Dancing on the Head of a Pin (26 page)

Remy leapt, dropping down into the Hellion’s path. The monster roared, but before it could strike, Remy lashed out with one of his wings, the strength contained within the feathered appendage swatting the Hell-hound against the side of an unyielding Tartarus.

The animal roared its anger, thrashing upon the ground before returning to its feet.

He was about to go at the Hellion again, but another shot rang out, catching the beast in the eye and dropping it onto its side, dead.

“I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Remy said, relaxing his wings, assuming that it was the fallen angel Madach who had come to his aid.

And then he gasped, watching the man stumble as he emerged from the thick, shifting fog, the gray three-piece suit hanging on his form in tatters.

“Francis,” Remy said, springing into the air, his newly birthed wings carrying him the short distance to catch his friend before he could fall to the ground.

“You’re going to be all right,” Remy said, never even considering Francis’ condition. His friend had to be all right.

He didn’t want to consider the alternative.

 

“Nomads,” Francis gasped, in between gulping breaths. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”

His friend’s body shivered and Remy held him just a bit tighter.

Francis was hurt badly, the extent of the wounds that Remy glimpsed, casually checking out his friend’s condition, grave: gaping cuts, bullet holes, and sixth-degree magick burns.

It was a wonder that he was functioning at all.

“Could have kicked all their asses . . . and then some, but . . .”

The former Guardian stopped, the expression on his face telling Remy that he was experiencing a great deal of pain.

“Don’t talk,” Remy told him. “Lie here; rest. I have something that I have to do, and if things don’t turn to absolute shit I’ll be back to bring you home, and we can see about—”

Francis’ eyes opened wide, a bloody hand reaching out to grab hold of Remy’s shoulder. “They have the Pitiless, Rem,” he croaked.

Remy nodded. “I know that; it’s part of the reason I’m here. They’re going to try and use the weapons to set him free . . . the Morningstar.”

Francis swallowed hard, closing his eyes. “Fucking thought so,” he hissed, slowly shaking his head. “Idiots.”

He shifted his weight, slowly bringing up his other hand—still holding the gun. “Managed to drop one of the hoodies with this,” Francis said, poking fun at the Nomads’ attire.

Remy looked at the weapon, knowing at once what it was. The Pitiless pistol shone seductively in the muted light of Hell.

“Nice gun,” Francis croaked. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for this.”

They were both looking at the old-fashioned Colt Peacemaker, mesmerized by the stories that it whispered, the many lives it had taken. When it had left Heaven, it was nothing more than a shapeless blob of Heavenly matter, falling through the universe to Earth, where it nestled—resting—until it was mined from the earth and processed, found by a master craftsman and shaped into something with the mastery over death.

The last times the Pitiless Colt was fired flashed within their minds. Remy saw it all play out, Francis, his clothing torn, covered in the gore of his enemies, attacking the Nomad who wielded the weapon—disarming him bloodily—and using the pistol to shoot out both the angel’s eyes. Energized by the weapon in his possession, he continued to kill, the Peacemaker shaped from the power of the Morningstar giving him the strength to vanquish foe after foe.

“It wears you out after a while,” Francis said, interrupting the violent scenes playing inside Remy’s mind. “Inspires you to kill until you just don’t have the strength anymore.”

Francis laughed, pushing the weapon toward him.

“It wants to go to you now.”

“Hold on to it,” Remy told him. “Defend yourself until I get back.”

The Guardian shook his head. “No,” he stated flatly. “I’m done.”

“Don’t talk like that. Keep the gun, use it if necessary, and I’ll be back to take you out of here just as soon as—”

“I said I’m done,” Francis said, silencing him with an icy stare. “And you don’t have a chance of doing anything against the Nomads if you don’t have something of equal strength.”

He took Remy’s hand and forced the pistol into it. “You need this if you’re going to do what you have to do.”

