Walking In the Midst of Fire: A Remy Chandler Novel

“Not so bad of a curse as far as curses go,” Remy told her.

  “I guess.”

  Marlowe had plopped down beside the woman, shimmying as close to her as he was able. He was a good judge of character; if Marlowe liked her, this woman was probably special.

  They were silent for a bit, as old Dottie continued to stroke Marlowe’s ebony fur.

  “He likes that,” she said, looking deeply into the dog’s dark eyes.

  “That he does,” Remy said.

  Dottie let her eyes leave Marlowe’s and fixed her gaze on Remy. He could see that she was staring really hard, squinting her watery eyes as if she was having some difficulty focusing her sight.

  “What is it, Dottie?” Remy asked. “Something wrong with your eyes?”

  “No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “No problem . . . just that I see things a little differently from most.”

  Remy continued to listen to her, sure that she was about to say more.

  “I see things about folks that they can’t see themselves,” she said.

  “That another curse?” Remy asked her. He had moved closer to them, squatting down so that he, too, could pat his dog.

  “All depends on how you look at it,” she said. “Makes it kinda tough to have a normal life . . . to keep a job and stuff.”

  She was staring at him again, old eyes squinting.

  “Do you see something with me?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I do,” she said. “You’re not like everybody else, are you?”

  Remy smiled. It wasn’t entirely unusual, but it was rare. There were a select few people out there in the world with the ability to see things—those who could peer into the shadows and see what was actually lurking there behind the veil.

  Those who could see things as they truly were.

  “No, I’m not,” Remy said, looking away from the intensity of her gaze.

  “So, what’s your story?” she asked him, her face now very serious. “Haven’t come to take me, have you?”

  Remy laughed as he patted Marlowe’s head. The dog was in heaven with all this attention.

  “Not my job,” he told her with a shake of his head. “So no worries there.”

  “Good,” Dottie said, happy that he wasn’t the Angel of Death. “Been seeing a lot of your types walking around recently, and have gotten a little nervous.”

  Dottie’s words hit him hard, her observations worrying.

  “You’ve seen a lot like me around?” he asked her to be sure.

  The old woman nodded. “Oh yeah, just strolling around.” She waved a hand around in the air. “Like they were checking the place out or something.”

  Or something, Remy thought, certain that the angels she had seen were doing reconnaissance . . . but for which side? Perhaps both? It was truly bothersome, but it made what he had come to the Old South Church for all the more pertinent.

  “Was that what they were doing?” Dottie asked him, interrupting his train of thought.

  “Yeah, it probably was.”

  “Something up?”

  “That’s something I need to find out,” Remy answered, rising to his feet and looking at the church before him.

  He needed to get himself inside to do what he had to do. He had been planning on taking Marlowe in with him, but now maybe he wouldn’t.

  “Hey Dottie, want to do me a favor?” he asked the old woman.

  “Sure, if I can,” she said, stroking Marlowe’s side.

  “Want to keep an eye on Marlowe while I take care of some business?” he asked her.

  She smiled warmly, looking to the dog.

  “What do you think, pal?” she asked him. “Can you stand to hang around here with Dottie for a little while longer?”

  Marlowe panted heavily, his tail wagging happily in response.

  “Will you be okay, buddy?” Remy asked the Labrador.

  “Okay with Dottie,” Marlowe grumbled, extending his thick neck to give her another big wet kiss on the side of her face.

  “That’s great. I should only be a little while,” he told the dog.

  “Take your time,” Dottie called out as he started to walk around to the back of the building.

  To make his direct call to Heaven.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Remy pictured in his mind’s eye the Old South Church as it was the last time he had entered, and willed himself inside with a rush of air and the flutter of wings.

  He had attended a fund-raiser for the Congregationalist parish to help finance repairs of damage done by the ravages of age and nearby construction. Tonight, it was just as beautiful as he remembered, even in darkness.

  Remy pulled his wings back into his body and strolled down the center aisle, admiring the elaborate woodwork and stained glass. His eyes fixed upon the enormous organ pipes to the left of the altar, and he remembered the glorious sounds they had made when played at the fund-raiser.

  If he listened very carefully, straining his preternatural senses to their maximum capacity, he could still hear the lingering residue of the countless prayers that had been spoken here.

  Now he was about to add his own to the fray.

  Remy stood no more than a few feet from the altar and turned his gaze to the ceiling. Shedding his human visage, he appeared as the angel, Remiel, Seraphim and soldier of Heaven. Wings spread wide and armor-covered arms outstretched, the angel began to pray. Up through this place of worship, Remiel projected his petition, spoken in the language of the Messengers, hopefully to the ears of God.

  Or whoever might be listening on His behalf.

  Remiel needed answers. He had to know if the world that he cared so deeply for, the people that he loved, would be safe. He needed to know if there was anything that could avert the coming hardship.

  It had been a very long time since Remiel had asked Heaven for anything, but now it was time to put aside old hostilities for the sake of something so much bigger.

