Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel

  Remiel lay upon the stone floor, still surrounded by the demonic creatures. He was dying, and all he could contribute was to lay there as the spectacle unfolded before his failing sight.

  The Pope and Hallow’s servant desperately struggled for the ring. There was a sudden cry of elation and the servant raised his scuffed and bloody hand—adorned with the silver sigil ring of Solomon.

  The one that controlled the demonic.

  Remiel’s eyes fell heavily shut, but he could still hear the servant’s commands to the demonic hordes assembled there.

  “Take him, and be sure that he suffers.”

  And in the darkness, all the Seraphim could hear were screams.

  Of terror and elation.

  The holy and the wicked.

  One no easier to discern than the other.

  • • •

  The sky above the island of Gunkanjima raged, as if offended by the heinous acts going on below it. Rain pelted the magickal barrier erected by the Keepers, hissing and sputtering like grease in a frying pan.

  Remy could only watch as it all unfolded. He’d thought the Vatican would be the children’s savior, that the Keepers would protect the innocent offspring of angels and Nephilim.

  But he had been wrong—so very, very wrong. The Keepers had come, not as saviors, but as conciliators to prevent the breakout of war, to mediate a truce between two warring sides.

  With the innocents trapped somewhere in the middle.

  “Before you are the creatures responsible for the most heinous of acts,” the old priest began. He gestured toward the children tightly corralled in another sphere of crackling magickal force.

  Some stared defiantly, while others wailed in terror.

  Remy wanted to go to them, to tell them that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that it wasn’t. Things couldn’t have been any worse. Again he tried to remove the magickal leash entwined about his neck, but he’d only grown weaker since the last attempt, and it hurt him all the more.

  “A patriarch of Heaven was murdered,” the priest announced. “His life brutally stolen from him.”

  The Keeper first looked to his left, at those gathered under the banner of Hell, and then to the right, and those representing Heaven.

  “Suspicions were inflamed, and two mighty forces grew closer to conflict.”

  The Heavens roared in the thrall of the storm, almost as if something—someone—was giving their two cents, but Remy knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. Be they God, or monster, neither could watch the travesty going on before them now and not be forced to act.

  But it was allowed to continue.

  “Heaven and Hell were at the brink, and an unsuspecting world slumbered between them, unaware of the dangers they would soon face.”

  The old man slowly turned, presenting Remy with a flourish.

  “But there was one, a being once of Heaven, who now walks the Earth, living among God’s sheep, who would see the destructive potential of the murderous act and seek to quell the growing fires of discord.

  Remy struggled to stand, but all it did was make him cry out.

  “Stay down,” Malatesta hissed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

  Francis, the Archangel Michael, and all the other angelic were staring at Remy as the Keeper continued his pitch.

  “This one saw that it was not the act of one side against the other, but another force at work—a force that sought to ignite a war.”

  Against his better judgment, Remy let his opinion be heard.

  “That isn’t true!”

  And he suffered for it.

  The tendril of magick around his neck became tighter, sending pulsing waves of agony into his body. He fell to the ground again, where he grunted and thrashed in the throes of pain.

  “Seduced by the visage of innocence . . . ,” the old priest continued.

  “Not true?” the Archangel Michael asked, interrupting the old priest’s roll. The soldier of Heaven clutched his flaming staff all the tighter as he turned his full attention to the Seraphim that twitched pathetically on the ground before him. “Tell us of this lie.”

  Remy’s eyes darted to Malatesta, still holding the other end of the magickal leash.

  Michael then looked to the Keeper. “I wish him to speak.”

  The Keeper nodded, and Remy felt the hold upon him begin to loosen. He surged up to his feet, wings flapping powerfully, and considered his few options.

  “The actions of these children were not premeditated,” Remy began. “They didn’t sit around on this cesspool of an island planning ways to turn the armies of Heaven and Hell against each other.” He paused for a moment. “And if you believe that they did, you’re just being fucking stupid,” he finished.

  A shock wave went through the crowd—barely perceptible, but it was there. He had their attention.

  “Look at them,” Remy said, motioning toward the children. “They’re just kids, scared kids with no knowledge of the heritage they were carrying inside them.”

  The Archangel’s gaze grew more intense, like a hawk zeroing in on a rabbit hiding just beneath a bush. Remy wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. After all, what did he have to lose?

  “The offspring of angel and Nephilim,” he continued. “Who even thought that was possible?”

  Remy watched the crowd, not sure what he hoped to see, but seeing nothing.

  “I think you should leave them alone,” he finished. “Let the Vatican look out for them . . . teach them, like they said they would.”

  Remy fixed the Keeper in a bruising stare. He would remember this one, and the Keeper would remember him.

  “But the act of murder has been committed,” the old man stated. “And the balance must be restored in order to keep peace.”

  Francis was staring intently at Remy, but he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Remy had suspected Francis’ new allegiance, but never realized it would go to this extreme.

  Instead, he focused on the gatherings of angels and stated simply, “I believe the murder was justified.”

  Multiple gasps went through the crowd of those serving Heaven, while those serving Hell seemed strangely amused.

