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  Walking In the Midst of Fire

  ( Remy Chandler - 6 )

  Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Remy Chandler, angel private investigator, is trying his damnedest to lead a normal life in a world on the verge of supernatural change. He’s found a new love—a woman his dog, Marlowe, approves of—and his best human friend is reluctantly coming to grips with how...unusual...Remy’s actions can be. And he’s finally reached a kind of peace between his true angelic nature and the human persona he created for himself so very long ago.

  But that peace can’t last—Heaven and the Legions of the Fallen still stand on the brink of war. Then one of Heaven’s greatest generals is murdered, and it falls to Remy to discover who—or what—might be responsible for the death, which could trigger the final conflict...a conflict in which Earth will most certainly be the beachhead.

  The deeper he digs, the further he goes into a dark world of demonic assassins, secret brothels, and things that are unsettling even to a being who has lived since time began. But it is not in his nature—angelic or human—to stop until he has found the killer, no matter the personal price...

  Walking In the Midst of Fire

  Remy Chandler - 6

  by

  Thomas E. Sniegoski

  For Brian Kozicki— Gone far too soon, but never ever forgotten

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With love, and gratitude, to my lovely wife, LeeAnne, and to Kirby for sharing with me some of his best ideas.

  Thanks also to Christopher Golden, Ginjer Buchanan, Katherine Sherbo, Rosanne Romanello, Liesa & James Mignogna, Scrawny Johnny Morrison, Kathy & Dave “thing from another world” Kraus, Pam Daley, Erek Vaehne, Garrett Jones, Mom & Dad Sniegoski, Paul Deane, Mom & Dad Fogg, Pat & Bob, Kenn Gold, and Timothy Cole and the Walking Dead down at Cole’s Comics in Lynn.

  By the prickling in my thumbs . . .

  PROLOGUE

  Jericho

  26 AD

  Simeon was dead.

  He was not aware of the length of time he had been lying within the cold embrace of the ground, wrapped in a shroud of burlap, for he had transcended such mundane, physical concerns, his spirit destined to unite with the other life energies that comprised the stuff of creation.

  These energies . . . these souls as they were sometimes called, were the clay of the Almighty, and Simeon was joining them, experiencing the unimaginable joy of being one with the Creator as all that Simeon once was gradually melded with the whole that was God’s glory.

  Simeon had believed that he’d known bliss in his lifetime: the love and devotion of a good woman, three healthy children to carry on his bloodline, strong hands that allowed him a craft to support his family’s lifestyle. It was all that one such as he could have hoped for in life, but it was nothing compared to the euphoria he experienced as he gave freely of himself, merging his own love with the love of all who had lived, and died, and would live again in another of the myriad forms of existence.

  This is what it was for, Simeon thought as he was about to surrender his identity.

  About to experience the completion of the cycle of life.

  About to become one with God and creation.

  One moment he was there, and the next . . .

  Simeon was suddenly confused by the absence of joy and the sensation of pain.

  He’d thought himself beyond the torment of the physical, but it appeared that he was wrong.

  Simeon could feel the tether around his spirit, dragging him inexorably back to the corporeal world. He tried to fight it, begging the Creator to take notice of his dilemma.

  But God did not see, or He chose not to.

  Powerless, Simeon was pulled back through the veil of death, each level of his reemerging physical existence adding another dimension to his agony.

  To have come so close to rapture, only to have it ripped away.

  Deep within the cold darkness, Simeon was screaming, the pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced, worse even than it had been before his passing.

  And no matter how much he begged to be released, nothing changed.

  Nobody was listening.

  He thrashed in the embrace of burlap, his fingers now claws tearing through the sack that had held his corpse. His once-dead lungs screamed for air as he pulled himself up through the dirt and rock meant to be his final resting place. And in a perversion of the rite of birth, he emerged, hands snaking out from the sand, the gentle touch of the hot desert breeze sending waves of sheer agony through his body.

  Through a haze of anguish, he pulled himself from the ground and collapsed atop his burial mound. Everything hurt: his joints, muscles and skin, even the hair upon his head and the beard that sprouted from his face.

  Simeon had no idea how long he’d lain there, immersed in a cocoon of suffering, before he realized that he was not alone. Even though it felt worse than any injury he had ever experienced, he lifted his eyes to the form that stood before him.

  The figure was tall, with a kind face that bore a look of absolute shock. But its dismay soon transformed into the warmth of a smile.

  Simeon gazed up at the youth, and as he looked upon him, he suddenly knew that this boy was responsible for his misery.

  That this young stranger had somehow stolen Simeon from the vast comfort of the Lord God’s embrace.

  A single croaking word managed to break free from Simeon’s throat, along with a cluster of hard-shelled insects that had made their nest in the rigid flesh of his trachea. “Who?”

  The young man continued to smile as he bent to one knee beside Simeon. “I am Jesus of Nazareth,” he said. “The Son of God. And I have raised you up.”

