Remy’s head swam with pain, a steady throb of agony that pulsed with every rapid-fire beat of his heart.
But he’d survived, not that he really had much of an option.
The atmosphere of Hell was working its magick, trying to convince him to curl up into a ball and give up, but he knew that wasn’t going to work for him. He’d landed on his back, and eventually forced his eyes open, focusing on the looming image of the icy prison before him. He had a rough idea as to where Karnighan’s doorway had dropped him off, and was disturbed to see the distance he had fallen.
Remy started to sit up, the sensation of bone rubbing against jagged bone causing blossoms of color to appear before his eyes. He lay back down on the ground, willing the agony pulsing through his damaged body to subside.
Counting to three, he managed to force himself up into a sitting position, focusing on the locations of his extreme discomfort. One of his legs appeared to be broken, lying twisted and useless upon the inhospitable earth at the base of Tartarus.
“Shit,” he hissed, pushing himself backward toward the formation of ice that jutted up from the ground. Again he saw a universe of stars, the grinding of his bones apparently caused by some broken ribs.
He leaned back against the ice, breathing through his nose, waiting for the pain to subside. A rust-colored mist hung thick, like smoke, making visibility difficult until a powerful belch of fetid air—likely from the heat-blasted landscape located in the deep valleys and ravines below the prison of ice—helped to improve the visibility momentarily.
He wished it hadn’t.
As far as he could see, the frosty ground was strewn with the dead. Broken corpses of fallen angels, Hellions, armored Sentries, and even some of the cloaked Nomads littered the ground. This was what had broken his fall.
He recalled the fields of Heaven during the war, the corpses of those slain in the conflict that pitted angel against angel. Remy had hoped to never see anything like it again.
The sight sickened him, reminding him of why he had abandoned the celestial for the earthly comforts of humanity.
The thick, sulfurous mist was stirred by a shifting breeze, temporarily obscuring his view of the dead, and he was grateful. He lay back against the foundation of Tartarus and thought about what he had to do, although in his current condition, his choices were limited.
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move. Hoping that it was a merely a trick of the mist, Remy squinted, watching the toxic fog for any sign of life. He saw it again, followed by other shapes moving stealthily about, trying not to be seen, and knew immediately what had found him.
Hellions. A small pack of the Hell-born animals had found his scent, preferring living prey over the dead.
Great, Remy thought, the day just keeps on getting better and better.
He could hear their claws clicking on the rocky surface, the low rumbling growls of anticipation as they zeroed in on his scent.
Bracing himself, Remy pushed back against the ice, forcing himself up onto his good leg. The pain was worse than before, and he knew then that he must prepare for the inevitable. Hell was a cruel and vicious place, and not at all accommodating to the frailty of human flesh.
He knew he was going to have to give in, to shed his guise of humanity, and to once again resume his true form. The pain made it difficult to concentrate, the wildness of the angelic nature fighting him, as if trying to make him pay for its imprisonment.
Through pain-hazed eyes he saw at least three of the Hellions converging. Remy let go of his humanity, opening the mental gates that held the nature of Heaven at bay, allowing the Seraphim its freedom.
But it didn’t come fast enough.
The Hellions pounced, their hungry jaws clamping down on one of his wrists, another sinking its fangs into his injured leg. Remy cried out, falling forward to the ground. He could feel the Seraphim rising to the surface, but it seemed to be taking its time.
At last his flesh began to heat, to bubble and steam, as the radiance of God’s power began to emerge. The Hellions seemed excited by the physical transformation, as if somehow aroused by the taste of his change.
They climbed up on him, fangs snapping at his flailing hands as he tried to keep them from his throat. His covering of flesh was melting away to expose his angelic form, but the Hellion attack was savage, relentless, their ferocity more than he could handle at the moment.
He actually began to consider the fact that he might die, when his thoughts were interrupted by a blast of gunfire, followed by the yelp of an animal’s pain. Remy took note of one of the beasts, its head flipping back sharply to one side as it dropped heavily to the ground.
The remaining two Hellions ceased their attack, their bony heads suddenly moving in the air as they searched for signs of the threat.
Again there came a clap of artificial thunder, another of the Hell-hounds shrieking wildly, turning tail, trying to slink away dragging a now useless leg behind it.
Another shot finished the fleeing beast, leaving only one of the attacking Hellions alive.
Remy tossed his head back in an awful mixture of sadness and euphoria, crying out as the last of his humanity was excised, and the Seraphim completely emerged.
Now healed, he climbed to his feet, golden wings unfurling from his back to beat the sulfurous air. His angelic form was still adorned in the armor of war, the armor that he had worn when he had killed his brothers in Heaven.
Through angelic eyes he watched the last of Hellions as it tensed, the exposed muscle and sinew of its body bunching together, readying to pounce upon Remy’s savior as he emerged from the shifting haze.
Remy leapt, dropping down into the Hellion’s path. The monster roared, but before it could strike, Remy lashed out with one of his wings, the strength contained within the feathered appendage swatting the Hell-hound against the side of an unyielding Tartarus.
The animal roared its anger, thrashing upon the ground before returning to its feet.
He was about to go at the Hellion again, but another shot rang out, catching the beast in the eye and dropping it onto its side, dead.
“I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Remy said, relaxing his wings, assuming that it was the fallen angel Madach who had come to his aid.
And then he gasped, watching the man stumble as he emerged from the thick, shifting fog, the gray three-piece suit hanging on his form in tatters.
“Francis,” Remy said, springing into the air, his newly birthed wings carrying him the short distance to catch his friend before he could fall to the ground.
“You’re going to be all right,” Remy said, never even considering Francis’ condition. His friend had to be all right.
He didn’t want to consider the alternative.
“Nomads,” Francis gasped, in between gulping breaths. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”
His friend’s body shivered and Remy held him just a bit tighter.
Francis was hurt badly, the extent of the wounds that Remy glimpsed, casually checking out his friend’s condition, grave: gaping cuts, bullet holes, and sixth-degree magick burns.
It was a wonder that he was functioning at all.
“Could have kicked all their asses… and then some, but…”
The former Guardian stopped, the expression on his face telling Remy that he was experiencing a great deal of pain.
“Don’t talk,” Remy told him. “Lie here; rest. I have something that I have to do, and if things don’t turn to absolute shit I’ll be back to bring you home, and we can see about—”