It was in Remy’s nature—as a being of Heaven—to comfort, and to ease the dying man’s fears. He had knelt beside the terrified man, taking his bloodstained hand in his, lending him some of his divine strength to either pass to the Source or hold on until help arrived.
He had told the man—told him that no matter what happened he would be all right. And to further ease his fears, Remy did something that he had not been inclined to do since his revelation to Madeline.
Remy could never quite figure out why it was this man, this dying individual’s fear, had inspired him in such a way to reveal his true nature.
Holding the man’s hand tightly in his, Remy had dropped the human facade to reveal the being that he truly was, and again he had told him that no matter the outcome, he would be fine.
The homicide detective seemed to relax, all the tension leaving his body. A smile slowly formed on his paling features, as he looked up into the eyes of a servant of God.
“What a relief,” he’d whispered as his life force continued to ebb away. “This makes it easier.”
The eerie sounds of police and ambulance sirens filled the parking garage, their piercing wails urging him to hang on.
The dying man seemed to be at peace, and as his eyes began to close, his grip upon Remy’s hand weakening as he succumbed to unconsciousness, he spoke the words that could very well have been his last.
“I thought I was going to Hell.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The memory of how his friendship with Steven Mulvehill had been born was viciously snatched away and replaced by the painful reality of the moment, as Remy was startled back to consciousness.
He remembered the pulsing blue light of the Sentry’s power unleashed and the corridor turning to rubble around him.
He gasped, eyes snapping open, as he pushed himself up from where he lay, the horror of the current situation reminding him that the danger was still ridiculously high.
Looking about the darkened subchamber, he came to the realization that he was not alone. They squatted around him, the fallen that had survived the Nomads’ liberation, insanity and desperation burning in their once-divine eyes.
Seeing that he was now awake, they reached for him, spidery fingers eager to connect, to remind them of what had once been theirs. They were all around him, moving as one, drawn to his divinity.
Their hands were eager, desperate, clawing at his flesh, hungry to be as he was again. The touching soon went from cautious to demanding, jagged fingernails digging into his flesh as they sought to possess a piece of what they had lost to sin.
Sure that he was about to be torn apart, Remy cleared his mind, reveling in the power that was his to control. The Seraphim became aroused, and it flexed its Heavenly might. Remy’s flesh began to glow, the power of Heaven radiating outward. The fallen gasped, stumbling away from the divine light that emanated from his every pore.
But they were starving for Heavenly power, and soon surged at him again. Greedily they engulfed him, their filthy, emaciated bodies suffocating the light as they forced him down to the frozen ground with their rapacious mass.
He tried to fight, to push them away, but there were just too many. It was like attempting to hold back an ocean wave, and it wouldn’t be long before he was drowned in their hunger.
The Pitiless pistol roared. Remy knew the sound, the timbre of its voice.
“Get away from him,” a voice that he recognized as Madach’s yelled.
The fallen recoiled, allowing Remy to scramble to his feet. But his body still glowed with its Heavenly light, and the fallen angels could not help themselves, again surging toward him.
Madach aimed the pistol, firing into the advancing swarm. Remy watched them go down, one after another. At least ten of them had to die before the others got the idea, running off to hide in the deep shadows of the cavern, until their courage was again restoked by his divine light.
Madach looked about as good as Remy felt. He leaned awkwardly to one side, almost all exposed skin stained a horrible blackish red.
Remy was pretty sure he looked no better.
“Those things certainly do come in handy,” Remy said, pointing at the Pitiless weaponry still in Madach’s hand.
“Fire with fire,” the fallen angel said, turning slightly toward another tunnel at the far end of the vast subterranean chamber.
A succession of loud, nearly deafening pounding sounds drifted out from the tunnel mouth, sounds that suggested something very tough being broken into. This is what they had heard in the upper levels of the prison, what they had been drawn to.
“We need to go in there,” Madach said, pointing with the tip of the samurai sword he held.
Remy saw that the fallen were becoming brave again, the pathetic creatures coming out from hiding, their hands extended toward him like they were beggars on a street.
“Then, let’s go,” he said, being the first to move toward the cavern entrance. “But I’m going to need a weapon.”
They stood at the opening, Remy waiting to see if Madach would share his arsenal. If not, I suppose I can always use a heavy rock, Remy thought.
Madach hesitated, but then handed the Pitiless Colt over, turning the pistol around to hand it to Remy butt first.
The gun felt hot in his hand, and Remy let the images of past violence wash over him unhindered.
The earsplitting noise at the end of the tunnel continued, sounding more furious and frantic.
“Don’t want to jinx it, but we might not be too late,” he said, leading the way into the cavern.
“With the way my luck runs, we might want to hurry, then,” Madach said, tight at his back.
The cavern passage dipped down in a precarious slope, deeper and deeper into the innards of Hell.
In the distance there was a flash of light, the sharpness of the flare nearly blinding in the darkness of the cavern. Before each spark there came the distinctive clanging sound of metal striking something even harder.
They moved toward the flash, toward what they sensed to be their ultimate destination. The Seraphim was content in its natural state, eager for the conflict that it would soon be facing. Remy wasn’t sure if it would even be possible to repress the angelic nature again—to put it back inside its box. But that was a worry for another time, a worry that he would be lucky to have, because it would mean that he had managed to survive the impending confrontation.
Cautiously he and Madach emerged from the cavern passage out into the larger chamber, their eyes fixed upon the vision before them. The chamber was vast, its walls made from the same miles-thick icy substance found throughout the prison of Tartarus.
Only here it was melting.
It was like coming out into a torrential rainstorm, water from the melting ice raining down upon them from miles above. In the center of the vast water-soaked chamber there stood what could best be described as a sarcophagus. Remy had seen things similar in his extensive lifetime upon the planet, as well as in his many visits to Boston’s museums of science and fine arts. Only this had been built not to house the dead, but to imprison and punish the still living.
Remy couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He’d heard whispers of Lucifer’s pall but had never expected to see it. It was strangely beautiful to behold, the front of Lucifer’s place of confinement adorned with the intricate sculpture of a beautiful winged warrior clutching a flaming sword to its breast. Carved above the sculpture, written in the language of the Messengers, it read, HERE IS THE SON OF THE MORNING, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF THEM All, WHOSE BETRAYAL HAS SHAKEN THE PILLARS OF HEAVEN. MAY HE SOMEDAY LEARN THE ERROR OF HIS ACT.