The air was heavy with the stink of death, and the taste of blood was bitter in his mouth.
“Stand down, Seraphim,” a voice ordered from behind him.
Remiel spun, his bloodstained sword at the ready in his gold, gauntleted hand.
General Aszrus emerged from a shifting haze that seemed to rise up from the bodies of the dead that littered the ground.
“I ordered you to stand down,” he repeated.
Realizing that they’d fought on the same side, Remiel lowered his blade, turning back to the carnage for which he had been partially responsible. The sword was suddenly heavy in his hand, and seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.
“It is a sight,” the general said as he moved to stand beside Remiel.
“It is,” Remiel agreed, feeling a bottomless sadness open up at his core.
“But we are victorious,” Aszrus added.
The words were as sharp as a dagger, and Remiel flinched as if struck.
“Victorious?”
“Aye,” the angel general said, with the hint of a crooked smile upon his chiseled features. Remiel studied the figure then, noticing the dried blood that flecked his pale, perfect flesh. “Many of our brothers perished in this great conflict, but so did our enemies.”
“Enemies who were our brothers not so long ago,” Remiel reminded the general.
Aszrus’ gaze intensified.
“Brothers who turned against the Lord God to follow the edicts of the Morningstar,” he said firmly. “Making them brothers no longer.”
Remiel sensed the presence of others and turned to see the last of the general’s men, their haggard faces a reflection of the battle that had been fought. Here were faces of beings once touched by the glory of God, now forever changed by what they had seen, and been forced to do.
“But that is behind us now, soldier,” Aszrus proclaimed, reaching out to lay a heavy hand upon Remiel’s armored shoulder. “Those still faithful to the Morningstar have been routed, and the adversary himself has been captured, and awaits the Almighty’s edict for his treasonous acts.”
Aszrus paused, allowing his supposedly inspirational words to sink in.
“It’s over, brother,” the general added.
Remiel could not take his eyes from the carnage, and the more he looked, the more he saw.
The more he came to understand.
“You’re right,” the Seraphim said. “It is over.”
And it was.
* * *
There is nothing sadder than a dead angel.
Angels were a durable breed, but even they could not function when their hearts were cut out. General Aszrus was indeed dead.
Sensing the wrongness of the situation, Remy had risen from bed, thrown some clothes on, and told Montagin to take him to Aszrus.
The angel had just stood there, staring off into space and talking about how horrible it all was. Remy had been forced to reach out and take hold of Montagin’s arm and to squeeze as hard as he could.
The angel’s face quickly registered pain, and then anger, but before he could lash out at the one causing it . . .
“Take me to Aszrus. Now.”
Remy had watched as the anger churned there, behind the angel assistant’s dark eyes, but the rage gradually receded, as what Remy was asking of him gradually sunk in.
Montagin pulled his arm away, reaching up to rub at where Remy had grabbed him.
“That better not leave a bruise,” the angel warned as he brought his wings around to embrace them both, and transport them away from Remy’s bedroom to . . .
Here.
They appeared in the corner of a room—a study—that Remy would have given one of his kidneys to have.
It was enormous, filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and heavy pieces of leather furniture. Lying in the center of what was obviously a priceless Persian rug was the sprawled body of angel General Aszrus.
Remy glanced to his left, through the opening in the slats of a shuttered window, and saw a spectacular view of the sea washing up on a rocky beach outside.
“Where are we?” Remy asked, walking away from Montagin toward the body.
“Newport,” the angel responded. “I believe it’s in a state called Rhode Island.”
“What brings an angel soldier and his assistant to Newport?” Remy knelt beside the corpse.
“You would have to ask him,” Montagin replied. “Perhaps he saw a picture in one of the human magazines he enjoyed reading.”
Remy looked down at the general, remembering how he’d last seen the powerful being. Once again, his face was flecked with small spatters of blood, but this time it was his own.
“Tell me everything about finding him,” Remy ordered.
He was already starting to notice things that were . . . curious.
Montagin had crossed the room, over to what looked to be a portable bar in the shape of an old globe. The angel lifted the cover, revealing the inside of the planet to be filled with bottles of alcohol.
“I came in for one of these, actually,” Montagin said, removing a decanter of scotch from the hollow inside of the globe, along with a glass, and filling it halfway.
Remy looked away from the corpse, to the angel.
“He was the one to introduce me to the joys of alcohol,” Montagin said. “Especially scotch. Got to be one of the only things I admired about this monkey cage of a world.”
“So, you came in for a scotch—go on.”
Montagin came cautiously closer, drink in hand.
“I didn’t expect to find him in here, especially in this . . . condition.”
The angel took a large gulp of his drink and swallowed it down without any hesitation, his eyes briefly closing as he savored its taste. It was obvious to Remy that the angel wasn’t lying when he said that he’d learned to love alcohol.
It wasn’t often that one could observe an angel in the throes of pleasure.
“Aszrus wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d gone out earlier in the evening and wasn’t expected back until much later—if at all.”
