Walking in the Midst of Fire (32 page)

Francis was still waiting.

“Just being polite,” Francis said, holding back the bile that threatened to spill from his lips.

Michael moved without being seen, suddenly close enough to shove the burning coal against the prisoner’s chest and hold it there.

Francis ground his teeth together and tossed his head back against this latest assault upon his senses; the sound of his flesh cooking, the sickly sweet smell of roasting meat, the feel of the coal—kept insanely hot by contact with the Archangel—as it tried to melt its way through his chest to his heart.

“We know that you are serving him again,” Michael said. “And to say that the Almighty is disappointed—”

“Never . . . wanted to . . . disappoint,” Francis managed, the pain threatening to take him someplace dark, and cool, and away from the perpetual agony. “Only trying . . . trying to keep the peace.”

Much to his surprise, and relief, Michael took away the coal.

“Tell me, Fraciel,” he said. “Is the act of murder how your master attempts to keep the peace?” The burning coal fell from the Archangel’s hand to smolder upon the wet, stone floor.

Francis’ head slumped to his chest. His breath came in pants, but he kept his eyes fixed upon the white-hot stone that gradually cooled on the ground in front of him. He imagined the coal as his pain, slowly—ever so slowly—being dialed back.

“As I told your handsome partner . . . ,” Francis began, shifting his eyes briefly from the coal to Dardariel, who had stepped obediently aside when the big guns had shown up. He saw the angel tense, clearly wanting another crack at him.

Shit, who wouldn’t?

“I had nothing to do with the general’s untimely demise,” Francis finished.

The Archangel strolled back to the brazier, helping himself to another of the burning coals. “Then, pray tell,” he said, casually tossing the white-hot object up into the air and catching it, as somebody would with a pebble found on the beach. “How did his body come to be found in your dwelling?”

Francis tried to assemble the facts inside his head into some discernible order before speaking.

“My companions and I . . .” He suddenly remembered Montagin and Heath and wondered if they were being treated as well as he was. “How are my companions by the way?”

“Quite well,” Michael answered. He was holding the coal between thumb and forefinger, blowing on it to make it glow all the hotter. “I just checked on them myself.”

Francis didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing he could do.

“We didn’t want the general’s body to be found,” he explained. “So we brought it to my place for safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?” Michael repeated. He continued to toss the coal, and it appeared to be getting hotter each time it landed on the Archangel’s palm.

“Somebody murdered General Aszrus. There isn’t any doubt about that. But who actually did it, is where it gets tricky.”

Michael listened, the coal going up, and then down.

“The situation between Heaven and . . . my employer is nothing short of volatile, and now that the general’s death has been revealed, we’re dancing on the cusp of what my companions and I feared would happen.”

Dardariel must have been feeling brave, because he interrupted the grown-ups talking.

“He lies,” the angel proclaimed. “This one was untruthful to the Lord God Himself; do you seriously believe that—”

Michael flicked the coal away, striking Dardariel in the forehead.

“Silence,” the Archangel commanded.

Dardariel scowled, but he did as he was told.

“Your companions,” Michael said to Francis. “The angel Montagin, the human sorcerer, Heath . . . Am I forgetting anyone?”

“There was a hobgoblin, but he had some things to do and couldn’t stick around for all the fun.”

“Anyone else?” Michael prompted.

Francis smiled, realizing what the Archangel was getting at.

“Yeah, Remy’s involved in this,” he said, watching as Michael’s expression changed from bored to interested.

The Archangel stepped closer to Francis, his mere presence making him feel as though he was being crushed against the stone wall.

“What part does he play?”

Francis tried to suppress his smile, but he couldn’t. He looked up into Michael’s eyes. “The most important part of all: He’s trying to keep it all from turning to shit.”

•   •   •

Remy took point, moving down the corridor as quickly and as carefully as he could, Malatesta at his heels. His first instinct was to get the hell out of Dodge, but to come this far, with still so much unanswered, he decided that he was going to go for broke.