Remy’s mind was immediately flooded with the images of those slain by bullets spat from the gun throughout the years as his hand wrapped around the sandalwood grip.

“That’s it,” Francis said with a sigh, his body growing limp. “Time to go.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Remy barked angrily, his aggression stimulated by the weapon in his hand.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” the Guardian asked, and started to laugh, which turned into a nasty, wet-sounding cough.

“You’ve survived worse; you’re going to be fine,” Remy stated. He found himself distracted by the gun in his hand, the urge to kill stronger than he’d ever experienced before.

“I did it, you know,” Francis stated.

Remy looked away from the gun, not sure what his friend was talking about. “You did what?”

“I revealed myself,” he said, a limp hand rising to his mouth to wipe some blood away.

Remy couldn’t resist. “And did the grown-ups at the play-ground call the police?”

Francis laughed again, wincing in pain. “Asshole,” he managed, in between coughing spasms. “I showed myself to Linda . . . the waitress at the Piazza.”

Remy found himself smiling. “Wow, what moment of weakness inspired that?”

Francis closed his eyes. “Something in the air, I guess,” he said. The Guardian’s voice seemed to be getting weaker. “There came a moment when I knew I should do it . . . or I’d never get the chance.”

“Something to hold on for,” Remy said to him.

“No, something to do before it was over.”

“I told you not to talk like that.”

“And when did I ever listen to you?” Francis asked. “You should really think about getting in there.” He motioned limply with his bloody hand toward Tartarus behind them. “Not sure what it’s going to take to set the asshole free.”

Remy was torn; he knew his friend was right, but he didn’t want to leave him, especially like this.

Francis must have suspected how he was feeling.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he snarled. “I don’t need an audience for what’s coming.” He started to push Remy away from him. “Go on, get inside and blow their asses away. Show them the consequences of picking the wrong side.”

The Guardian pulled away, curling into a tight ball upon the ground.

“Francis, I—” he began, but he wasn’t given a chance to finish.

“You were a good friend that I didn’t deserve. Thank you.”

Remy slowly stood, staring at the body of his friend lying upon the cold, frost-covered ground in front of Tartarus. “You were a good friend too,” he said, straining to suppress his anger—to hold back the rage he was feeling toward those who had hurt his friend. “And besides, I felt sorry for you.”

Francis remained very still and quiet upon the ground, unresponsive to the verbal jab.

A steady, reverberating, pounding noise began to flow out from the melted opening in the front of the prison, capturing Remy’s attention. He could only begin to imagine the source of the sound.

He chanced one more look at his friend, and realizing that there was nothing more that could be done for him, turned toward the entrance. The pounding thrum intensified, sending vibrations through the ground beneath his feet.

Starting toward the prison, Remy stopped short as he heard the sound of his friend’s weakened voice.

“What was that, Francis?” Remy asked, turning back.

“Just talking out loud,” the fallen Guardian angel said. “Was wondering when it comes time for me . . . was wondering if I’ll get back to Heaven.”

Remy didn’t know what to say.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Francis said, his final words trailing off to a whisper.

 

Remy left his friend.

The Seraphim nature was glad to leave the fallen one behind. It was eager to fight, to destroy the unclean as it had done so very long ago.

It missed the violence. The killing.

Remy held the Pitiless pistol in a grip as tight as the one he had on his fleeting humanity. He didn’t want to lose it completely, but now that the nature of the angel had taken control, it would be so very easy to let it go.

To release the hurt along with the memories, to let it all evaporate away to where it would mean nothing.

But he would not allow that; Madeline would not allow that.

Remy entered Tartarus, passing beneath jagged stalactite teeth that had formed when the opening was made. If he’d thought the feelings of desperation and misery were bad outside, within Tartarus it was a different story entirely.

Protected within the breast of the Seraphim, his humanity shied beneath the heavy atmosphere of oppression. If he hadn’t yet shed his human guise, it would have instantly withered upon entering this place of penance.

