Walking in the Midst of Fire (31 page)

“I never lie,” Remy told the monster, looking into its horrible, dark eyes. “Give me what I want, and you return to the darkness inside the sorcerer and continue to exist. Deny me . . .”

The Larva snarled, spitting a wad of bloody spit into Remy’s face. The blood sizzled on Remy’s cheek as he let his internal fire begin to intensify.

“It will never be as deep again,” the Larva said. “It will always be so very close. . . . We’ll be just like brothers,” the damnable spirit went on, cackling crazily, before suddenly stopping.

Malatesta went suddenly limp in his hands, and Remy let him slump to the floor. He watched the Vatican magick user, waiting for a sign that he was again in control.

Malatesta moaned.

“Are you all right?” Remy asked.

“Fuck off,” Malatesta growled, pushing himself into a sitting position.

By the sounds of it, the human side of the man had regained control.

•   •   •

The youngest of the Bone Masters waited in the shadow of a cellar alcove in the building where the human lived. He had been there for days, the shadows draped over him like a cloak, watching the comings and goings of his human target, and waiting to be activated.

The Master reached into the leather pouch at his side for sustenance. The worms were about a finger’s length, and twice as thick. He shoved one into his mouth, biting off the head before it could let out its high-pitched squeal.

He knew that others of his ilk had been hired as well, each assassin ordered to observe those who were close to the Seraphim called Remy Chandler. But he was growing impatient. He listened to the sounds of the building, knowing that his target wasn’t at home, tempted to leave his hiding place and explore the dwelling. Perhaps he would find another to satisfy his urge to kill.

This was his first assignment since reaching the level of Bone Master, and he was eager to show what he was capable of. The Liege Masters that had trained him in his art had warned against his immaturity, saying that he needed to control his impatience, and use the energy that it created in a more productive manner.

The Bone Master just wanted to kill something.

His weapon hummed eagerly in his grasp, and he reached out to pet the spiny ridge of bone that ran the length of its body. It, too, was eager to prove itself, to perform the task for which it was bred.

But he—
they
—had to wait for their final instructions from the one who had hired them, even though they were certain what those instructions would be.

Why else would one go to the effort of hiring a Bone Master?

Time passed ever so slowly, and the young Master entertained himself with thoughts of how he could eliminate his prey. Using his weapon was of course the ultimate choice, but there were times when the weapon could not be used.

He remembered his training, the feel of the lesser beings used for educational purposes dying in his grip. How many had he strangled? Bludgeoned? How many necks had he broken? All in the name of learning to be the perfect killer.

A perfect killer bored nearly out of his mind.

The young Master wanted to scream. He thought about eating some more worms, but that just made him all the more anxious.

He heard his prey returning before he saw him. From the sounds of the human’s heavy breathing, the Master would be doing him a favor by taking his life.

The front door to the building opened, and his prey walked in, closing the door behind him. The Master smelled the sickly scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and fatty meat.

It was as if this human was begging to die.

The killer continued to listen as the man slowly climbed the stairs to his dwelling. He heard him take keys from his pocket, unlock the door, and step inside, closing it behind him.

The young Bone Master felt his every instinct come alive; here was his assigned prey ready for the killing.

And all that stood in his way was the designation of time.

It was not yet time for death to be delivered. He had not received his final order, even though he’d been told that it was inevitable.

He seethed in the shadows. Here was the perfect situation, the perfect opportunity to show the Seraphim Remy Chandler that no one was safe, that he and all that he cared for were targeted by the Bone Masters.

The young assassin doubted that the moment would ever be better.

And the killer made a decision that his trainers would have frowned upon, although it was not unheard of from more experienced Masters. He would act, taking down his quarry, to show off his superior skills.

It was decided—the Bone Master left his place in the shadows and silently climbed the stairs.

To at last perform the act of murder.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A
good beating was often like a time machine.

And Francis was back in time with a front-row seat, watching as he screwed up on a monumental level.