“Where did he go?” Remy asked.
The angel shrugged. “Out,” he answered. “The general did not share his every bit of business with me, only items that pertained to maintaining God’s will and the glory of Heaven.”
“Right,” Remy muttered in response. “The glory of Heaven. So you don’t have the slightest idea where he went last night?”
“Not the slightest,” Montagin said as he drank some more.
Remy scowled, not liking that pieces of the puzzle were missing. “Go on. You came in . . .”
“So when I came in and found him like this . . .”
“And this is exactly how it was when you entered?” Remy asked. “You didn’t touch anything?”
The angel shook his head. “Not a thing.” He considered the question again, before adding to his answer. “I had a drink, but that was all.”
“And then what did you do?”
“Drank my drink, and thought about who could have done such a thing, and what it would mean to the grand scheme of things.”
“And then?”
“And then I thought of you, and how if there was anybody on this forsaken world that could keep this situation from blowing up it would be you.”
“I’m guessing that you already suspect who’s responsible,” Remy said, rising to his feet, eyes still rooted to the corpse of the angel general.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Montagin scoffed.
“No, not really,” Remy said, looking away from the corpse to the angel.
Just as he was about to take another swig from his glass, he stopped. “You’re not sure?” Montagin asked. “Who else but the Morningstar would be responsible for such a blatant disregard for protocol? Somebody entered the dwelling of a general serving in the army of Heaven and cut out his heart. Who else but Lucifer would dare—”
“He wasn’t murdered here,” Remy interrupted, looking back to the corpse.
“What?” Montagin asked, thrown by the statement. “What do you mean he wasn’t murdered here?”
“There isn’t enough blood.” Remy pointed down to the Persian rug beneath the corpse. “If Aszrus’ heart was cut out here, the rug would be stained with his blood. There isn’t more than a drop here and there beneath him.”
Montagin downed what remained of his drink, placed the empty glass on one of the bookshelves, and stalked closer for a look.
“You’re right, but if he wasn’t murdered here, then . . .”
“He was murdered someplace else,” Remy finished. “And I think that wherever that is will likely tell us who is responsible.”
“But who else would dare?” Montagin began.
The stink of scotch wafted from the angel’s breath, causing Remy to wrinkle his nose.
“I could be wrong, but I’m just not feeling the work of the Morningstar here,” Remy said.
“Then who?” Montagin demanded.
“Don’t know.” Remy was looking at the body again, searching for something—anything—that he might have missed the first few times. “But something tells me that if the Morningstar was involved, he wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of killing the general, and then bringing the body back here. I’m guessing it would have been left where it fell.”
“How can you know that?” Montagin asked.
Remy shrugged. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s just something that I’m feeling in my gut right now. This doesn’t feel like an act of war. It feels more . . . personal.”
“But that’s exactly what this is,” Montagin stressed.
Remy understood the ramifications of this act, and did everything possible not to break out in a cold sweat.
“Right, but we’ve got to do everything in our power to prevent folks from finding out about it right now until . . .”
“Until?” Montagin wanted to know.
“Until I figure out who’s responsible.”
CHAPTER SIX
The clock was ticking, and since Montagin didn’t have any information as to where the general had been the previous night, Remy figured that it wouldn’t hurt to ask some of the house staff if they knew anything.
Montagin had pissed on the idea, but Remy knew better, insisting that the angel would be surprised at how much was known by people who supposedly didn’t know a thing.
They locked up the study and proceeded through the labyrinthine corridors of the estate to a huge kitchen, where a squat old woman sat at a table peeling potatoes, the filthy skins dropping from her knife onto a spread-out newspaper.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.
“This is Mr. Chandler,” Montagin announced as they entered the kitchen, and Remy watched as the old woman jumped at the sound of his voice. “He has some questions to ask you, and I would appreciate if you answered them.”
Montagin then looked to him. “I will be in the study if you should need me,” the angel announced before turning to go back the way they’d come.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Chandler?” the woman asked, pushing back her chair as she started to stand.
Remy watched her, and knew at once that she was blind. It was no surprise to him; Angels who functioned on Earth had a tendency to surround themselves with the sightless. There was something about the affliction that lent itself to the service of Heavenly beings.
Some said it had something to do with the sightless being able to see—sense—angels as they truly were and not as their human alter egos.
“That would be very nice, Ms. . . . ?”
“Bridget will suffice,” she said with a pleasant smile, fingers gently laid upon the tabletop as she moved around the furniture to get to the stove, where a pot of coffee sat.
She poured him a steaming cup of the dark liquid and carefully set it down in front of him without spilling a drop.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked. “Or would you prefer milk?”
“This is fine,” Remy said, picking up the cup and taking a careful sip. It was some of the best coffee he’d had in ages. Madeline would have called it rocket fuel it was so strong, but that was just the way he liked it.
Bridget continued to stand there, fingertips resting atop the table.
