Free Walking in the Midst of Fire by Thomas E. Sniegoski Page A

and do your part in keeping the world from sliding into darkness.”
    Remiel was stunned, shocked that one such as Tyranus felt that he could give orders to an angel of the holy host Seraphim as if he were a mere lackey.
    But for reasons then unknown to him, the angel Remiel held his tongue, knowing that he would do everything in his power to perform this chore, and to obtain the ring of Solomon for the one who asked it of him.
    For Pope Tyranus of the Holy Roman Empire.
    •   •   •
    “I’m sorry,” Remy told the Vatican representative. “I have no interest in working for you, or the Keepers, or anybody else associated with the Vatican.”
    Malatesta just stared.
    “I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but—”
    “No,” the man interrupted. “After reviewing what I could find on your original involvement with us . . .”
    “I’m surprised there was anything left for you to review,” Remy said. “Since Tyranus’ name was removed from the lineage of popes.”
    “Even though his reign was erased, there are still some records to be found about the Black Pope, and his actions during the Middle Ages.”
    Remy chuckled. “Kinda like that stain on the rug you can never get completely out.”
    Malatesta tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “A stain on the rug?” he asked, obviously not getting what Remy was talking about.
    “It’s nothing,” Remy said. “Just trying to draw a comparison.”
    Malatesta nodded, sliding to the edge of the chair to drive home his point. “The Keepers have given me full authority to apologize profusely for any past transgressions, and to offer you substantial payment, within reason, for your time and services while working with us.”
    Remy shook his head.
    “I’m really sorry, but I’m just going to have to say no.”
    It felt good saying no to the Vatican representative, not at all like when he was dealing with Pope Tyranus.
    “There’s nothing that I can say or do to change your mind?” Malatesta asked.
    Remy shook his head again. “I’m afraid not.”
    Malatesta looked as though he was going to continue, but then appeared to think better of that. “I guess there’s nothing more to say,” he said, standing up.
    Remy stood also.
    “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chandler,” Malatesta said, and extended his hand.
    Remy reached out, taking his offered hand, and as their flesh touched . . .
    There was a flash, and a hum, like unrestrained power coursing through a live wire lying in wait upon a street after a storm. If there had been any doubt that this man, this Constantin Malesta, had some sort of a knack for the arcane art of magick, there wasn’t any now.
    His power coursed through Remy, amplifying the sensations that he had been experiencing for quite some time, reminding the angel of what was out there in the world, and the dangers that it would soon be facing.
    “Perhaps another time,” Malatesta said with a final squeeze, before releasing his grip.
    And before Remy could even respond, the Keeper agent was gone. But what he had stirred up in Remy with just a touch remained, and it lingered disturbingly for the remainder of the day.

CHAPTER FIVE
    T he next few weeks passed without incident.
    The world rolled on, the trivial and the not so trivial, the kinds of events Remy had grown accustomed to in his time with human civilization, as days passed into weeks.
    But that did not mean he wasn’t waiting for the so-called other shoe to fall. He found himself staring out the windows of his office and down onto the city streets far more attentively, watching the evening news broadcasts, and trolling the Internet with more frequency as he looked for signs.
    He found nothing serious enough to alert him to impending doom, and started to eventually let his level of caution drop; still, he kept one eye open and his superhuman senses on alert for any notable change in the ether.
    But life marched on; it had the habit of doing that, and Remy