But to be fair, at the time he really did believe the shit the Morningstar was shoveling; God didn’t love them anymore, and they were going to be replaced by humanity.

That pretty much summed it up.

In hindsight, it was amazing how much damage was done because of this petty, selfish notion.

Francis saw himself as he’d been, adorned in armor stained with the blood of those who had not believed as he had—as Lucifer had—leading an army toward the Golden City to confront their Lord and Creator.

Had the idea that Lucifer might have just been a jealous prick started to tickle his brain yet?
he wondered. He couldn’t really remember.

It was painful to watch his own acts of war, the brothers who tried to fend off his advances cut down by his blistering sword of fire.

Francis found it interesting that on most days he couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, but he could still remember every single angel he had killed in the name of the Morningstar’s mission. He saw their faces as they died, as enthralled with fighting for God as he had been about Lucifer’s message.

We will not be cast aside.

But that’s what happened anyway, for those who had opposed God’s plan were sent away, imprisoned, banished to a world teeming with life deemed more worthy than theirs.

And maybe it was, but Fraciel—
Francis
—had been on that world a very long time now, and from what he could see humanity was just as fucked up as the angels were.

It made him wonder if the Lord of Lords had a plan after all, or was He making it up as He went along, flying by the seat of His oh-so-holy pants. It was certainly something worth considering, especially during times like this, when it looked as though shit was about to hit the fan big-time.

Francis saw himself taken down by a legion led by Dardariel. Remembering the pain of the event, he was glad it was over. He’d expected to die that day, to be executed for his betrayal of God, and if Dardariel and his armies had had their way, he would have.

But God had seen things differently.

Francis slowly awoke from the special presentation of
This Is Your Life
, wondering how He saw things now.

Did God realize how close they were to repeating the past? Did He even care?

It was something to consider.

Francis opened his eyes just in time to see the studded gauntlet descending, and felt it land squarely on the side of his face.

“Oh yeah,” he slurred, his mouth filling with blood that began to spill from the side of his swollen mouth. “That’s something I’ve really missed.”

He was chained to a wall in the dungeon of an ancient Mesopotamian prison, one used by angels for questioning war criminals who had fled to Earth when Lucifer’s rebellion had been struck down. It was a lovely old place of wet stone and mold that still stank of torture and divine bloodletting. As he dangled from his chains, he had to wonder if he wasn’t the only one of late to be a guest in these ancient accommodations.

Dardariel flexed his muscled shoulders, his magnificent wings shining in the light of a burning brazier in the center of the room. He brought his gauntleted hand to his nose and sniffed Francis’ blood.

“Your blood stinks of corruption,” he said. “Not like the blood of one who was shown mercy by his Creator.”

“I had an omelet with a shitload of garlic in it yesterday, maybe that’s what you smell,” Francis suggested, as he spit a wad of blood onto the dungeon floor.

Dardariel surged forward with a powerful flap of his wings, burying his metal-sheathed fist in Francis’ stomach.

“I could never understand His mercy toward you.” Dardariel was close to Francis’ face, his breath smelling of something akin to cinnamon. “When so many others were cast down to Tartarus—it was as if He saw something in you.”

Francis was about to crack wise, but Dardariel’s words struck a note, and he again found himself thinking of what he had lost in Heaven, and how he could never get that back.

Even if he was to be as nice as pie, something cut right from the Disney mold, it would forevermore be denied to him.

For Heaven wasn’t the same anymore.

“The Lord God showed you mercy and this is how you repay Him.” Dardariel had backed off and was pacing before Francis.

“Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly.

“I know this will probably get me hit, but why did I do what?”

A wing lashed out and was followed by a fist. Francis felt as though his jaw had been ripped away and thrown across the room.

“I’m psychic, too,” he mumbled, getting used to the taste of his own blood.

Dardariel stared, his eyes like two burning coals in the dimly lit dungeon.

