Walking in the Midst of Fire (39 page)

“But how? You look no older than the last time we . . .”

“Ah yes, the good old days,” Simeon spoke wistfully. “Perhaps later there will be time to reminisce, but now . . .”

Simeon gripped the wooden footboard and leaned forward, a look of urgency on his face.

“If the world is to survive, I need you to make some calls.”

•   •   •

Another storm had found the island of Gunkanjima. But it did not deter Remy and his party as they headed for the passage that would take them back to Rapture.

Remy and Malatesta supported the injured Prosper, while the children eagerly swarmed around them, excited for what was about to happen.

Excited for their future.

“Are we close?” Remy asked Prosper.

The fallen angel grunted once, and the group stopped. Remy and Malatesta released the fallen angel and he swayed for a moment in the falling rain.

Then Prosper lifted a hand, his fingers bloody, some oddly twisted. He began to draw shapes in the air before him, shapes that suddenly came to glowing life, as the space before him began to shimmer.

Prosper turned his bloodied face to Remy.

“It’s done,” he said through split and swollen lips. “Now where does that leave me?”

Remy looked at him. “I don’t think I’m following.”

“You don’t need me anymore,” Prosper said. “So where does that leave me?” The fallen angel’s eyes were darting from Remy to Malatesta, and then to the excited children milling about.

“We’re taking you back to Rapture,” Remy told him. “And maybe somebody there will take care of your sorry ass.”

Prosper’s stare was intense.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Remy stared back with equal intensity before answering.

“No,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now than offing you.”

The children were eyeing the fallen angel hungrily.

“If I wanted to be a real son of a bitch I’d leave you here with the kids,” he said. “Let them show you how much they appreciate the life you’ve given them so far.”

Prosper refused to look at them, hanging his head.

Gareth joined them, standing beside Remy.

“Are you sure this is the way?” he asked.

“It’s the only thing I’ve got,” Remy replied.

The air was filled with the hissing of the storm.

“And you think that’s right?” Gareth asked. “That we should remain alive?”

“I do,” Remy told him, hoping that what he was about to attempt would bring some semblance of peace and normalcy to these sad, pathetic creatures that were the product of divine lust.

With that said, Gareth turned, and walked away.

“Will you be back soon?” asked the little boy who had pushed Malatesta’s demon deeper.

“Soon as we can,” Remy reassured him.

“Will it be raining all the time where we’re going?” the child asked.

“I bet it’s going to be sunny a lot of the time there,” Remy told the boy. “If that’s all right,” he added.

The boy nodded vigorously, and Remy reached out to ruffle his rain-soaked head.

Malatesta was holding Prosper up by the arm.

“Ready?” the sorcerer asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Remy answered.

Malatesta began to help Prosper through the passage, but Remy paused for a moment to give the children one final wave.

He caught sight of Gareth in the distance, watching with dark eyes filled with fear of what was to come.

A fear of the fate that might befall them all.

•   •   •

Morgan was sipping a pear martini and pretending that she gave a shit about her latest john’s confession that he’d been responsible for at least two of the murders credited to Jack the Ripper, when she noticed the security staff moving en masse down the corridor toward Prosper’s office.

She and the rest of the girls had been pretty much left in the dark not only as to the fate that had befallen their boss, but also what had really happened to the children they believed had died at birth.

She excused herself with a smile, and followed the walking dead men down the corridor. As she suspected, the door to Prosper’s office was wide-open, and a strange humming sound that made her inner ear itch was coming from inside.

Security was on full alert, but she managed to maneuver herself through their obstructing bulk into Prosper’s office. The air at the back of the room had begun to shimmer and blur, finally spitting out an all too familiar shape.

Prosper fell through the fluctuating passage to land on his knees in his office. He looked like someone had taken a hammer to him, and for a moment, Morgan was tempted to go to the angel.

But then she remembered what he had done to Bobbie, and what he had kept from them.

Prosper knelt for a moment, before falling forward to all fours. The passage behind him shimmered and blurred some more, before another shape emerged that Morgan recognized as the guy who’d been disguised as Aszrus. And then the angel Remiel stepped through behind him.

Morgan was pushed aside as the zombie security team surged forward.

“Stop!” Prosper croaked. “They’re with me.”

The zombies nearly fell over one another as they froze in their tracks. It was then that Morgan caught the angel’s eye, and she couldn’t help but feel a smile begin to tease at her lips.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone we could use, would you?” Remy asked.

And she found herself reaching into the pocket of the silk jacket she wore to give the angel what he asked for.

•   •   •

Patriarch Adolfi could not stop staring at the man called Simeon. It had been at least thirty years since last they’d met, and the man didn’t appear to have aged a day.

“How—,” Adolfi began, only to have Simeon interrupt.

“There’s no time for that now, Patriarch,” Simeon said, raising the china cup to his mouth for a sip of coffee. “There are other more pressing matters.”

Patriarch Adolfi reached for his own steaming beverage, trying to keep his ancient hands from trembling, but not having much luck.

“The jet will be fueled and waiting for us within the hour,” Adolfi said.

“And when we reach Tokyo?”

“A helicopter will take us to the island.”

“Very good,” Simeon said, and the three figures that stayed in the shadows in the far corner of the room shifted.

“Are you certain that your . . . people . . . would not care for some refreshments?” Adolfi asked.

“They are not people, and merely being in the presence of one such as yourself is probably filling them with an overwhelming revulsion,” Simeon snapped. “No offense, but I think it best they stay where they are.”

The patriarch silently agreed, continuing the uncomfortable wait for the call that Simeon promised would be coming. The call that would summon them to duty.

The cell phone on the cherrywood table beside the patriarch’s chair began to play the beginning strains of
Tocatta in D minor,
and he quickly picked it up.