“Excellent coffee, Bridget,” he told her, expecting her to find her way back to her chair; but she continued to stand before him, sightless eyes gazing off into the kitchen.
“Glad you like it,” Bridget said, again with a tender smile. “It’s one of my special talents.”
Remy wholeheartedly agreed and took another drink of the scalding brew, the older woman still standing in front of him. He was about to ask her if there was something wrong, or something that he could do for her, when she began her question.
“Would it be forward of me to ask to touch your hand?” Bridget asked.
For a moment he didn’t understand, but he quickly came to realize that she wanted to see him as he truly was.
“Normally I have far better manners than this, but in you I’m sensing . . .”
Remy did not wait for her to finish. Instead, he reached out, gently taking her hand in his.
“How’s this?” he asked, watching the expression upon her face change.
“Oh my,” Bridget whispered, her cheeks beginning to flush pink. “You’re lovely.”
“Why, thank you,” Remy said with a laugh.
The old woman then lovingly patted his hand and returned to her seat.
“And why haven’t I seen somebody like you around here before?” she asked as she lowered herself down into her seat, and felt out a potato to begin peeling again.
“Let’s just say your master and I don’t run in the same circles,” Remy said.
She seemed to accept that, nodding in understanding.
“Mr. Montagin said that you have some questions for me,” she said, her knife expertly separating the skin from the body of the potato.
“I do,” Remy said. “When was the last time you had contact with Aszrus?” he asked.
She stopped her work, thinking about the question.
“Last night, before supper,” she said. “I was going to make a roast chicken, but he told me not to bother—that he was going out for the evening.”
“And that was it?” Remy asked. “You didn’t speak with him again?”
“Only briefly, when he asked if I would make him shepherd’s pie for tonight.” Her smile was beaming. “He loved my shepherd’s pie.”
“I’m sure it’s something amazing,” Remy responded, finding all of this absolutely fascinating. Here were angels of Heaven, creatures not known for their love of humanity’s ways, embracing many of the habits for which he himself had been ostracized by his kind.
“Perhaps if you and the master could put aside your differences—at least long enough to have a good meal—you might be able to see just how amazing.”
“That certainly is something to consider,” Remy said, finishing up the most excellent cup of coffee, and rising from his chair. He reached across the table to touch her hand again. “Thank you so much for your time, and the coffee.”
She told him that he was most welcome, but as Remy pulled his hand away, she grabbed hold of his fingers in a passionate grip.
“Why exactly are you here, Mr. Chandler?” Bridget asked. “Is everything all right?”
Remy could sense her rising concern, and did everything in his power not to let on. It was still too early for the fate of her master to be revealed.
“I’m helping Mr. Montagin with an investigation,” he told the concerned old woman. “As soon as we’ve gathered all the facts, I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”
Remy felt bad that he couldn’t tell her more, but was afraid that if he did, things would soon spiral out of control.
She released his hand without another word, and he left her there, staring off into space, alone with her curiosity and concern.
* * *
Rem
y found Montagin in the foyer of the home, finishing up his talk with the remaining staff.
“And if you should remember anything out of the ordinary, please do not hesitate to inform me.”
The random assortment of men and women, young and old, all sightless, responded that they most assuredly would, and proceeded to slowly go about their duties.
As Remy watched them he could see that there was some hesitation there, that some of them were attempting to get up enough courage to ask what this was all about. He used the opportunity to inject himself into the scene, canceling out their opportunity.
“Mr. Montagin,” Remy said aloud, announcing his presence.
He watched those who had not yet left rethink their next action, then disappear into the house along with their curiosity.
“Anything?” Remy asked.
“If they did hear something, they’ve chosen not to talk about it,” Montagin answered. “Was Ms. Worthington any help?”
“Bridget?” Remy asked. “No. She had a brief exchange with the general last night before he went out.” He kept his voice low in case there were any ears close by.
Remy took hold of Montagin’s elbow, steering him back toward the study and the scene of the crime.
“What now?” Montagin asked. “If we report this to the proper authorities, you know what the outcome will be.”
Remy knew exactly what would happen; it was as sure as dropping a lit match into a bucket of gasoline.
War.
The forces of Heaven were looking for an excuse, any excuse at all, to begin another war with the legions of the Morningstar.
“We need to keep what’s happened a secret as long as we can,” Remy said as they stood in front of the heavy wooden doors leading into the study.
“I’m not sure how long that might be,” the angel assistant said. “Aszrus had certain responsibilities.”
“They’ll need to be canceled,” Remy stated.
“Canceled?” Montagin protested. “Aszrus was a leading general of the Heavenly legions here to assess the situation brought on by the reemergence of the threat of Lucifer Morningstar. His responsibilities cannot just be canceled.”
Remy’s eyes darted around the hallway, making sure that no one was around before he spoke. “Well, guess what? They’re going to have to be, unless our friend in there is going to show up at one of his meetings sporting a lovely hole where his heart used to be.”
Walking In the Midst of Fire rc-6 Page 7