Besides, there was far too much at stake to stop now. For the briefest of moments, he imagined what the world would be like as Heaven went to war with Hell. It was all a little overwhelming.

He turned to make sure that the Vatican magick user was keeping up.

“You with me?”

“Unfortunately,” Malatesta said, leaning against a plaster wall.

They were in a lower part of the charnel house. It wasn’t very fancy, and Remy guessed that this was some place the customers seldom saw.

He suddenly tensed as he heard the sound of multiple voices coming from somewhere farther down the corridor. He motioned for Malatesta to follow him and cautiously moved forward.

The voices were female, and they were coming from behind a heavy wooden door to their left. Remy stepped closer to the door, and listened. One of the voices was definitely the woman who had questioned him about Aszrus’ photo.

The woman who still had answers that Remy wanted to hear.

“We’re going in,” Remy told Malatesta.

The magick user looked as though he was about to protest, but Remy was already turning the knob, and quickly darted inside.

The women stopped talking immediately, all five of them looking toward the door as Remy and Malatesta stepped in, closing the door behind them.

Remy recognized Natalia, who had gone off with Malatesta, Morgan, and the older woman.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan asked, a look of shock on her beautiful face.

“I’ll call security,” one of the others said, heading for an old-fashioned phone on the wall.

A blast of magickal energy struck the woman in the side, hurling her backward into the wall, where she dropped to the floor unconscious.

Remy turned to Malatesta, seeing his hand crackling with the residue of the spell he’d cast.

“No security,” the magick user said, and Remy had to consider if it was the Larva or the man who was with them now.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Remy said, as much to Malatesta as the women. “We just need some answers.”

“I’ll give you answers,” Natalia said, holding up her hand as the bright red fingernails began to grow longer.

“Knock it off, Nat,” the older woman said.

Remy noticed then that older woman was still holding the baby photo in her hand.

“But, Bobbie . . . ,” Natalia started to protest, before a cold look from the woman silenced her.

“I think this one might have some answers to our own questions,” Bobbie said, shaking the photo.

Morgan snatched the picture from the woman and advanced on Remy.

Malatesta looked as though he might be getting ready to let loose again, when Remy turned to him.

“It’s all right.”

“Where did you get this?” Morgan demanded. Her eyes were shiny and wet, most likely from crying.

“I’m sure Bobbie already told you,” Remy said.

“You tell me,” she demanded.

“I found it in Aszrus’ place. Hidden . . . as if he didn’t want anybody to see it.”

Morgan was staring at the image again.

“It means something to you.” Remy stated the obvious.

Her moist eyes locked on his. “Yeah, you might say that.”

“That’s a picture of her child,” Bobbie announced. “She’d know it anywhere. . . . I’d know it anywhere. . . .”

“I was told my baby died at birth,” Morgan said, not taking her eyes from the photo. “Does this look like a dead baby to you?”

Remy shook his head. “No, it does not.”

It was Natalia’s turn now. “What’s it mean?” she asked, her nails having receded back to their normal length. “We’ve all been knocked up by angels, given birth to corpse babies. . . .

“If this one is alive,” Natalia said, reaching for the picture held by Morgan, “could my baby be alive, too?”

Morgan let Natalia have the photograph for a moment, but then quickly took it back.

“Do you know, angel?” Bobbie asked.

“All I know is that Aszrus is dead . . . murdered,” Remy told them. “And I think whoever was responsible is somehow connected to this.”

“Prosper said that he was fine after that business the other night,” Bobbie said. “Which is why I wasn’t surprised to hear that he’d shown up tonight.”

“Prosper seemed pretty upset that we were here poking around,” Remy said. “I don’t know about you, but I think somebody might have a guilty conscience.”

One of the other girls who’d been silent until then spoke up.

“He told me that my baby was dead,” she said, holding back tears.

“Prosper?” Remy asked.