It’s even larger on the inside,
Remy thought, his golden-flecked eyes looking about the cavernous chamber as he walked deeper inside. There was death everywhere he looked, both fallen and angel Sentry alike. There was no separation here and now, the sinners’ blood mixing freely with that of their jailers.

At the end of the body-strewn circular corridor that appeared to have been bored through solid ice, Remy found the room.

For a moment, it was like being back in Paradise.

He imagined that it was a kind of testament—a monument—to why a place such as Tartarus existed. At one time, before the stink of death had infected it, this place would have been special, a tiny pocket of Heaven floating within the depths of the inferno.

The huge concave walls, now spattered with the blood of conflict, showed another such struggle; they showed the story of the Morningstar and those who had followed him, moving moments captured from long ago depicting how they had waged war against the All-Father.

Leading to their fall.

These disturbing moments of betrayal and carnage would be the first things the prisoners of Tartarus would have seen upon their arrival, as well as the last when it came time for their release. A grisly reminder of the wrong they had done.

Remy wanted to look away from the horrific scenes of warfare as they were played out but found himself held by the sight.

Is it possible that it was even worse than I remember?
he thought, watching as the two opposing angelic forces clashed upon the golden fields of Heaven, and in the open sky above.

Remy stepped over the bodies that littered the ground of the entryway into the Heavenly chamber, drawn closer to the images of the Great War and the end of a way of life that had been denied him forever because of it.

The battle depicted upon the curved wall of the vast chamber went to white, the searing brightness nearly blinding. Remy lifted a hand to protect his sight.

A face suddenly appeared upon the wall, the resplendent light emanating from around his beatific features. Remy had forgotten how beautiful the Son of the Morning had been, which made what Lucifer had done all the more offensive.

He had been God’s favorite—the chosen son—the first of them all.

Remy felt an undying anger overtake him as the Seraphim was stirred by the sight of its most hated enemy. And deep inside, buried beneath the fury, his human nature bowed its head in sorrow over the enormity of what had been lost on account of this being.

Deciding that he’d already wasted too much time on things long past, Remy was prepared to go deeper inside the formidable structure, when his eyes caught sight of movement at his feet.

What he believed to be the corpses of dead fallen angels shifted suddenly, giving off the illusion of life. Remy spread his wings, propelling himself back out of harm’s way as something emerged, exploding with a bloodcurdling shriek up from beneath the bodies of those vanquished in battle.

It had once been one of his own, an angel of Heaven, but now it appeared as something else. Its robes clung wetly, the gore of those slain in combat making the angel raiment stick to the body like a second skin.

Through the scarlet taint Remy suddenly recognized the face of Uriel, the warden of Tartarus.

His wings had once been snow-white, but now were flecked with crimson. Eyes huge and wild, the warden surged at him, a sword forged from the elemental forces of Heaven crackling in his hand. Uriel raised his weapon but paused in his attack when he saw that it was a Seraphim there before him.

The niggling voice of the Pitiless pistol screamed, to be used inside Remy’s head; he could actually feel the metal of the trigger gently caressing his index finger, attempting to seduce it into action, but Remy stayed his hand, forcing the weapon down by his side.

“I’ve come to help,” he told Uriel, watching the bloodstained expression turn from one of absolute panic to one of surprise.

Slowly Uriel lowered his weapon, head tilting from one side to the other as he studied the angel before him. It was as if he truly didn’t believe his eyes.

“I’m Remiel,” he said, hating the sound of his angel name. After all these centuries, it still sounded wrong—
dirty
—coming from his mouth. “Of the host Seraphim. I’d learned of your situation here and have come to—”

He never got the opportunity to finish the sentence.

“Lies!” Uriel screamed, his blood-covered face twisted in unabated fury. He came at him then, sword humming like a swarm of angry bees as it cut a swath through the air.

Remy quickly moved out of the way. If not for his wings propelling him back, the arcing blade would have split him in two.