  Exhausted, Remiel fell to his knees, listening with all his might for an answer, but except for the sounds of the city coming to life outside, the place of worship remained silent. Slowly, the angel climbed to his feet, abandoning the guise of a Heavenly warrior and slipping comfortably back into the guise of humanity he had worn for so many years.

  Remy looked around the church, senses on the alert, but still there was nothing.

  Still there was no response.

  Is this how it’s to be now? he wondered. Is no one listening to me anymore? Or is there some other reason that my prayers go unanswered?

  Perhaps the drums of war beat much louder than even he suspected.

  He was ready to leave, ready to reveal his wings again and take himself back outside to reunite with Marlowe and Dottie, when he felt a sudden change in the atmosphere of the church.

  As if something had been added.

  Remy turned, eyes scanning his surroundings, and he found it—someone sitting tall in one of the pews, staring straight ahead toward the altar.

  “Hello?” Remy called out.

  At first the figure did not react. But then he spoke, his voice soft yet powerful. “Hello, Remiel.

  “I would have come sooner,” the figure continued as he turned eyes as dark as space to Remy, “but, as you can probably guess, things are terribly hectic.”

  “There’s a war brewing, don’t you know.”

  • • •

  His name was Montagin, and Remy had not seen him since the first war against the Morningstar. How apropos that he would be the one to come to Remy now.

  “How long has it been?” Montagin asked, turning to face the angel as Remy slid into the pew.

  “Let’s just say that it’s been a long time,” Remy replied, trying to keep it friendly.

  “It was right after the war, wasn’t it?” the angel asked. His eyes twinkled mischievously.

  This was one of the many reasons that Remy had left Heaven: Angels were basically assholes.

  “It was,” Remy agreed tightly.

  ??
?Right before your little tantrum that ended up with you settling . . .” Montagin’s dark eyes darted about, seeing not only the church, but the world outside it. “Here.”

  Remy didn’t respond to the angel’s malicious grin.

  “So how have you been?” Montagin then asked, unbuttoning his suit coat so that he was able to cross his long legs without wrinkling the linen. The off-white suit appeared very expensive, and he was wearing what looked to be Italian loafers, without socks.

  Very stylish for a creature of Heaven; Remy had to wonder how long he’d been in this world.

  “Fine,” Remy said, casually nodding. “I’m surprised to see you.”

  Montagin smiled. “Just happened to be listening and I wasn’t too far away. Actually it should have been Aszrus who answered, but he had some business to take care of tonight.”

  The mention of Aszrus caused an icy chill of concern to pass through Remy’s body. “Aszrus is here?” he asked.

  Montagin nodded. “Has been here for quite some time. We’ve always anticipated that what’s happening would occur.”

  “And what exactly is that?” Remy asked.

  Montagin chuckled coldly. “You’re not that far removed from what you are, Remiel,” he said. “You’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know—not to see—what’s been unfolding all across this planet.”

  “You mentioned a war,” Remy prompted.

  “And that will likely be the end result,” Montagin acknowledged, slowly rotating his foot. Remy was reminded of a cat’s tail languidly swishing back and forth just before it pounced.

  “I’m sure you know that the Morningstar has returned to Tartarus and is in the process of reshaping it into who knows what?” Montagin leaned forward toward Remy.

  “Yeah, I’d heard something about that.”

  “Good,” the angel said. “Then you’re not as far gone as I feared.”

  “So this is all about the Morningstar,” Remy said, ignoring the barb.

  Montagin was staring intensely now.

  “Are you just playing dumb, or are you really that stupid?” he finally asked.

  “I just don’t see an imminent threat,” Remy told him.

  “Lucifer has returned to power,” Montagin said a little slower and a little louder. “Lucifer has returned to power, and has gone back to Tartarus . . . back to Hell.”

  “So he’s gone back to where the Almighty put him to begin with.”

  “Is this what living here among the monkeys does to one of us?” Montagin asked with a sneer.

  “What does it do, Montagin?” Remy retorted. “Does it make me ask questions, and not fly off the handle at the slightest things? If that’s the case, then yeah, I guess living here has done that to me.”

  The angel’s face wore an expression of absolute disgust.

  “Even after everything you saw during the war, you can still be blind to what Lucifer is capable of.”

  “I know what he’s capable of, but the question is, what is he doing now?”

  Montagin rose to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket as he stood.

  “If you can’t see his influence in everything that has been happening here on the world of man, then I’m afraid there’s really nothing more I can say to you.”

  “Are you serious?” Remy questioned. “You think that what’s been happening here is all Lucifer’s fault?”

  “Whether it is or isn’t doesn’t matter to the overall picture,” Montagin said. “The fact is that Lucifer Morningstar is free, and as long as he is, he poses a danger to God and the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “And Earth?” Remy asked the million dollar question.

  “Yes, to Earth as well,” Montagin said, almost begrudgingly. “To think of the Morningstar in control of this world . . . We will not stand for it.”

  “So that’s why Aszrus is here,” Remy stated.

  “As well as others in various aspects of reconnaissance,” Montagin said. “I just so happen to have been assigned to assist the general.” He stepped into the far aisle. “And I believe I’ve answered your pleas.”

