Walking in the Midst of Fire (43 page)

Remy’s thoughts raced, but he could not find the words. There had always been a part of him that believed someday he would return to where he had begun, that the deep psychological wounds he’d received during the Great War would eventually fade, and that he would be able to go back to the joy he remembered in the presence of God.

But now he saw that the poison he’d first recognized during the war had continued to flow through the veins of Paradise, killing what he had known, and making it impossible for him to ever return.

“It’s a sad day,” Remy managed, something suddenly missing inside of him.

The Archangel looked toward the smoking pyre. “Think of it as an act of mercy,” he said. “Something released from its suffering.”

Remy could only stare in horror at the being from Heaven.

“Come now, Remiel,” the Archangel spoke. “Do you seriously believe there was a place for creatures such as they?”

Remy’s gaze fell upon the pyre. He could just about make out the shapes of things that had once been alive, now reduced to smoke, charred bone, and ash.

“I used to think there was,” he said, remembering a time that was gone now, never to return. “But now . . .”

He walked away from the angel, not wanting to be in the presence of something so foul. He watched as two of Hell’s soldiers swooped down from the sky, each grabbing one of Gareth’s ankles, hauling his corpse toward the still-burning mound comprised of his brothers and sisters.

“I had no idea,” said a familiar voice.

Remy didn’t want to talk to him, but Francis forced the issue.

“I didn’t even know where we were going, and suddenly I’m here and being told that I’m representing.”

“I promised them that they’d be safe,” Remy said, trying to keep his anger in check.

“I had no idea what I would be doing,” Francis said again.

Remy turned to stare at his friend.

“But you did it,” he said, eyes dropping to the golden pistol shoved in the waist of his pants.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Francis said. “Part of the deal I made. He says jump, and I ask how high.”

“Exactly how high can you jump, Francis?” Remy asked.

Francis touched the butt of his weapon.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” the former Guardian angel said, walking away, heading back into the abandoned mining city of Gunkanjima.

The roar of the transport Chinook’s engines filled the air, and Remy watched as Malatesta walked behind the old Keeper and the other sorcerers, up into the belly of the craft, as the loading platform began to rise behind them.

Their work here is done,
Remy thought, wondering what the next atrocity they would preside over would be.

He watched as the helicopter lifted off from the ground, but he was distracted by the angels who still flew above the island city now that the magickal barrier had fallen.

One by one Remy watched as they disappeared, not sure if they were legions of Heaven, or Hell.

And finding that he didn’t really care. They were all the same to him now.

The Archangel Michael remained, standing beside the still-blazing pyre. Spreading his wings, he pushed off from the ground to hover aloft, above the site of the massacre.

“You might consider leaving now,” the angel Montagin said, walking past Remy.

Squire, Heath, and the mothers of the slain children were with him. Remy could feel the pain of the mothers as they passed, and wanted to tell them how sorry he was, but knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear another word from the likes of him.

He looked back to the sky, and to the Archangel that still hung there. There seemed to be something forming around him, a whirlwind of flame.

“What’s he doing?” Remy asked Montagin.

“He needs to be sure,” the angel said.

“Sure of what?”

“That there isn’t any trace of them remaining. That they’re all dead.”

The flames around the Archangel were growing, swirling, creating a vortex of divine fire that had begun to reach down to the island below.

“Are you coming?” Montagin asked.

Remy looked over to see that the angel and the women were waiting, Squire having opened a passage in the shadow thrown by the shell of a concrete storage shed.

“C’mon, Remy,” Squire said. “Ain’t nothing good gonna come from you sticking around here.”

Remy looked back to the sky. An enormous tail of writhing fire snaked down from the body of the whirlpool to spear the ground where the bodies of the children smoldered.

“Go on,” Remy told them. “I think I need to see this.”

He could hear the hobgoblin begin to protest, but Remy ignored him, shedding his human visage as he walked in the midst of fire.

He didn’t know why he wanted to stay, but he felt that he should, to show in some way how sorry he was that this had happened.

The fire swirled around him with hurricane force, and he watched as the buildings that had stood upon the island since it was a coal-mining facility and prison camp began to crumble and were soon scoured from the earth.

“I knew that he would betray me,” said a voice beside him within the fire.

Remy turned in disbelief to see the forms of Gareth and the children, standing there, untouched by the Archangel’s cleansing fires.

“But I’d hoped that he wouldn’t,” Gareth said.

“Are you real?” Remy asked, knowing how stupid the question was, but still needing to know.

“Yeah,” Gareth replied.

“Are you ghosts?”

The young man shook his head. “They really didn’t kill me; I just made them all think that they did. . . . I wanted to see if the angel would keep his part of the bargain.”

“He didn’t,” Remy said. “And come to think of it, neither did I.”

“What are you talking about?” Gareth asked.

“I promised to keep you safe,” Remy said.

The boy shrugged, the fire swirling around him and the kids, but doing no damage.

“You did what you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

He shrugged again. “It was more than most did for us.”

The air became full of flying pieces of concrete and other debris that were eventually reduced to powder by the intensity of Michael’s divine maelstrom.

“So you’re not ghosts,” Remy said. “And you’re all fine?”

“The kids are a little spooked, but they’ll be all right.”

“You did this?” Remy asked. “You made the angels think that they slaughtered you and the children?”

“Yeah,” Gareth said. “Give them what they want and they’ll leave you alone.”

“You can’t ever let them know that you’re still alive,” Remy stressed.

“That’s the intention,” Gareth answered.

“Good,” Remy said as the fires of Heaven swirled around them. “Any idea where you’ll go?”

“No,” Gareth answered. “But I’m sure we’ll know when we find it.”

The firestorm appeared to be dying, the island city of Gunkanjima leveled to the scorched and now-barren ground.

