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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—”
Francis’ eyes opened wide, a bloody hand reaching out to grab hold of Remy’s shoulder. “They have the Pitiless, Rem,” he croaked.
Remy nodded. “I know that; it’s part of the reason I’m here. They’re going to try and use the weapons to set him free… the Morningstar.”
Francis swallowed hard, closing his eyes. “Fucking thought so,” he hissed, slowly shaking his head. “Idiots.”
He shifted his weight, slowly bringing up his other hand—still holding the gun. “Managed to drop one of the hoodies with this,” Francis said, poking fun at the Nomads’ attire.
Remy looked at the weapon, knowing at once what it was. The Pitiless pistol shone seductively in the muted light of Hell.
“Nice gun,” Francis croaked. “I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for this.”
They were both looking at the old-fashioned Colt Peacemaker, mesmerized by the stories that it whispered, the many lives it had taken. When it had left Heaven, it was nothing more than a shapeless blob of Heavenly matter, falling through the universe to Earth, where it nestled—resting—until it was mined from the earth and processed, found by a master craftsman and shaped into something with the mastery over death.
The last times the Pitiless Colt was fired flashed within their minds. Remy saw it all play out, Francis, his clothing torn, covered in the gore of his enemies, attacking the Nomad who wielded the weapon—disarming him bloodily—and using the pistol to shoot out both the angel’s eyes. Energized by the weapon in his possession, he continued to kill, the Peacemaker shaped from the power of the Morningstar giving him the strength to vanquish foe after foe.
“It wears you out after a while,” Francis said, interrupting the violent scenes playing inside Remy’s mind. “Inspires you to kill until you just don’t have the strength anymore.”
Francis laughed, pushing the weapon toward him.
“It wants to go to you now.”
“Hold on to it,” Remy told him. “Defend yourself until I get back.”
The Guardian shook his head. “No,” he stated flatly. “I’m done.”
“Don’t talk like that. Keep the gun, use it if necessary, and I’ll be back to take you out of here just as soon as—”
“I said I’m done,” Francis said, silencing him with an icy stare. “And you don’t have a chance of doing anything against the Nomads if you don’t have something of equal strength.”
He took Remy’s hand and forced the pistol into it. “You need this if you’re going to do what you have to do.”
Remy’s mind was immediately flooded with the images of those slain by bullets spat from the gun throughout the years as his hand wrapped around the sandalwood grip.
“That’s it,” Francis said with a sigh, his body growing limp. “Time to go.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Remy barked angrily, his aggression stimulated by the weapon in his hand.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” the Guardian asked, and started to laugh, which turned into a nasty, wet-sounding cough.
“You’ve survived worse; you’re going to be fine,” Remy stated. He found himself distracted by the gun in his hand, the urge to kill stronger than he’d ever experienced before.
“I did it, you know,” Francis stated.
Remy looked away from the gun, not sure what his friend was talking about. “You did what?”
“I revealed myself,” he said, a limp hand rising to his mouth to wipe some blood away.
Remy couldn’t resist. “And did the grown-ups at the play-ground call the police?”
Francis laughed again, wincing in pain. “Asshole,” he managed, in between coughing spasms. “I showed myself to Linda… the waitress at the Piazza.”
Remy found himself smiling. “Wow, what moment of weakness inspired that?”
Francis closed his eyes. “Something in the air, I guess,” he said. The Guardian’s voice seemed to be getting weaker. “There came a moment when I knew I should do it… or I’d never get the chance.”
“Something to hold on for,” Remy said to him.
“No, something to do before it was over.”
“I told you not to talk like that.”
“And when did I ever listen to you?” Francis asked. “You should really think about getting in there.” He motioned limply with his bloody hand toward Tartarus behind them. “Not sure what it’s going to take to set the asshole free.”