to die down. The cell was silent, occasionally interrupted by the rattle of chains and moans of discomfort from Heath.

  Francis was lost in pain-addled thought, wondering where they might go from there. They had no idea if Remy had been successful, and the former Guardian was sure that information wouldn’t be shared by their captors. Angels could be real cocks when they wanted to be, and since they had them, why would they bother to let them go?

  Especially since they had such a hard-on for his employer.

  Francis thought about his current boss, and wondered if the Morningstar was fully aware of the situation. Lucifer knew that Azsrus was murdered, and that it could be used for political purposes, which was why he had put Francis on the case.

  But Francis had to wonder how in the loop his boss actually was. He decided that it probably couldn’t hurt to find out.

  He shifted again, grunting in pain as his limbs made it known they didn’t care to move in those specific directions.

  “Can’t you just die in your sleep or something?” Montagin asked. “I’m tired of hearing the two of you voicing your discomfort.”

  “I’m going to try something,” Francis said, searching for a section of the cell where the darkness seemed almost liquid.

  “What?” Montagin asked.