Walking in the Midst of Fire (37 page)

“That sums it up,” Remy said.

They sat, silent in the cool darkness, each deep in thought.

“I can’t let them be hurt any more,” Remy finally said.

“Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that.”

“Am I that predictable?” Remy asked.

“All in a good way.” Madeline leaned over and kissed his cheek. “So what’s the plan?”

“Really not much of one,” he said. “I’ve got to convince Gareth not to attack, and then to stay hidden.”

“That’s it?”

“I told you it wasn’t much.”

“But it is a start.” She kissed him again, only this time longer, pressing her lips firmly against his cheek. Remy turned in to the kiss, eager to feel her lips against his own.

Even if it was only a dream.

•   •   •

Water dribbled down his chin as a cup was pressed to his lips.

Remy drank, but started to cough, and the figure kneeling in front of him moved the cup away.

“Are you all right?” the figure asked.

It took Remy a moment to get his bearings. His eyes darted around the first floor of one of Gunkanjima’s abandoned buildings. He could see Malatesta and Prosper sleeping to his right, both of them still tied up.

He remained bound as well, though not for much longer. He could already feel his strength returning, the interference in his brain that had laid him low no longer present.

“Who are you?” Remy asked.

The figure was tall, and quite thin, with a dull, sickly pallor.

“A friend,” he said. “I was trying to look after them.” His gaze turned toward the broken window. “But now . . . I’m afraid for them.”

Remy tried to sit up, but the rope and thick knots around his wrists and ankles made it incredibly awkward. He concentrated on the fire inside him, allowing it to leak just enough from his pores to weaken his bonds. Then straining just a bit, he broke them, the pieces of rope dropping to smolder upon the floor.

“I know what you mean,” Remy said. “Could I have some more water, please?”

“Certainly.” The man handed the cup to Remy.

“They’re not equipped to deal with the world outside,” he continued, as Remy quenched his thirst. “To challenge the angels responsible for their abandonment . . .” The man shook his head sadly.

“I want to help them as well,” Remy said. “But I’m afraid it might be too late. . . . They seem to have already made up their minds.”

The man was quiet, eyes fixed upon a particular spot, deep in thought. He played with a silver ring that adorned a finger of his left hand, turning it around and around.

“If there was some way they could be taken from here,” he said after a few moments. “Protected from harm. Taught to understand their abilities.”

Remy suddenly remembered Malatesta’s tale of being found by the Keepers, taken away, and taught how to deal with his affliction. Maybe there was a chance. . . .

“You look as though you might have an idea,” the man said to him.

“Yeah,” Remy answered slowly. He still didn’t trust the Vatican, but perhaps they really were the only hope the children had.

He turned and crawled across the floor to Malatesta.

The sorcerer lay on his side, and Remy gripped his arm, preparing to awaken him. “Constantin,” he said, knowing immediately that something was wrong.

Malatesta rolled onto his back, eyes wide and unblinking, his teeth clenched together in a rictus-like grin. His body twitched wildly, and Remy knew that there was nothing he could do right then.

There was a battle taking place inside the Vatican magick user—a battle for the soul of the sorcerer as the evil being within attempted to wrest away control.

Remy briefly turned his attention from the sorcerer to the man he’d just been talking with, but the stranger was gone.

Taking Malatesta’s hand in his, Remy tried to lend him the strength he would need to defeat the darkness inside him.

It was a similar battle to one that Remy himself had fought many times.

•   •   •

Simeon left the building, allowing himself to be swallowed up in the sharp angles of darkness around the rotting structures.

“Are we leaving, master?” Beleeze asked, nearly invisible in the shadows.

Simeon was staring back toward where he had come from, and the angel he’d left behind. It had been a very long time since last he’d seen him.

The forever man had often wondered what became of the angel that led the siege against Ignatius Hallow’s castle; and here he was, going by the name of Remy Chandler.

Funny how things work out,
Simeon thought. It was this angel—this Remy Chandler—who had helped set him on the path to fulfilling his most heartfelt desire, and now the angel would assist him again.