“There we are,” Simeon said, taking another sip of his coffee.

“Hello?” The patriarch listened to the voice on the other end with increasing interest.

“Why yes, Constantin,” he said, looking to Simeon. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

•   •   •

Francis wasn’t about to leave with his tail tucked between his legs; he wouldn’t allow himself, given the pain he was still feeling as a result of his questioning—
torture
.

He had some questions to ask
Michael, and might even have a few for Dardariel, in between tearing off his wings and shoving them up his ass.

They climbed the dusty stone steps up from the bowels of the ancient prison. He was surprised that the others had all agreed to join him, albeit some begrudgingly, but they were still here.

Francis suspected their decision had more to do with them not feeling comfortable traveling the shadow paths with Squire, and less to do with wanting to have his back, but whatever the reason, they were there.

Always good to have more bodies at your back,
he thought, imagining the fight that might soon ensue.

Francis thought of Remy, wondering if he had met with success. He couldn’t imagine that the Seraphim hadn’t, but then again there was always the chance—

Voices from the landing interrupted his thoughts, and he paused on the stairs.

“Are you sure about this?” Squire asked from beside him. “There’s a nice patch of shadow we can crawl through at the bottom of the steps.”

Francis glanced back to the others. “What do you think?”

Montagin still looked as though he had a stick shoved up his butt, but he held out his hand and called forth a pretty funky-looking sword that could probably do some serious damage. “Does this answer your question?” he asked.

Heath, whose lips looked as though he’d been intimate with the tailpipe of an eighteen-wheeler, extended his fingers and gave them a little wiggle. He said something that Francis couldn’t quite make out because it sounded like the sorcerer had a mouthful of marbles, but he guessed that Heath was staying.

“All right,” Squire said with a shrug. He reached into a pocket of his tool belt and produced two short-bladed knives that he held tightly in both pudgy hands. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

Seeing the others with weapons made Francis realize how naked he was. He closed his eyes and envisioned the Pitiless pistol and the scalpel-like blade taken from the dead hand of one of the architects of creation. He missed his weapons, his deadly friends.

“How much longer do you plan on skulking there upon the staircase?” asked a voice he recognized as belonging to the Archangel Michael.

Francis glanced to the others, seeing the beginnings of panic in their eyes as he climbed the rest of the way to the landing. So much for surprise.

He was met at the top of the stairs by the angel Dardariel, and immediately tensed. But Dardariel just stood there, holding out his hands to present Francis with the most unexpected of things.

In one palm rested his knife, and in the other the Pitiless pistol.

At first Francis thought it was some sort of joke, but he sensed from the weapons themselves that they were the real deal, and were anxious to be back in his possession.

He took them, first the knife and then the gun.

“I haven’t forgotten about our little conversation downstairs,” Francis said, dropping the knife into his pocket. He hefted the pistol. It felt good in his hand, which suggested to him that he was spending a little bit too much time with the gun.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t enough.

“Of course not,” Dardariel said, and gestured for them to follow. “They’re waiting for you on the roof.”

Francis looked to the others.

“Who is waiting?” Montagin asked.

Squire and Heath shrugged.

“Only one way to find out,” Francis said. He continued down the corridor, following Dardariel up another small flight of stone steps that led onto the prison rooftop.

He really had no idea what to expect. A catered lunch would have been nice, but he was completely taken aback by the sight that awaited him.

It was a gathering of angels.

Everywhere he looked stood a soldier of Heaven, and as Francis emerged onto the rooftop, every eye turned to him. The Pitiless grew warm in his hand, excited by the prospect of violence, but Francis knew it would be hopeless.

Sure, he could take a bunch of the peacocks down, but eventually one of them would reach him, and that would be all she wrote.

Still, not a single weapon of fire was called upon. The angels simply stood and stared, as if waiting for something.

“Ah, there you are,” the Archangel Michael said, moving away from the crowd. “Now we can go.”

Montagin was standing beside Francis, and the former Guardian could sense Heath and Squire at his back. They all seemed just as confused as he was.

“Go where?” Francis asked.

“There has been a cessation of hostilities,” the Archangel stated as he spread his wings.

All the other angels opened their wings as well.

“A conference has been called.”

Angel soldiers appeared behind Francis and his group. They were incredibly close—close enough to take them inside their winged embrace, and transport them away.

“And we must answer the summons.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

R
emy stopped in the doorway of Prosper’s room, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.

A few of the female staff were seeing to the fallen angel’s needs—changing bandages, fluffing pillows. Remy noticed that none of the Nephilim that Prosper employed were present. He figured that the lie about the death of their children was just too much for them to forgive.

“You wanted to see me?” Remy asked.

“Yeah,” Prosper said, shifting his weight upon the bed. He dismissed the girls with a wave of his hand, and they passed Remy with a smile as they went out the door.

“I wanted to thank you,” the fallen angel said, playing with the corner of his bedsheet.

“For what, not killing you?”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Prosper answered. “But also for getting me out of there.”

The fallen angel looked at Remy. His eyes were still bloodshot, his face swollen and bruised in places.

“I have no doubt in my mind that they would have killed me if . . .”

Remy took a sip from his coffee mug.

“And you would have deserved it.”

Prosper shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s also because of me that they’re still alive.”

Remy silently considered that.

“They would have been tossed in the trash, whether they were dead or alive.”

“So you think of yourself as some kind of savior? That they owe you?”

“No, nothing like that,” Prosper said.

Remy drank some more coffee, watching the fallen angel.

“You did me a solid, so I wanted to do the same for you,” Prosper continued.

“And what are you going to do for me?”

“I called off the hit,” Prosper said. “You don’t have to look over your shoulder for the Black Choir anymore.”

“Until they come for me again.”

“Yeah, but it won’t have anything to do with me.”