Walking in the Midst of Fire (45 page)

“Remy,” she pleaded, tears raining down upon his face; tears that he could not feel.

He tried to stay with her, but his eyes had grown so heavy, and he could no longer hold them open.
Maybe if I close them for just a moment,
he told himself.

To rest.

Marlowe was howling now, his cries reverberating through the lobby. Remy thought it was the saddest sound he had ever heard as he felt himself begin to succumb.

His eyes closed, and darkness fell, but there was fire in the midst of shadow; a struggling flame fighting to stay alight in the encroaching gloom.

But the fire grew dim, smaller by the passing moment, until it was but a faintly glowing ember, and it could fight no more, giving in to the dark.

The last thought Remy had before he, too, succumbed:

Is this what it’s like to die?

EPILOGUE

Romania

S
imeon stood on the
outskirts of the ancient cemetery, watching the burial from a distance, and trying to remember how it felt to die.

With each shovelful of dirt upon the wooden coffin, he imagined himself deep within the ground, lovingly held in the earthen embrace, waiting for the moment when he would at last pass from life.

But the Earth, and Heaven, would not have him.

The forever man’s thoughts drifted back to a time that seemed not so long ago. But what was time for one who would breathe forever?

Castle Hallow had fallen, and the sorcerous might of the Pope named Tyranus had been unleashed as death had taken him. In his fury, Simeon had commanded the demon legions to attack, their number proving too great for the holy man. But as he succumbed, the Pope let flow his vast reserves of supernatural power, laying the castle low.

The fortress of the necromancer crumbled and sank beneath the moor, Simeon’s body weighed down by pieces of heavy wall that took him deeper and deeper beneath the mire.

And that was when he experienced the vision.

In a moment of death—which was all that he was ever given—Simeon saw the way in which his desires could finally come true.

And in the time of death allotted, before he was wrenched back to wretched existence, he saw how it could all be made possible.

The rings. The two rings of Solomon.

With one ring already adorning his finger, Simeon had searched for the other, dying again and again while looking for the corpse of the Pope called Tyranus deep beneath the gripping marshland.

A woman’s cry tore Simeon from his memory.

He watched as a group of men supported an older woman in a veil, and dressed entirely in black, holding her up as they escorted her from the new grave. Eyes drawn to the freshly turned earth, Simeon again remembered how it had been.

Now possessing both of Solomon’s rings, he’d pulled himself up from the mire, a new purpose burning in his chest where a soul used to be.

He’d cried out his victory to the Heavens as he emerged from the mud, desperate for them to hear him, and to know that he would be the one to bring them down.

As usual, Heaven and all who lived within its glory chose to ignore him.

But that slight would come at a cost most severe.

He wondered if the angel that stood upon the ground where the necromancer’s castle had once been would be returning to Heaven.

The angel turned to watch his struggles as he withdrew himself from the grip of the moor. A sword of fire glowed powerfully in his grasp as he observed him.

Simeon was tempted to share his vision with the divine creature, but he decided against it, believing that it was best that the Almighty and all who served Him be unaware as to what was coming sometime in the future.

The angel had asked who he was, and how he came to be alive, but Simeon did not have time for questions, raising his hands and feeling the power of the rings tingling upon his fingers.

“I’m nobody,” he had told the angel. “And nothing worth remembering.”

And the angel had agreed, spreading his wings and taking to the sky.

He’d often wondered in the passing years what had happened to that angel, and if he would ever see him again.

Simeon thought of the angel, now called Remy Chandler, and smiled.
There’s something about that one,
he thought, turning to walk the path from the cemetery, his demonic minions walking respectfully behind him, as they had since he pulled himself from the mud and ruins of Castle Hallow.

Something to be watched, and if possible, cultivated.

This Remy Chandler could be exactly what was needed to move things along. It was something to consider, but there was another matter that needed attending to.

Another need to be filled.

It wasn’t all that difficult to locate the one he’d been searching for. Simeon and his demonic lackeys stood outside the run-down stone building located just behind the bakery. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted in the air as the forever man searched for the entrance.

The door whined like a hungry feline as he pushed it open and proceeded inside. His demons attempted to follow, but Simeon did not believe they would be necessary.

“Wait for me here,” he told them, turning to climb the creaking wooden steps up to the top floor of the ancient tenement. The air was thick with the residue of the many Romanian meals that had been cooked there through the centuries the structure had stood. Simeon could just imagine the lives lived here.

The lives, and the deaths.

It hadn’t been all that difficult to locate the one Simeon sought, no matter how hard he tried to hide himself. Purchases of baubles to ward off evil from a local Romani clan, thefts of holy relics from churches close by, reports of a strange man who openly wept when a story about an environmental calamity on a deserted Japanese island was reported on a news broadcast at the village tavern.

All were like a map to one such as the forever man; a map that pointed to the location of one who could be beneficial to his work.

Simeon could feel the presence of something unnatural—
preternatural
—as he reached the heavy, wooden door at the top of the stairs. It was obvious to him that he had come to the right place.

“Who’s . . . who’s there?” asked a weak voice from inside.

“I’ve come with a proposition,” Simeon said to the closed door, listening for sounds of movement on the other side. “May I come in?”

There came a chilling laugh behind the door. “Oh yes, please do,” said a voice unlike the one he’d first heard. This one sounded strong, confident. “We would truly enjoy hearing what you have to propose to us.”

Simeon took hold of the metal knob and turned it, pushing open the door. The atmosphere inside was immediately oppressive, as if there was a storm about to rage within the tiny confines.

Closing the door behind him, Simeon took in the appearance of the place: the walls covered with pages of religious texts, strange symbols painted in blood upon any surface that had remained untouched, magickal talismans hanging from the ceiling, candles burning before makeshift shrines to gods and saints known, and long forgotten.

And in the center of the room, sitting in the middle of a circle of protection drawn upon the rough wood floor, sat the shadow of a man.

Simeon was surprised at how bad he looked, the incident on Gunkanjima having far more of a devastating effect on him than the forever man would have imagined.

“Do I know you?” the man asked, his voice soft with weakness.

“We met briefly,” Simeon said. “On the island.”

The man’s eyes grew wide and filled with tears, before his expression changed and the evil spirit that resided within him reared its ugliness.

“Oh to be there again,” the evil spoke in a voice horrible and rough. “To be part of all that death—glorious; but I do not remember you.”

The man turned his body in the circle to face him.

“Come closer,” the spirit said, motioning with a finger that had become like a claw. “Maybe if I was to taste you . . .”

Simeon crossed his arms, unfazed by the evil entity’s teasing.

“You do not remember, for I chose that you not,” Simeon said. He showed the entity possessing the man the rings adorning his hands.

The spirit gasped at the sight of the two rings.

“But I know you, Constantin Malatesta,” Simeon said. “As well as the ancient thing that resides inside of you.”

Malatesta closed his eyes, his face lined from incredible strain.

“Please,” he begged. “You must leave at once; you’re not safe. Even with all this protection . . .” His eyes darted about the room. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep it contained.”

Simeon smiled.

“Contained?” he asked. “And why would you want to do that?”

Malatesta looked horrified. “Why have you sought me out?”

“I come with an offer,” Simeon said, picking up a piece of religious statuary from a nearby table. “I require someone with your skills.”

“Skills?” Malatesta repeated with a shiver, still attempting to keep the entity inside him from regaining control.

“A sorcerer,” Simeon said. “I have need of a sorcerer.”