“It won’t be long now,” the Pope cajoled. “Your flesh will wither. The divine spark will be extinguished, leaving behind the remains of a once-holy creation determined to keep something of great power from its predetermined owner.”
Remy lifted his face toward Pope Tyranus. The demons were snuggled even closer now, as if stealing away his life force.
“Last chance,” the Pope said, bringing his beckoning hand all the closer.
It took almost all the strength that Remiel had remaining not to do as the Pope instructed him, but the sight of something—someone—moving from the darkness behind the holy man was more than enough of a distraction to hold on.
The Pope did not see that Hallow’s servant, the young man who swore to see Heaven in ruins someday, was coming up behind the unsuspecting Pontiff.
Remiel lifted his shriveled hand. He could see genuine excitement in the Pope’s eyes, believing he was about to receive what he most desired in all the world.
“Here, give it to me,” the servant demanded.
Tyranus turned toward the voice, a feral snarl more demonic than divine escaping his lips as Remiel did the unthinkable.
Summoning all that he had left to give, he lifted his arm, opening his creaking fingers to release the ring.
It was as if time had become transformed by alchemy into some form of viscous liquid, the ring of Solomon slowly tumbling through the air toward its new owner.
The necromancer’s servant lunged, fingers splayed, before closing upon the prize. Pope Tyranus leapt as well, colliding with the man and sending them both sprawling to the floor of the castle.
Remiel lay upon the stone floor, still surrounded by the demonic creatures. He was dying, and all he could contribute was to lay there as the spectacle unfolded before his failing sight.
The Pope and Hallow’s servant desperately struggled for the ring. There was a sudden cry of elation and the servant raised his scuffed and bloody hand—adorned with the silver sigil ring of Solomon.
The one that controlled the demonic.
Remiel’s eyes fell heavily shut, but he could still hear the servant’s commands to the demonic hordes assembled there.
“Take him, and be sure that he suffers.”
And in the darkness, all the Seraphim could hear were screams.
Of terror and elation.
The holy and the wicked.
One no easier to discern than the other.
• • •
The sky above the island of Gunkanjima raged, as if offended by the heinous acts going on below it. Rain pelted the magickal barrier erected by the Keepers, hissing and sputtering like grease in a frying pan.
Remy could only watch as it all unfolded. He’d thought the Vatican would be the children’s savior, that the Keepers would protect the innocent offspring of angels and Nephilim.
But he had been wrong—so very, very wrong. The Keepers had come, not as saviors, but as conciliators to prevent the breakout of war, to mediate a truce between two warring sides.
With the innocents trapped somewhere in the middle.
“Before you are the creatures responsible for the most heinous of acts,” the old priest began. He gestured toward the children tightly corralled in another sphere of crackling magickal force.
Some stared defiantly, while others wailed in terror.
Remy wanted to go to them, to tell them that everything was going to be all right, but he knew that it wasn’t. Things couldn’t have been any worse. Again he tried to remove the magickal leash entwined about his neck, but he’d only grown weaker since the last attempt, and it hurt him all the more.
“A patriarch of Heaven was murdered,” the priest announced. “His life brutally stolen from him.”
The Keeper first looked to his left, at those gathered under the banner of Hell, and then to the right, and those representing Heaven.
“Suspicions were inflamed, and two mighty forces grew closer to conflict.”
The Heavens roared in the thrall of the storm, almost as if something—someone—was giving their two cents, but Remy knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. Be they God, or monster, neither could watch the travesty going on before them now and not be forced to act.
But it was allowed to continue.
“Heaven and Hell were at the brink, and an unsuspecting world slumbered between them, unaware of the dangers they would soon face.”
The old man slowly turned, presenting Remy with a flourish.
“But there was one, a being once of Heaven, who now walks the Earth, living among God’s sheep, who would see the destructive potential of the murderous act and seek to quell the growing fires of discord.
Remy struggled to stand, but all it did was make him cry out.
“Stay down,” Malatesta hissed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”
Francis, the Archangel Michael, and all the other angelic were staring at Remy as the Keeper continued his pitch.
“This one saw that it was not the act of one side against the other, but another force at work—a force that sought to ignite a war.”
Against his better judgment, Remy let his opinion be heard.
“That isn’t true!”
And he suffered for it.
The tendril of magick around his neck became tighter, sending pulsing waves of agony into his body. He fell to the ground again, where he grunted and thrashed in the throes of pain.
“Seduced by the visage of innocence . . . ,” the old priest continued.
“Not true?” the Archangel Michael asked, interrupting the old priest’s roll. The soldier of Heaven clutched his flaming staff all the tighter as he turned his full attention to the Seraphim that twitched pathetically on the ground before him. “Tell us of this lie.”
Remy’s eyes darted to Malatesta, still holding the other end of the magickal leash.
Michael then looked to the Keeper. “I wish him to speak.”
The Keeper nodded, and Remy felt the hold upon him begin to loosen. He surged up to his feet, wings flapping powerfully, and considered his few options.
“The actions of these children were not premeditated,” Remy began. “They didn’t sit around on this cesspool of an island planning ways to turn the armies of Heaven and Hell against each other.” He paused for a moment. “And if you believe that they did, you’re just being fucking stupid,” he finished.
A shock wave went through the crowd—barely perceptible, but it was there. He had their attention.
“Look at them,” Remy said, motioning toward the children. “They’re just kids, scared kids with no knowledge of the heritage they were carrying inside them.”
The Archangel’s gaze grew more intense, like a hawk zeroing in on a rabbit hiding just beneath a bush. Remy wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. After all, what did he have to lose?
“The offspring of angel and Nephilim,” he continued. “Who even thought that was possible?”
Remy watched the crowd, not sure what he hoped to see, but seeing nothing.
“I think you should leave them alone,” he finished. “Let the Vatican look out for them . . . teach them, like they said they would.”
Remy fixed the Keeper in a bruising stare. He would remember this one, and the Keeper would remember him.
“But the act of murder has been committed,” the old man stated. “And the balance must be restored in order to keep peace.”
Francis was staring intently at Remy, but he couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Remy had suspected Francis’ new allegiance, but never realized it would go to this extreme.
Instead, he focused on the gatherings of angels and stated simply, “I believe the murder was justified.”
Multiple gasps went through the crowd of those serving Heaven, while those serving Hell seemed strangely amused.
Michael puffed out his chest, his wings slowly flapping, fanning the fires of his rage.