“You should get out of here,” Remy stated as the fires died down. “Wouldn’t want all your efforts to go to waste.”

Gareth moved closer to the children.

“You’re not like the others, are you?”

Remy shook his head. “No . . . no, I’m not.” Now more than ever before.

“That’s a good thing,” Gareth stated, lifting his arms as if to embrace his brothers and sisters. “But it’s also dangerous.”

Remy understood exactly what Gareth meant, his final words echoing in the dwindling fire as the children left their past, on a journey to their future.

“You be careful, Remy Chandler,” Gareth warned. “’Cause there might come a day when they’ll come for you.”

•   •   •

The fires eventually died, and Remy stood alone on the barren surface of the place once called Battleship Island.

Nothing remained standing—nothing was left alive.

The island had been scoured of life.

For a brief instant he wondered what people would say when the condition of the island was discovered. How would they explain it? Bizarre atmospheric conditions resulting in multiple lightning strikes? A hidden pocket of methane gas beneath the surface of the former coal-mining facility suddenly igniting as a result of a particularly brutal storm?

The wrath of God?

Remy looked to the sky to see that the Archangel was still there, hovering over what he had wrought, looking down at Remy standing among the ashen remains.

Their eyes touched and Remy once again heard Gareth’s words.

“You be careful, Remy Chandler. . . .”

And then the Archangel was gone, leaving behind only a distant rumble of thunder.

A hint of a storm in the distance.

A hint of a storm to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T
he early morn
ing sun found its way beneath the drawn window shades, chasing away the darkness, gradually revealing the carnage that had occurred overnight.

Mulvehill was propped against the living room wall, afraid to move, not sure of the extent of his injuries, fearing that even the slightest movement might reveal something he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

He cautiously turned his head to the right to look at the still form that lay there as he searched for signs of movement—anything to show that his attacker might be alive.

The body remained unnaturally still, but these days he could never be sure.

The rising sun was slowly drawing back the curtains of night. He could see now that there was blood everywhere, spattering the walls and furniture.

Covering his hands.

Staccato images of the violence he’d been a part of appeared inside his head, causing him to gasp. He’d dove into the darkness of his living room, the muzzle flashes from his gun giving him an idea of where his target was.

And what it was that he was facing.

The light of dawn gave him the courage to look down again. His hands were black with blood, the foul coppery scent surprisingly enough to make his stomach rumble noisily as it wafted up into his nostrils. It seemed like forever since he’d pulled the Hungry-Man dinner from the microwave.

Mulvehill carefully moved his fingers, waiting for pain but feeling only minor discomfort, and a tightening of the flesh where the dark blood had dried.

The monster’s blood.

In the blasts from his weapon he’d seen it: a pale-skinned monster dressed in a hooded cloak that seemed to be made from the darkness that filled the apartment. It had been coming toward him, closer and closer in the staccato flashes of gunfire. In one of its hands it was holding something, a weapon of some kind that appeared to be made from yellowed bone.

And the monster had pointed it directly at him.

Mulvehill felt his heart race, his breaths coming in short gasps. He forced himself to move. His shirt was covered in blood, both his own and foreign. He could feel the scratches on his arms, recalling with increasing clarity how the fight with his attacker had evolved.

He’d fired his weapon more, but the monster had managed a shot or two at him.

Mulvehill could still hear the odd sound, like a loud cough, as something spat at him.

At full speed he had thrown himself to where he thought his attacker would be. He’d connected with the coffee table, sending himself sprawling to the floor and his firearm flying from his hand.

He looked around to the patches of sunlight and saw the Glock where it had landed on the floor in the corner, beside the overturned coffee table.

He was tempted to go for it, as he eyed the body that remained so very still beside him.

Just in case.

He remembered the feel of the rough fabric of the monster’s cloak as his fingers had closed around it. Holding on for dear life, he had pulled upon the clothing, dragging himself up on top of the monster, even as it had tried to escape him. He remembered the sound of the strange weapon, the blasts of fetid air that struck the walls of the living room with a force very much like the snap of a bullwhip.

The monster had struggled to throw him off, but Mulvehill had known that to relinquish his hold was to give up his life. It was as simple as that.

And he’d fought too hard of late to give up this life now.

Mulvehill counted to three before tensing his muscles and sliding up the wall to stand upon trembling legs. He almost laughed aloud with relief when he realized that he was all right. Every inch of him ached and burned, but that was just his body reminding him that he was still alive.

That he had survived.

His eyes fell to the floor, and he saw that there were yellow pieces of bonelike material scattered about—the remains of his attacker’s weapon.

There had been nothing graceful about their fight. It was a fight to the death, and it was ugly.

The monster had been strong. Any pretense that Mulvehill had of being civilized was quickly thrown aside, and he allowed his survival instincts to usurp any civility. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to take his opponent down, and he did just that, arms and fists flying, never letting up.

Things had become lost in a red haze, and he’d continued to deliver blow after blow, even long after his foe had ceased to move.

Mulvehill looked down at his hands, flexing them to make a fist, and remembering the feeling as he’d pummeled the creature that had invaded his home—the feeling of its flesh ripping as he rained down blow after blow.

The monster lay upon its stomach, its face hidden from him. He remembered the thing’s face in the flashes from his firing gun, and bent over with a moan of pain. His back was killing him.

Grabbing a handful of its robe, Mulvehill turned the body over to look upon his attacker.

Its appearance was even more disturbing in the light of morning.

Nothing could look this way and not be a killer of some kind. Its flesh was pale and gray, the teeth jagged like a shark’s. It wore an expression of surprise, almost as if it could not believe that it had died by his hands.

But it had.

Hate bubbled up inside him as Mulvehill looked upon the thing that had wrecked his evening. Bringing up something thick and nasty from his throat, he spat upon the corpse.