Walking in the Midst of Fire (41 page)

The priest closed his old, watery eyes. “The appearance of innocence is deceiving.”

“What are you talking about?” Remy fought to stand, his wings beating the wet ground as he struggled to his feet.

The priest stepped back.

“They are not as they appear,” he said. “And they must be dealt with before . . .”

An icy claw gripped at Remy’s chest.

“What do you mean dealt with?” he demanded. “What are you thinking of . . .”

“To keep peace and strengthen the covenant,” the old man continued. “Decisive action must be taken.” He turned and walked away.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Remy screamed. “What are you going to do? Keep the peace between who? Tell me!”

The old priest stopped, and turned ever so slightly.

“Without our intervention, there would be war,” he said. “The threat to this fragile peace must be eliminated; the truce must remain strong.”

The horror of the situation suddenly sank in. The children were being offered up as a sacrifice to prevent two opposing factions from going to war.

“Please,” Remy begged the old man. “There has to be another way. . . . They’re just kids; they have no idea of what—”

“It is not for me to decide their fate,” the priest announced, looking past Remy as there came the crashing of thunder and flashes of lightning followed by what he knew at once to be the flapping of wings.

So many wings.

Two groups of angels appeared, one on each side of the dilapidated playground—one side representing God’s Heaven, the other Lucifer Morningstar’s Hell.

And between them both cowered the frightened children brought into the world through no choice of their own.

Malatesta and the old priest walked toward the gatherings, dragging Remy behind them by sorcerous tether.

“Who shall speak for Heaven and who shall speak for Hell?” the priest asked the two sides.

“You can’t let this happen,” Remy cried out to Malatesta.

The sorcerer continued to stare straight ahead, as the representatives from each side came forth. “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “It’s all too big, and there’s far too much at stake.”

Remy was about to argue, but his eyes were drawn to the powerful form of the Archangel Michael as he approached the priest.

The warrior angel was clad in his armaments of war, a fiery spear clutched in one hand as he came to tower before the ancient priest.

“I stand for Heaven,” the Archangel announced.

The priest bowed, then looked toward the other angelic crowd.

“And who shall stand for Hell?” he asked.

There was silence among their numbers, and Remy watched for a sign of the one who would take on the mantle.

There was a sudden commotion at the far back of the gathering, and a figure began moving through the ominous-looking shapes clad in the heavy armor of war. The angels of Hell moved aside as their delegate stepped forward.

Remy felt his knees give out as the figure left the crowd to stand before the priest.

“I guess I am,” Francis said, his gaze briefly landing upon Remy before quickly fixing on the priest.

“I suppose I’m representing Hell.”

Castle Hallow
1349

The angel Remiel’s rage was matched in size only by the level of the Pope’s betrayal.

Tyranus had used sorceries ancient and powerful, imbued within a ring of silver, to bend the angel to his commands. Only by clutching its sister ring to his armored breast had Remiel seen the truth of the situation.

“How dare you?” the Seraphim roared.

“Now, now,” the Pope fretted. “Remember it is God’s work that I do here upon this world and—”

“Blasphemer!” Remiel shouted. “This ring has shown me your true colors!” The angel shook his divine fist.

Pope Tyranus did not back away, fixing Remiel in an icy stare.

“You will do as I have commanded,” he stated. “You will hand over the ring at once.”

The magick of the Pope’s ring pulled at the angel, ancient magicks once bestowed upon Solomon by powers greater than any here on Earth, moving to influence him. Though the sister ring helped him to see things more clearly, it did not completely block the ring’s influence over creatures of the divine.

Remiel struggled against the Holy Father’s command, waves of excruciating pain traveling through his form as he fought to hold on to control.

But the ring was too strong.

Remiel watched as his arm seemed to lift of its own accord, his hand extending toward the Pontiff.

“That’s right,” the Pope hissed. “For the sake of the world, the power over the demonic and the divine shall be controlled by one.”