  Those words were even more painful than the agony his body was enduring. This boy—this child—had dragged him back from the euphoria of death and the promise of eternal union with the Creator of All Things.

  “Why?” Simeon asked. “Why would you do this?”

  The youth smiled all the wider, reaching down to touch Simeon’s pale, dirt-covered face. “To see if I could,” he said simply.

  The words attacked Simeon, burrowing deep into his flesh, squirming their way into his heart and mind. The pain was so great that he began to scream.

  And he did not know if he would ever be able to stop.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Remy Chandler’s eyes wandered to the television hanging above the crowded bar.

  He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t help himself. There was always a nervous trepidation these days, a fear that he would see something that might compel him to act. Things were different in Boston—in the world, really—since a tear had been rent in the fabric of reality. It had swallowed up the top floors of the Hermes Building in Back Bay before Remy was able to close it.

  And thanks to the media, millions of people throughout the world had caught a glimpse of something that had, until then, managed to remain in the shadows.

  The news tonight was more mundane—tornadoes in the west, a school shooting in California, more sanctions about to be imposed upon a hostile Middle Eastern nation, and an eighty-nine-year-old woman who had hit the lottery for two hundred and fifty million dollars.

  No more holes in the fabric of time and space spilling nightmare creatures into this reality . . . at least not in this news cycle. Maybe they were saving that one until the eleven o’clock broadcast.

  “Are you gonna eat that last one?” Linda asked, pulling his attention back to his dinner companion.

  “I’m sorry,” Remy said, tearing his eyes from the television and gazing at the attractive, dark-haired woman sitting across from him. “Something caught my eye.”

  “Whatever,” she replied. “D
o you want that or not?” Her fork hovered over the last cube of fried manchego cheese on the plate in the center of the table.

  “No, go ahead,” he told her.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Linda grinned as she speared the cheese, dipped it in a red sauce, and popped it into her mouth.

  Remy picked up his drink, watching as she closed her eyes in ecstasy while she chewed. She opened them and giggled when she saw him staring at her.

  “I feel like such a pig,” she said, swallowing and wiping her mouth with a red linen napkin, “but I could eat a hundred of those things.”

  They were at Loco, a tapas and wine bar located thirty minutes southwest of the city. Linda had mentioned wanting to try it once or twice and, feeling as though he had been neglecting his lady friend of late, Remy had made reservations for a special night out.

  The waitress, a lovely girl by the name of Jessica, brought out their next selection, a flatbread pizza covered in Gorgonzola cheese, sprinkled with pine nuts and basil, and drizzled with a balsamic glaze. Remy wasn’t quite sure how he was going to feel about this one, but he was put at ease with the first bite.

  “This is pretty good,” he said, nodding slowly.

  “You seem surprised.” Linda laughed.

  “Guess I just didn’t know what to expect,” he said as he took another bite.

  “Kinda like how it was with me.” She winked at him over her slice of pizza.

  Remy smiled warmly, feeling her hold upon him growing even stronger. “I got more than I bargained for with you,” he said, swirling his drink in the glass, the melting ice cubes tinkling like wind chimes.

  “And is that more in a good way or more in a bad way?” she asked, with a lovely tilt of her head.

  He suddenly thought of Madeline. She was the love of his life and always would be. But there was definitely something about this woman sitting across the table from him, this Linda Somerset, that made Remy happy he hadn’t abandoned his human visage when Maddy had passed away.

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” he told Linda as he helped himself to another piece of the flatbread.

  “I know what I think,” she said, once again helping herself to the last piece. “But I’m not sure you’d agree.”

  Linda kept her eyes on him as she took a large bite of the bread.

  As an angel of the host Seraphim, Remy Chandler had fought for Heaven against the forces of Lucifer Morningstar. What he had seen, and done, during the Great War had soured him to the ways of Heaven, and so he had sought refuge on the world of the Almighty’s most cherished creations. Remy, then Remiel, had come to the Earth to lose himself, crafting a human persona of his very own, suppressing his true angelic nature.

  After thousands of years, it was Madeline who had solidified his mask of humanity, and made it something so much more. Her love for him had made him human, and now she was gone. The fabric of his humanity had begun to fray, and he’d had little hope that it would last—until he’d met Linda Somerset. Remy was beginning to believe that there just might be some hope for him after all.

  “I knew you were trouble the minute I saw you,” he said, looking at her, taking in the sight of her.

  “So, is that good trouble or—,” she started to ask, holding back her laughter as he interrupted.

  “Knock it off. You’re the best kind of trouble I know.” He reached across the table to take her hand in his.

  He’d been fighting his feelings for her since he’d met her, that annoying voice in the back of his brain reminding him how devastatingly painful it was to lose such love.

  And no matter how human Remy believed he was, he faced a harsh reality. He was immortal: destined to watch anything he came to love wither and pass from life, always leaving him alone.

  “Suddenly so serious, Mr. Chandler,” she said, and he could see the beginnings of concern in her eyes. “Is everything all right?”