  Remy could feel his disbelief turning to anger. “After everything we’ve already been through,” he began incredulously, “after everything we lost, we’re willing to do this all again?” He stood and moved back into the center aisle. “Didn’t we learn anything?”

  Montagin considered the question as brown wings reached from his back, readying to embrace his form.

  “Maybe we learned that the Lord God Almighty was far too merciful to those who challenged His holy word.”

  Remy couldn’t believe his ears. What had happened to these supposed divine creatures to make them so bitter?

  “That if He’d tempered His mercy then, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now,” Montagin continued, as his wings folded about him.

  And he was gone, as silently as he’d appeared.

  • • •

  Dottie and Marlowe were right where Remy had left them, only the old woman had rolled up her sleeping bag, and the two were sitting side by side, Marlowe draped partially across her lap. They were sharing a bag of Cheez-Its.

  Marlowe was first to notice the angel’s return. “Hello,” he woofed, spewing orange crumbs.

  Dottie turned toward him and smiled, popping a Cheez-It into her mouth. “There he is,” she said to the dog. “I told ya he wouldn’t be long.”

  Marlowe’s tail wagged as she gave him another one of the treats.

  “He wasn’t any trouble was he?” Remy asked.

  “No trouble at all,” Dottie said, reaching out to pat Marlowe’s head. “He even watched my stuff while I ran in the store to get us something to eat.”

  “A regular watchdog,” Remy said, bending over to scratch his friend’s ear.

  “Watchdog!” Marlowe barked, and then began sniffing for stray Cheez-It crumbs.

  “Well thank you for watching him, Dottie,” Remy said, taking the end of the leash from the woman.

  “No problem at all, it was a pleasure,” she said. “So how did it go?”

  Remy cocked his head, unsure of the question. “Go?”

  “Inside.” She motioned toward the church with her head. “Did you get to talk to who you wanted to.”

  “Not really,” Remy acknowledged, giving the leash a slight tug so that Marlowe would stand.

  “Huh,” Dottie said. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t.” Remy found himself thinking of his dream and the foreboding words of the old man, and what Dottie had said earlier about seeing angels on the streets.

  The old, homeless woman was carefully watching him as he wrapped the leash around his hand and started to lead Marlowe away.

  “Thanks again,” he said, turning to head back up Boylston toward home.

  “So what’re you gonna do?” Dottie’s voice called after him.

  Remy turned to face her.

  “What are you gonna do?” she asked again. “You know, to fix the problem . . . what’re you going to do?”

  It was a very good question, and one that Remy didn’t have an answer for. Instead, he shook his head, then turned back up the street, her question hanging in the air like a bad smell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The weeks that followed were without catastrophic event, but the potential for disaster was never far from Remy’s mind, and he found himself watching for angels in the strangest of places.

  What are you gonna do?

  The answer to old Dottie’s question still evaded him.

  I honestly don’t know, Dottie. I really don’t.

  He was doing the last bit of paperwork on a workman’s comp job he had done for an insurance company out of Lexington—an incapacitating neck injury that wasn’t so incapacitating that it kept the claimant from participating in a bodybuilding competition—when there was a knock at his office door.

  “Come in!” Remy called out, stapling the pages of his report together and placing them inside a file that a
lso contained some photos taken at the Mr. Power Competition in Tampa.

  The door into the office swung open and a man stepped in. He was wearing a dark suit on his average-sized frame, his blond hair cut short. He looked around the office, taking it all in as he carefully closed the door behind him.

  Something wafted off of him like the smell of aftershave.

  Something with the potential for danger.

  “Can I help you?” Remy asked as he stood, all of his senses on alert.

  “Remy Chandler?” the man asked, a hint of an accent in his voice. Italian, most definitely Italian.

  “That’s right,” Remy said, feeling the power exude from the man in waves.

  “My name is Malatesta,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Constantin Malatesta.”

  Remy had been wondering when the Vatican representative who had paid Steven Mulvehill a visit would finally get around to meeting him face-to-face. He shook his hand, a strange electrical tingle coursing up through the angel’s arm reaffirming what he had felt in the air when the man entered.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Malatesta?” Remy asked, feigning ignorance of the man’s identity as he released his hand and gestured for him to take a seat in front of the desk.

  “Thank you.” Malatesta unbuttoned his suit coat as he took the offered chair. “First, let me say how good it is to finally meet you.”

  The man smiled.

  “Have you been wanting to meet me, Mr. Malatesta?” Remy asked, curious, as he cocked his head.

  “For quite some time,” the man acknowledged. “But it’s only been recently that there has been a reason to make the journey to Boston.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Remy said. “You obviously know who I am, but I can’t say the same of you.”

  “Where are my manners?” Malatesta said, reaching into his suit coat pocket to extract a small, leather identification case. He opened it, and leaned forward to place it on the desk in front of Remy.

  Remy examined it and smiled. “Yep, you’re from the Vatican, all right,” he said, and handed it back to his guest.

  “Ah, so you are aware of me?” Malatesta asked.

  “Detective Mulvehill informed me that somebody from Rome was asking questions about me, yes.”