Just the idea of such strength being given to one person—this vile person before him—filled the Seraphim with a blinding rage, and he resumed his fight for control over his actions.

“You will not have it!” Remiel proclaimed, igniting his fist so it glowed like the molten core of Earth, forcing Tyranus and his soldiers to step back.

“It is only a matter of time, soldier of Heaven,” the Pope said calmly. “Only a matter of time before you succumb to a power greater than you.”

Remiel knew that the holy man was right, but it did not prevent him from trying.

From the corner of his eye, peering out from the darkness of the castle’s many passages, he saw the eyes of the demonic, twinkling there—watching his struggle.

The angel thought of them, thought of their number, and how they had served the necromancer and felt the ring writhe within his clutches. Without realizing what he had done, the demons came forth, called by the angel’s silent command.

It was the most excruciating thing he had ever experienced, the very essence of his being touched by the coldest fingers of purest darkness.

But the demons responded to his fury.

Pope Tyranus seemed taken aback. “How fascinating,” the holy man said, playing with the ring upon his finger. “You’re actually fighting my commands.”

Remiel was bent over in agony.

The demons encircled him, chattering, spitting, and hissing, and he saw in their multitude of eyes an intelligence—an awareness that told him they were as repulsed by his control of their actions as he was of being in control.

The Pope drew nearer, only to leap back as the demons lunged.

“Give it to me,” he commanded once more.

Remiel squeezed the ring all the firmer as the demons tightened their circle, as if protecting him.

“You would die to defy me?” Pope Tyranus asked.

Remiel lifted his head to fix the holy man in his gaze. “I defy you, and all that you stand for,” he proclaimed. “Power such as this does not belong in the hands of one.”

“You are wrong,” the Pope declared. “Only I am strong enough to prevent the world from plunging into chaos.”

Tyranus stepped closer, hiking up his priestly robes to squat before Remiel. He held out his hand.

“The ring,” he demanded.

Remiel could feel himself dying, the darkness of possessing the second of Solomon’s rings surging through his body like a poison. Eyes affixed to the ground, he watched in horror as feathers dropped from his wings like leaves from a dying tree. His flesh was turning gray, and the heat of the fire at his breast was dwindling; all this because of the ring he held in his fist.

The demons drew closer, like a freezing person drawn to the heat of a fire.

He didn’t want to look, but his eyes were pulled upward as if attached to invisible strings. He stared at the Pope’s beckoning hand—compelling him to surrender what he believed to be rightfully his.

But even though he was dying, Remiel could not do it.

“It won’t be long now,” the Pope cajoled. “Your flesh will wither. The divine spark will be extinguished, leaving behind the remains of a once-holy creation determined to keep something of great power from its predetermined owner.”

Remy lifted his face toward Pope Tyranus. The demons were snuggled even closer now, as if stealing away his life force.

“Last chance,” the Pope said, bringing his beckoning hand all the closer.

It took almost all the strength that Remiel had remaining not to do as the Pope instructed him, but the sight of something—someone—moving from the darkness behind the holy man was more than enough of a distraction to hold on.

The Pope did not see that Hallow’s servant, the young man who swore to see Heaven in ruins someday, was coming up behind the unsuspecting Pontiff.

Remiel lifted his shriveled hand. He could see genuine excitement in the Pope’s eyes, believing he was about to receive what he most desired in all the world.

“Here, give it to me,” the servant demanded.

Tyranus turned toward the voice, a feral snarl more demonic than divine escaping his lips as Remiel did the unthinkable.

Summoning all that he had left to give, he lifted his arm, opening his creaking fingers to release the ring.

It was as if time had become transformed by alchemy into some form of viscous liquid, the ring of Solomon slowly tumbling through the air toward its new owner.

The necromancer’s servant lunged, fingers splayed, before closing upon the prize. Pope Tyranus leapt as well, colliding with the man and sending them both sprawling to the floor of the castle.

Remiel lay upon the stone floor, still surrounded by the demonic creatures. He was dying, and all he could contribute was to lay there as the spectacle unfolded before his failing sight.