The angel would never know that it was Simeon’s idea that the Vatican might provide for the children’s well-being. He would think it a solution that suddenly came to him, a bolt from the blue.

A chance for the children to survive.

Simeon frowned.
No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“Yes, we’re going.” Simeon turned his attention to the demon that had already begun to weave the arcane magicks of his kind to take them from this place. The two other demons that also served the forever man stepped closer.

“Where to?” Beleeze questioned.

“Rome,” Simeon replied. “I need to speak with some old friends.”

Castle Hallow
1349

Simeon rose from where he’d been thrown, eyes unable to move from the scene unfolding before him.

The angel stood there in the gloom of Castle Hallow, his holy radiance burning as if a miniature sun had suddenly taken up residence in its shadow-filled halls.

“It is the time of your reckoning, necromancer,” the angel’s voice boomed.

Simeon could not take his eyes from the being; this was a servant of the God who had rejected him, and he wanted to remember every detail about him.

He would remember this one. He would remember all of them, and he would rejoice as they fell, their God unable to help them.

The angel advanced toward Simeon’s ancient master. He was tempted to go and stand closer to him, but a brief glance from Hallow froze him where he stood.

As a being who believed nothing could harm him, there was a cockiness in the angel’s stride. But Simeon knew that if nothing else, Ignatius Hallow was full of surprises.

The necromancer raised his hand, adorned with the sigil of Solomon, and called forth the demons that were compelled by the ring to serve him. They swarmed to their master’s side and attacked en masse.

The angel was a sight to behold, his sword of fire cutting deadly swathes through the air as he battled the nightmare beasts. The demons fell dead at his feet, sometimes two and three at a time, but still they came, driven by the commands of their master. Simeon could not believe the number; most he had never laid eyes on. He imagined that they had been stored away somewhere deep beneath the castle, waiting for such a time as this.

The demons died one after the other, their wails of pain filling the cavernous entryway, as the angel advanced upon Hallow.

Simeon wanted to tell his ancient master to run, but Ignatius Hallow held his ground, arms extended, continuing to command the demonic beasts that were forced to serve his every whim, even if it meant their deaths. The angel did not slow, his golden armor stained black with the blood of his vanquished foes.

Simeon desperately wanted to go to the necromancer’s aid, but he had been warned not to interfere. In fact, he had been ordered to escape the castle through one of the secret underground passages that had been tunneled by demonic hands. Still, the forever man could not turn away.

He had to witness the power that could strike down one such as Hallow. For it would be power such as this that he would face when his plans for the future reached fruition.

Through a wall of burning demons the angel exploded, the creatures’ pathetic attempts at protecting their master failing horribly. Hallow still held his ground, staring defiantly into the face of the force that could so easily wipe him from the earth. The angel bore down upon him, but the necromancer did not flinch before the terrifying visage of the thing from Heaven.

“Do you know why you hate me, angel?” Hallow asked as the angel raised his mighty sword.

It took a moment, but the question seemed to permeate, the sword of fire hovering in the air.

More of the demonic surged into the entryway, and the angel spun toward them.

“Hold!” the necromancer commanded, and the demons did as they were told.

The angel looked back to him with eyes that burned with rage, but there was a question there as well.

“You are compelled to slay me, but I am certain that if you ask yourself the reason, you’ll find nothing to justify such an insatiable hunger for my death.”

The necromancer’s words appeared to be having some physical effect upon the angel. He blinked rapidly, then tried to raise his fiery sword, only to have it drop harmlessly to his side.

“You are bewitched, angel,” the necromancer stated, lifting his withered hand to show him the sigil ring upon it. “By the sibling of this very ring, created by the powerful magicks of Solomon.”

Simeon could not believe what he was seeing. His master was actually having some success in taming the fiery power of Heaven sent to destroy him. He emerged from his hiding place, desperate to bear witness to the unimaginable events transpiring.