  Michael puffed out his chest, his wings slowly flapping, fanning the fires of his rage.

  “You speak blasphemy, Seraphim,” he growled.

  “No,” Remy stated. “I speak the truth.”

  He caught a glimpse of Francis, the look upon the former Guardian angel’s face saying, What the fuck are you up to now, Chandler?

  It was a good question, and one Remy hoped he had an answer for.

  “General Aszrus was father to at least one of these children,” Remy explained. “He was also the one to begin to see their potential.”

  “Potential,” Michael repeated. “In what way would—”

  “He wanted to use them as weapons,” Remy interrupted.

  The legions of Hell immediately perked up.

  Michael tensed, advancing toward Remy. The old Keeper stepped between them, reaching out a hand to stop the archangel.

  “Explain yourself, Seraphim,” the Keeper stated.

  “I was about to,” Remy said. “These children were born different . . . very different, with special abilities hidden inside them just waiting to blossom. Aszrus saw that in some of these children, and foresaw their use in a potential conflict.”

  “This is insanity,” the Archangel Michael scoffed. “If the general was planning something like that, I would have known.”

  “Just like his assistant would have known?” Remy suggested. “Somebody who spent countless hours by his side?”

  “Of course,” the Archangel agreed.

  Remy searched the crowd for Montagin, hoping that he was there, and finding him on the periphery of the Army of Heaven; Squire and Heath were also present beside him.

  “Did you know of this, Montagin?” Remy asked.

  “I knew nothing of what you speak,” the angel sa
id, under the watchful eyes of everyone there. “The General was quite adept at keeping secrets.”

  Remy nodded, giving Montagin a wink of thanks. “Our general was beyond adept, as evidenced by them.” The Seraphim directed their attention back to the children huddled in the bubble of crackling, supernatural energy.

  “You speak of Aszrus’ nefarious plans,” the Archangel stated. “Of how these poor creatures were to be used as weaponry in a war that does not even exist.”

  “Yet,” Remy stated. “C’mon, Mike, don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

  The Keeper looked annoyed at Remy’s comment. “Where is your proof?” he demanded. “You talk of the general’s plans, but with him murdered . . .”

  There was a commotion in the distance, and Remy saw Gareth step forward, close to the magickal barrier.

  “I am that proof,” the young man stated. “I killed my father for what he wanted to turn me, and my brothers and sisters, into.”

  Remy began to move toward the children, but a wave of debilitating magickal energy coursed through his body, bending him over at the waist. He could feel Malatesta’s eyes on him again, warning him to stay in his place.

  The Archangel strode toward the corral.

  “It was you?” the angel warrior asked. “You were the one to slay the general?”

  “Yes, I killed my father,” Gareth admitted.

  Michael paced before the young man, cold, black eyes unwavering. “Look at you,” the angel pronounced. “How could something so . . . small, be a danger to beings such as us.” The Archangel looked to the gathering of angels.

  “We are not a danger,” Gareth announced. “All we want is a chance to exist like everybody else.”

  “But you are a danger, boy,” Michael stated. “You killed one of the most respected of the Lord God’s generals.”

  “I did it in defense of my brothers and sisters,” Gareth said. “We want to live, but not as things . . . not as weapons.”

  Michael stared at the boy, but Remy could see that the Archangel was seeing much more. He strode back to the gathering.

  “I have seen enough,” the Archangel announced.

  The old Keeper bowed, turning his attention to Francis.

  “And have you, spokesman of Hell?” he asked.

  Francis seemed taken aback by the title. “Yeah,” he said, glancing briefly at Remy. “I think I’ve got it.”

  Remy then noticed the Pitiless pistol had appeared in his friend’s hand, and a sick feeling began to churn in the pit of his stomach.

  “We have been presented with the facts,” the Keeper announced. “And in these facts we have found what is to be considered the truth.” He considered both sides, from left to right. “And this truth has halted the escalation of war.”

  The Keeper priest folded his hands before him, turning his attention to the children.

  “And now, the question remains: What is to be done with this truth?”

  Thunder above the island boomed as if for dramatic effect. Remy looked first to Michael, who studied Gareth and the children huddled behind him with an unwavering eye, then to Francis, who held the golden pistol up to his ear, as if on the phone, receiving a call from a higher authority.

  It was Gareth who decided the moment.

  “I offer myself up for the crime I committed,” the boy announced in a voice heard above the hissing of the rain. “I was responsible for the act that led to this, so it is I who must pay the price.”

  “Gareth, no,” Remy called out.

  “Silence!” the Keeper commanded.

  Remy felt the tendril of magick again grow tighter against the flesh of his throat.

  “The guilty has offered himself up as sacrifice for his sin,” the Keeper proclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “How say you all?”

  “It’s good,” Francis said, lowering the gun from his ear.

  Michael nodded as well. “I accept this.”

  “Bring the guilty forward,” the Keeper announced, motioning for two other sorcerers to bring the boy from the corral.

  One created an opening in the enclosure, while the other stood ready to act. But there was nothing to be done, as Gareth calmly left the others, putting their fears at ease with a reassuring glance.