The Pope and Hallow’s servant desperately struggled for the ring. There was a sudden cry of elation and the servant raised his scuffed and bloody hand—adorned with the silver sigil ring of Solomon.

The one that controlled the demonic.

Remiel’s eyes fell heavily shut, but he could still hear the servant’s commands to the demonic hordes assembled there.

“Take him, and be sure that he suffers.”

And in the darkness, all the Seraphim could hear were screams.

Of terror and elation.

The holy and the wicked.

One no easier to discern than the other.

•   •   •

The sky above the island of Gunkanjima raged, as if offended by the heinous acts going on below it. Rain pelted the magickal barrier erected by the Keepers, hissing and sputtering like grease in a frying pan.

Remy could only watch as it all unfolded. He’d thought the Vatican would be the children’s savior, that the Keepers would protect the innocent offspring of angels and Nephilim.

But he had been wrong—so very, very wrong. The Keepers had come, not as saviors, but as conciliators to prevent the breakout of war, to mediate a truce between two warring sides.

With the innocents trapped somewhere in the middle.

“Before you are the creatures responsible for the most heinous of acts,” the old priest began. He gestured toward the children tightly corralled in another sphere of crackling magickal force.

Some stared defiantly, while others wailed in terror.

Remy wanted to go to them, to tell them that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that it wasn’t. Things couldn’t have been any worse. Again he tried to remove the magickal leash entwined about his neck, but he’d only grown weaker since the last attempt, and it hurt him all the more.

“A patriarch of Heaven was murdered,” the priest announced. “His life brutally stolen from him.”

The Keeper first looked to his left, at those gathered under the banner of Hell, and then to the right, and those representing Heaven.

“Suspicions were inflamed, and two mighty forces grew closer to conflict.”

The Heavens roared in the thrall of the storm, almost as if something—someone—was giving their two cents, but Remy knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. Be they God, or monster, neither could watch the travesty going on before them now and not be forced to act.

But it was allowed to continue.

“Heaven and Hell were at the brink, and an unsuspecting world slumbered between them, unaware of the dangers they would soon face.”

The old man slowly turned, presenting Remy with a flourish.

“But there was one, a being once of Heaven, who now walks the Earth, living among God’s sheep, who would see the destructive potential of the murderous act and seek to quell the growing fires of discord.

Remy struggled to stand, but all it did was make him cry out.

“Stay down,” Malatesta hissed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

Francis, the Archangel Michael, and all the other angelic were staring at Remy as the Keeper continued his pitch.

“This one saw that it was not the act of one side against the other, but another force at work—a force that sought to ignite a war.”

Against his better judgment, Remy let his opinion be heard.

“That isn’t true!”

And he suffered for it.

The tendril of magick around his neck became tighter, sending pulsing waves of agony into his body. He fell to the ground again, where he grunted and thrashed in the throes of pain.

“Seduced by the visage of innocence . . . ,” the old priest continued.

“Not true?” the Archangel Michael asked, interrupting the old priest’s roll. The soldier of Heaven clutched his flaming staff all the tighter as he turned his full attention to the Seraphim that twitched pathetically on the ground before him. “Tell us of this lie.”

Remy’s eyes darted to Malatesta, still holding the other end of the magickal leash.

Michael then looked to the Keeper. “I wish him to speak.”

The Keeper nodded, and Remy felt the hold upon him begin to loosen. He surged up to his feet, wings flapping powerfully, and considered his few options.

“The actions of these children were not premeditated,” Remy began. “They didn’t sit around on this cesspool of an island planning ways to turn the armies of Heaven and Hell against each other.” He paused for a moment. “And if you believe that they did, you’re just being fucking stupid,” he finished.

A shock wave went through the crowd—barely perceptible, but it was there. He had their attention.

“Look at them,” Remy said, motioning toward the children. “They’re just kids, scared kids with no knowledge of the heritage they were carrying inside them.”