Walking in the Midst of Fire (34 page)

A machete would be much more efficient than a small knife, Remy thought as he collided with the zombie’s rock-solid midsection, the two of them now headed into the wall.

The plaster caved inward with the impact as the zombie, unfazed by the act, attempted to bury the machete blade in Remy’s head. The short sword came down, but Remy captured the animated corpse’s wrist, stopping its descent.

Remy smiled as he willed the fire inside him to climb, soon engulfing the zombie’s hand as it traveled to the machete.

The zombie watched in awe as its appendage crumbled to ash, and Remy found himself with a new, divinely enhanced weapon.

“Nice,” Remy said, admiring the flaming blade just before swinging it across, and cutting the zombie’s head from its body with little resistance.

“And sharp, too.”

There were more zombies spilling in from the hole broken in the office door, and Remy found himself tiring of the pointless battle. There were still important matters involving the safety of the world to be considered. He allowed himself to grow hotter, the divine fire radiating from his body. It was as if the zombies were drawn to it. The walking dead men charged at him with weapons of all kinds, one of them even spraying the office with an assault rifle in an attempt to take him down.

Good luck with that,
Remy thought, throwing his burning body amidst them as the machete cut them down to little more than writhing torsos and severed limbs upon the office floor.

“I’m getting tired of this,” Remy announced to Malatesta behind him.

“Any suggestions?” the magick user asked, casting a spell that pushed several zombies away with a deafening clap of displaced air.

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

P
rosper 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.