  Something’s not right, Remy thought. Where was the fighter? The one who was going to strike against those who had abandoned them at birth.

  No, something didn’t feel right at all.

  “Halt!” the old priest’s voice boomed, and the youth did as he was told.

  “Restrain him,” the Keeper ordered, and tendrils of magickal energy similar to the ones that held Remy wrapped around Gareth, making him cry out.

  “The guilty is now ready to receive punishment,” the Keeper proclaimed to all in attendance.

  Remy could now hear the other children crying out, calling their brother’s name in pitiful sobs. And the storm continued to grow more intense over the island.

  “Come forward.” The priest motioned at Francis and the Archangel Michael.

  Francis moved as Michael did, but the former Guardian turned to look at Remy. Remy had seen that look before, and it chilled him to the bone, for it was a look that said it was nothing personal, just part of the cost of doing business.

  It still felt wrong to Remy. He could feel something invisible, yet dangerous, gradually building up, just waiting to explode.

  The women from Rapture began to cry out, but were held back by the Keeper sorcerers. The old priest looked in their direction, annoyance on his wizened face, before returning his full attention to the guilty before him.

  “Do you have anything to say before judgment is passed?” he asked Gareth.

  Gareth slowly raised his head, and Remy thought he saw a flash of something in his eyes. He tensed, ready for anything, but nothing happened.

  “Only that I am not sorry, but accept this punishment to absolve my brothers and sisters of any wrongdoing.” He lowered his head and fell silent.

  “Is there anything that either of you wish to say?” the priest asked.

  “Nothing personal,” Francis said, cocking the weapon forged with the power of the Morningstar.

  Michael clutched his flaming spear in both hands, its tip turning white-hot. “I speak for the Almighty when I say that you are nothing more than a mistake,” the Archangel said. “And you are to be erased.” And with those biting words, the angel raised his spear.

  “So be it,” the Keeper said, stepping away from the youth. “Let the punishment fall.”

  Remy held his breath as Francis extended his arm and took aim, and Michael drew back his spear and brought the fiery point down.

  Both weapons delivered their payload at exactly the same moment, the report of a single gunshot emanating from within an explosion of blinding light.

  Remy looked away instinctively, but then forced himself to look into the diminishing brilliance. Francis and Michael stood over the prostrate form of Gareth, his punishment delivered, his penance done.

  The old man returned solemnly to inspect the body. A fine, gray smoke now drifted up from the young man’s clothing.

  “I believe we are done here,” the Keeper announced, addressing both sides. There were children’s mournful cries in the background, accompanied by shrieking winds and rumbles of thunder that sounded like the approach of a mighty army on horseback.

  And Remy still felt that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

  Francis had turned from the body, the golden pistol sliding back inside the waist of his pants, when the Archangel spoke.

  His voice was like the blast of a trumpet. “We are not yet done.”

  The angel spread his wings and leapt into the air, landing before the corral and the young within. A sword of crackling fire appeared in his hand, and he directed its point at the frightened children.

  “We are not done, until they are no more.”

  Remy knew at once what the Archangel was up to.

  “No,” he screamed,
not as man, but as a Seraphim, his own voice projecting across the island. “The boy made a deal for the safety of his brothers and sisters.”

  Michael turned his attentions back to Remy, now a fearful visage of God’s wrath.

  “And that compact will now be broken,” Michael spoke with grim finality. “For there will always be a danger to Heaven . . . Hell . . . and the Earth itself if these creatures are to live.”

  The children began to panic, pushing against the magickal bands that kept them captive. The spell of containment bit back, painfully repelling those who tested the strength of the bonds.

  “They should not be,” Michael proclaimed. “They are freaks of nature . . . abominations, and a harsh reminder that we were not ever meant to be part of this mortal world.”

  Michael looked directly at Remy, and the Seraphim stared back defiantly.

  “So, because of your weakness, innocent lives will be taken,” Remy said.

  Michael did not respond, but Remy was sure that he’d heard him. The Archangel looked to the children again, cowering behind a fence of magickal force.

  “Nobody likes to be reminded of their imperfections,” the Archangel spoke. “And every time I look at them . . .”

  Michael quickly turned away, his mind made up.

  “Put them down,” he commanded, striding toward his soldiers. As he walked he looked toward Lucifer’s men. “Feel free to join us if you care; they could be as much your problem as ours.”

  Remy watched helplessly as the nightmare continued.

  Angels of Heaven and Hell setting themselves upon the captive children. The Keepers dropped the magickal barriers to let the slaughterers in.

  It was more than Remy could stand to see, but he felt compelled to watch, to see it all in every grisly detail.

  To remember every horrible thing.

  The children tried to fight back, to use their newly given abilities, but against the combined armies of Heaven and Hell, there was very little they could do.

  It was bad enough that he felt compelled to watch, but to hear their cries was even worse. Again Remy fought against the magick that restrained him, but only managed to cause himself more pain.

  Maybe it was some sort of safety mechanism: If he caused himself enough pain he would be rendered unconscious, and then he would no longer see them dying, or hear their pitiful cries.