In the House of the Wicked by Thomas E. Sniegoski Page B

crouched down, preparing to take flight, but there was a sudden weight on his back and he realized that the man from the porch had joined the fray. The combined weights of the five attackers brought him to his knees on the dusty ground as even more of his energy was siphoned away. Remy fought to stand, but was finding it hard to even remain conscious.
    Then one by one the creatures released their grips. Remy watched as they absorbed the flames of Heaven, leaving behind creatures burned and blackened, with not even a hint of the mask of humanity they’d once worn.
    The one from the porch was the least damaged of the five, his clothing singed and his flesh burned a red so deep that it was almost purple.
    “Vessels, return home with what you’ve collected,” he instructed, and the charred creatures immediately formed a line and marched toward what was left of the old barn, and disappeared inside.
    Remy looked away from the barn and focused on the man who still loomed above him. “What are you?” he managed.
    “Very, very hungry,” the creature said, reaching down to take the angel’s face in his hands.
    The pain was incredible, but Remy was too weak to cry out as his life force was slowly drained away.
    For as far as he could see, the golden fields of Heaven were buried beneath the bodies of his fallen brethren.
    Yet still they came at him.
    He was tired and did not want to fight anymore, but the angel Remiel continued to defend his Lord God against those who had chosen to stand with the Morningstar.
    Not long ago they had been one family, and now they were enemies. They descended upon him, wings pounding the air as they screamed for his death, their fiery blades eager to drink deeply of his Seraphim blood. Remiel tried not to look at them, tried not to see which former brother desired to take his life.
    But it was an impossible task. The art of warfare, of violence and death, was such a personal thing.
    He struck them down, his brothers, one after another. And as each body fell, its blood seeping into the rich soil of Heaven, tainting with a hint of scarlet the few yellow blades of grass that managed to reach up from between the corpses of the vanquished, Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim cried out to his Lord God that he could do this no more.
    Yet still they came.
    And still he fought.
    Remy awoke to the sounds of clattering dishware.
    Cautiously, he opened his eyes, not wanting to make it known that he had returned from unconsciousness as he gathered his strength and surveyed his surroundings.
    He was inside the farmhouse, lying in the center of a wooden table. The creature that only wore the guise of a man moved around the table, setting out dust-covered plates and cups, muttering to himself.
    “It’ll be just like old times,” he said, placing a broken cup next to the jagged half of a plate. “A real family dinner. Just like I remember.” He stopped, his bulging eyes scanning the settings. “But…what do I remember?” He rubbed a burned hand across his forehead, as if he had an excruciating headache.
    “They’re not yours,” he said bitterly. “They belong to somebody else.”
    “They are mine!” he screamed, grabbing a coffee cup and smashing it to the floor. “I collected them and now they belong to me!”
    He leaned against the table, breathing heavily.
    “All right, then.” He took a deep breath and stood straight, adjusting the neck of his shirt as if he were wearing a tie. “Let’s just sit down and have a nice dinner, without the drama.”
    Pulling out a chair, the man sat down and made himself comfortable. “Fine by me,” he muttered. He picked up an oily rag and laid it across his lap. “I’m absolutely famished.”
    He reached across the table to lay his hand upon Remy.
    “Enough,” Remy cried, coming suddenly to life. He captured the man’s wrist in one hand and with the other grabbed a knife from the table, infusing it with the intensity of Heaven’s fire. He pulled the man