  He smiled, but didn’t release her hand. It felt good in his, and he wanted to keep it there for a little while longer. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “No worries.”

  But he was worried. Things had been getting progressively worse since the Apocalypse had been so narrowly averted just a couple of short years ago.

  Remy remembered the prophetic dream he’d had just after the Hermes Building incident, when he’d spoken with a very familiar old man on a Cape Cod beach about a coming war.

  Linda looked at him as if trying to see more than what he was willing to show her. “Okay, so why do you look the opposite?”

  Jessica brought them their entrees—braised short ribs for Linda, a filet mignon with lobster for him; she then left to refill their drink order—another glass of Cabernet for her and a whiskey and ginger for him.

  Linda continued to watch him. “Hello?” she asked.

  Remy picked up the steak knife from the corner of his plate. “I’ve just been feeling a little bit guilty,” he said with a shrug as he cut into his steak. It was so tender, he could have sliced it with his fork.

  “Guilty about what?” Linda asked, tasting a bit of her own meal.

  “I don’t think I’ve been such a great boyfriend lately,” he said, placing the meat in his mouth and chewing. It tasted as good as it looked.

  Linda laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Remy asked.

  “You said you’re my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah? And that’s funny because . . . ?”

  “You’ve never said it before,” Linda answered, looking down at her plate and suppressing a smile. “I liked hearing you say it.”

  She turned her dark eyes up to him, and he just about melted.

  He used to feel a nasty twinge of guilt when she looked at him like that, as if he was somehow cheating on the memory of his departed Madeline.

  But Remy had come to an understanding with these feelings, an understanding that this was just another aspect of being human: that it was nearly impossible to stop loving, for without love, there really wasn’t much of a point.

  Especially for him.

  Without love he would be forced to return to what he really was; a warrior with the blood of his brothers on his hands, an angel that had lost faith in Heaven and its Creator.

  Remy needed to love, and needed the love of another to truly live.

  And really, wasn’t that the truth for just about everyone?

  “I would like to think of myself more as your Lambykins, or Snugglebunny,” he said without cracking a smile as he stabbed a piece of beef and lobster with the end of his fork and popped it into his mouth.

  “Interesting. I was thinking more along the lines of Honeybunny,” Linda said slyly, scrutinizing him with a careful eye from across the table. “Yeah, you’re most definitely a Honeybunny.”

  Sarah, who was tending bar at Loco that night, brought them their new drinks just in time.

  “Honeybunny it is,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast.

  “To Honeybunny,” Linda replied, picking up her wineglass.

  They each had a drink to consummate the toast, playfulness twinkling in their eyes.

  “So I’m just Girlfriend, then?” she asked.

  “You seemed to like it a little while ago,” he replied.

  “Yeah, Girlfriend is good, but it doesn’t have the same oomph as Honeybunny.”

  “True,” Remy agreed. “Maybe we should give you a more tantalizing moniker.”

  “Moniker?” she repeated, starting to laugh. “Who the hell uses the word moniker? What are you, like a hundred and fifty years old?”

  If you only knew, he thought, feeling another twinge, not over falling in love, but because he was unable to share the truth of himself with her.

  It just wasn’t the proper time. Things were still young, fresh, and the burden of his reality would surely kill what they were currently sharing.

  Some other time, perhaps.

  “Give me a break,” he said with a chuckle. “I have a word-of-the-day calendar on
my desk.”

  That made her laugh again and he absorbed the sound, relishing how good it made him feel.

  “Maybe I should just call you Jerk-Woman,” he said, feigning indignation.

  “Oh really? Jerk-Woman?” she asked, pretending that she was offended, but not able to hide her smile.

  “I’m just going to sit here and finish my dinner and think of all the other fabulous words from my calendar that I still haven’t had the opportunity to use,” he said as he made a show of dismissing her.

  Linda reached across the table, taking his hand in hers and giving it a powerful squeeze.

  “Your girlfriend is perfectly fine by me,” she said as he looked up into her smiling face, feeling his heartbeat grow faster as the blood rushed through his veins.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t too thrilled with Jerk-Woman,” he said, watching as she brought her wineglass up to her mouth.

  “Oh good,” she said, just before taking a drink. “Wouldn’t care for that moniker,” she teased, wrinkling her nose with distaste.

  “I was thinking about one of the classics, like the Old Ball and Chain.”

  The words had barely left his mouth when she started to laugh while in midsip.

  Remy knew right then how impossibly special she was, still sexy as hell even with wine coming out of her nose.

  Jericho

  26 AD

  Simeon soon learned that no matter how hard he tried, the bliss of death was now denied him. Driven nearly insane by the Nazarene’s actions, the resurrected man wandered, searching for a way to return to the bosom of God.

  His body still bore the effects of the time he had spent rotting in the grave, his seeping flesh a home for insects, muscles pulled away from bone. He was a monstrosity, feared and reviled wherever his travels took him, and his hate of life grew, even as his body healed, for he remembered what had been taken from him.

  And a hate of God, and all that He was, blossomed, as well.