“I’m serious,” Francis tried again. “What did I do?”

The angel lunged forward, hands striking the stone wall on either side of him.

Better the wall than me,
Francis thought.

“You murdered the general.”

Francis looked directly into the angel’s eyes. “I did not.”

Dardariel could barely contain his rage, first striking the wall, then Francis, hitting him again and again.

“Beating me to a pulp can’t change reality,” Francis said, struggling to hold on to consciousness.

The angel dropped his hands to his sides and weapons from Heaven’s armory took shape.

Francis blinked blood from his eyes as he tried to focus on them.

“Are those sais?” he asked, recognizing the Japanese martial arts weaponry. He had a fascination with ancient armaments, and kung fu films.

“Why yes they are,” Dardariel said, just before jabbing one of the fiery metal batons into the former Guardian’s chest.

For the briefest instant, Francis felt the fires of Heaven inside his accursed body.

But that was more than enough.

He wondered where all the noise was coming from before realizing that it was his own screams of agony.

“Now, tell me again how you had nothing to do with Aszrus’ death. . . . I dare you.”

It took a moment for Francis to compose himself, the feeling of God’s divine fire still worming its way through every aspect of his being.

“You might as well take those pig stickers and shove them in my eyes. My answer isn’t going to change,” Francis snarled. “Your beloved general was already dead when I arrived on the scene.”

Dardariel surged forward again, one of the flaming sais jabbing toward Francis’ chest.

Anticipation made Francis scream.

The point of the sai stopped a mere hair from his chest. Francis looked down at the hovering point, and then up into Dardariel’s unwavering gaze.

“And why would someone the likes of you arrive on the scene?”

Francis swallowed hard, feeling the heat from the weapon tickling the center of his chest.

“My employer heard a rumor,” he explained. “Asked me to look into some things.”

“Your employer,” Dardariel said as if his mouth was filled with poison.

Francis said nothing, knowing that any answer he gave would likely result in pain.

“So somebody else was assigned the deed, and you were sent to make sure that the job was done.”

Francis closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Listen to me,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with killing your general. My employer knew how this murder would be perceived, and wanted to be certain that the right individuals got the blame.”

Dardariel raised the sai’s point to Francis’ eye.

“Not to point fingers,” Francis said quickly. “But one particular side has quite the itchy trigger finger and is just looking for an excuse to fire the starter’s gun.”

For a moment it was like all the air had been sucked from the room. Francis felt it, and from the look on Dardariel’s face, the angel felt it as well.

“Are you implying that one of us wants a war, Fraciel?” asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness of the dungeon.

Dardariel turned, the sais disappearing in a flash of golden flame.

A powerful figure emerged into the light cast by the burning brazier.

It had been a long time since Francis had laid eyes on the Archangel.

“Hey, Mike,” he said flippantly. “Long time no see.”

The Archangel Michael was dressed to the nines, looking as though he’d just stepped off the fashion runway, though Francis couldn’t be sure that he’d ever seen a seven-foot-tall warrior of Heaven, with skin like white marble and hair the color of pure gold, walk the runway before.

“Nice suit.”

The Archangel stopped beside the brazier, his gold-flecked eyes glistening in the dance of the flames there.

“Even after all you’ve endured, you still have not learned to respect your superiors,” Michael softly spoke. His voice was like a fine violin—a Stradivarius—expertly tuned. He reached into the brazier, careful not to catch his sleeve afire, and removed one of the blazing coals.

“The Lord God gave you a very special gift, Fraciel, and this is how you repay Him?”

Francis tensed, pulling on his chains.
Let me tell you about the Lord God’s special gift,
he wanted to spit, but thought better of it.

God did not send him to the prison of Tartarus with the other traitors, but he’d been given over to the angelic host, the Thrones, to serve as their assassin—removing those they deemed a threat to the edicts of Heaven. It was a less than pleasant position, but one that he’d endured for millennia in pursuit of God’s forgiveness.