“My ring gives me sway over the demonic, while its sister—”

The lance pierced the oily smoke wafting up from the bodies of the burning demons. It impaled the necromancer through the chest, exiting from his back in a hissing spray of crimson.

“No!” Simeon cried, as his master these past years fell limply to one side. He ran out into the open, dropping to his knees on the stone floor beside the injured man.

Hallow was still alive, but barely, eyes fixed upon the angel of God, the churning smoke behind him, and the figures that now emerged.

“Where is it?” demanded a figure clothed in the elaborate garb of the Pope of Christendom. “Where is the ring?”

The Pope’s cold, reptilian eyes touched upon the fallen necromancer.

“Remiel,” he growled. “Kill him for me.”

The angel immediately rushed forward to do as he was bidden.

But why?

He did not stop, but continued to question his own actions as he advanced upon the prone body of his enemy. The necromancer had been trying to convince him that he was somehow not in control of his actions.

But how?

Wings of crackling, Heavenly fire spread wide upon his back, the angel Remiel loomed above the necromancer, preparing to strike him dead.

The man did not appear afraid.

A servant bravely leapt to his master’s defense, standing between Remiel and his quarry.

“I curse you and all that you stand for,” the young man pronounced. “There will come a day when I see you, your brethren, and Heaven itself fall into ruin.”

“Do not waste my time!” Pope Tyranus commanded, eager for his Heavenly servant to complete his task.

Servant?

Remiel slapped the young man aside, feeling the bones in his face turn to paste with the ferocity of the blow.

“Kill him,” Tyranus ordered. “Kill him now so I may claim my prize!”

Remiel reached for the dying man, who continued to cling to life, gazing up at him defiantly.

“This ring . . . this ring controls the demonic,” the necromancer managed, rich arterial blood oozing up from his destroyed innards, flowing over the sides of his mouth. He plucked the ring from his finger, and strange wails rose up from the demons to echo through the castle halls.

Remiel reached down to close his burning hand around the man’s throat, and began to squeeze.

“Its sister controls that of Heaven,” the necromancer struggled.

“The angelic . . . A second ring controls the angelic.”

The words sank in, permeating the thick fog that had seemed to encase Remiel’s brain since . . . since first encountering the pope, Tyranus.

The old man was burning in the angel’s grasp, skin bubbling to fluid-filled blisters.

“Take it,” the necromancer croaked, pressing the ring against him. “Take it . . . take it and break the other’s hold upon you.”

“Kill him and allow me my prize!” Tyranus shouted from somewhere behind him.

Remiel continued to gaze into the necromancer’s eyes as the life left him. He could feel the ring pressed against his own armored chest-plate, as if it were attempting to melt through the metal forged in Heaven to the divine flesh beneath.

“Take it,” were the last words uttered by the magick wielder called Hallow.

And again, Remiel did what was asked of him, taking the golden ring from the burned and crumbling hand as the necromancer’s body fell away, breaking into smoldering pieces that hissed upon the floor.

The ring was like a piece of the harshest winter, yet at the same time it burned in the palm of his hand.

“Where is it?” the Pope demanded. “Give it to me.”

Remiel saw the brother ring adorning the holy man’s finger, as he closed his hand over what had been given to him by his dying enemy.

“Give it to me!” Pope Tyranus roared, extending his spidery hand greedily.

The angel Remiel’s thoughts became suddenly clear, and he understood the magnitude of what had been done to him.

And he became very angry.

•   •   •

Remy placed his hands upon Malatesta, trying to keep the man from hurting himself as he convulsed on the ground.

He could feel the sorcerer’s skin ripple, and saw the bones beneath his face distorting as he attempted to fight the evil that tried to usurp his control. From the looks of it, he wasn’t doing too well.

The disturbing sound of popping joints and the elastic-band snap of tearing tendons filled the space, and all Remy could do was beg the man to fight.

Prosper was suddenly awake and beside Remy, begging the angel to show the man some mercy, and put him down—for his sake, and for the sake of the world.

For a moment Remy actually considered the request.