She nodded. “He held my hand, talking all sweet to me,” she said, sounding as if she were there again. “He said that she was just like all the others, born dead—just too damn different to live.”

They all seemed to be listening to the woman, as if they could feel her pain as well.

“What if he was lying?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“I think we need to find out,” Malatesta said, leaning against the door.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed, looking at the women.

“So, who wants to take us to Prosper’s office?”

•   •   •

The demon sat alone, at the far back of Methuselah’s tavern indulging in its fourth libation of fermented basilisk blood and grain alcohol.

He exuded a cloud of menace, only the bravest of waitresses coming over sporadically to see if he wanted another of the foul drinks. Normally he would have had something to eat as well, but when he thought of his stomach, and what he could fill it with, it just made him remember how he had ended up this way.

The memory of how he’d lost face with his clan.

The incident had happened there, at Methuselah’s. The day had been no different from multiple others, the demon locating a passage to the tavern to slake his thirst and fill his hungry belly.

He hadn’t even noticed the Seraphim or his beast, and why should he? They were no matter to him.

That was how his species had managed to survive as long as they had: sticking to the shadows, keeping to themselves, drawing little attention to their actions.

It was a practice that would serve them well when their kind was ready to emerge and reclaim what had been stolen from them.

He had ordered a libation and an appetizer—something he had grown to love called a blooming onion. He had been about to take his first bite of the delicious, fried onion treat, when the angel’s beast had approached his table. It had looked upon him hungrily, its eyes demanding food.

The demon had no intention of sharing, and had ordered the beast go away. However, it appeared to have no intention of leaving, and had demanded that he share the blooming onion.

The demon brought his drink to his mouth, taking gulps of the thick fermented blood, as he continued to recall that troubling evening.

He had insisted the beast go away as peaceably as he was able, but the black-furred animal remained.

Eventually bringing its master to the table.

The Seraphim appeared, the light of the divine nearly blinding the demon. He’d had no quarrel with the angel, and had attempted to shy away, but the Seraphim would not have it, belittling the demon in front of the tavern’s patrons, causing him to lose face.

News of the event had traveled like the most virulent of plagues, and those of his tribe were aware of what had occurred within hours.

His entire reputation was destroyed in a matter of days.

Because of what the Seraphim had done to him, he was deemed unworthy, ostracized. Tribal law dictated that he should kill the Seraphim and his beast, but he knew it was an impossible task, his own hunger for survival canceling out any desire to attack the divine creature of light.

But in not slaying the angel, he was shunned by his kind, as if dead.

The demon had some more of his drink, mulling over the decision that he had made.

It had taken all the wealth that he’d squirrelled away to hire the assassins. But the Bone Masters were well worth the price, for once they had completed their task, he would be resurrected.

Reborn in the eyes of his people.

The demon raised a pale hand to summon a waitress. He was suddenly feeling a bit hungrier at that moment, and decided to take a chance on a blooming onion.

Before the moment of optimism could pass.

CHAPTER TWENTY

J
ust
being in the presence of the angel had made Prosper’s hands begin to shake.

The owner of Rapture took a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured himself a glass. He’d been around all kinds of angels before—for fuck’s sake he was one himself—but he hadn’t been affected like this by any other.

Images sparked inside his brain, flashes of events that he hadn’t thought about—
hadn’t remembered
—in centuries. He didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all, and for making him suffer, he decided to make Remiel and his little friend suffer as well.

The thought of the indignities that would be heaped upon the Seraphim in the bowels of Rapture made Prosper smile as he leaned back in the leather chair behind his desk. Some of his customers were real sick fucks.

The memory came unbidden, like a rock thrown through a piece of frosted glass to reveal the images behind it. He saw a scene of war, and all the horrors it entailed. He had been part of the battle, fighting just as much for his life as for the cause of the Morningstar.

He hadn’t yet become Prosper; his name was Puriel, and as his compatriots had died around him, he’d wanted nothing more than to run and hide until the madness abated.