Where Angels Fear to Tread

  The child moved haltingly closer, tears streaming from her eyes as she looked upon her injured father. He was awakening; moaning aloud as his head thrashed from side to side.

  “Daddy,” she said as she reached out to him.

  Dagon could smell it on her; the blessed stink of a power he had longed for.

  The power of life. The power of creation.

  Weak beyond words, he laid his head down upon the parent’s chest, letting the rhythmic beating of the man’s heart escort him down the path of oblivion.

  “Don’t want to die,” he slurred, the blood leaking from his mouth staining the man’s shirt beneath his face.

  But it was too late for begging.

  Or was it?

  Finding a residual strength, he managed to open his remaining eye and saw that the girl child had come closer, standing over him as she reached down to her awakening father.

  Dagon could feel the power calling to him as it thrummed within the child’s body. His eye fixed upon her hand as it moved across his line of sight; the tiny blue vein in her wrist pulsing with the beat of her heart, her blood filled with the stuff of God.

  He did not know where he found the strength; some last bit of life’s flame about to go out, and to thus bring the darkness of oblivion. But Dagon used that fire, taking its rapidly denigrating power and using it to surge up toward the child’s wrist, and then sinking his hungry teeth into her tender flesh.

  Gouts of her blood filled his mouth as she thrashed, clawing at the skin of his face—at his remaining eye—as she tried to remove his hold upon her.

  But Dagon held fast, greedily drinking her blood; the child’s pathetic cries were drowned out by the roar of creation in his ears.

  Remy thanked Ashley’s mother and hung up his phone.

  He had to make sure Marlowe would be fed, watered, and walked. He was sure he’d hear about it from Marlowe when he returned, but at least his friend would be looked after.

  He saw Samson standing by himself, deep in thought, at the back of the property, smoking a cigarette.

  Remy approached, clearing his throat. It wasn’t wise to sneak up on a guy with superhuman strength. “You’re ready for this?” he asked.

  “I’m ready to go back in there and strangle the life from her,” Samson roared, nervously puffing away.

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  He grunted and continued to smoke.

  “We have to think about Zoe,” Remy said, attempting to justify what they were about to do. “She’s completely innocent in all of this.”

  “I understand that,” Samson said. “But I don’t trust Delilah. There’s shit she’s leaving out.”

  “Then we’ll have to be on our toes,” Remy added.

  Samson grunted again, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and sucking on the end as if there were no tomorrow. Maybe he knew something Remy didn’t.

  “A piece of creation,” the big man said, smoke billowing from his nose and mouth. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Remy thought for a moment, and the more he thought, the scarier it became. “It’s a piece of Him,” he said finally. “A piece of what makes Him God.”

  Samson laughed, but there was no humor in his expression. “Obviously it wasn’t a part He needed too badly.”

  “From what I can figure out, the Creator sort of exploded when He created the heaven and the earth . . . pieces of His divinity shaping existence as we know it.”

  “The big bang,” Samson said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Remy acknowledged. “And I guess there were some unused slivers of God’s big bang lying around just waiting to be found.”

  “Sparks from a fire,” Samson grumbled, trying to visualize what it was all about.

  The big man was quiet for a moment, thinking some more. “Do you think it’s wise for her to have this?” he asked, turning his milky eyes toward Remy.

  “No,” Remy answered. “Which is why we need to keep an eye on her and make sure she uses it for exactly what she said it was for.”

  “To die?”

  “You heard her,” Remy said.

  “I’ve heard her say a lot of things over the centuries,” Samson said. “She even said she loved me more than life itself, and we saw how that turned out.”

  Remy heard the sounds of heavy tires on gravel and walked toward the side of the house to see multiple vans pulling up in front. These would be their rides to the airport. “The vans are here,” he called over his shoulder.

  One of Samson’s offspring had appeared and was leading the large man back into the house.

  “Gonna need some help with the not-letting-her-out-of-our-sight business,” he said, pointing to his blind eyes.

  “You’ve got it,” Remy said, feeling the crawl of anticipation in his gut growing more prominent.

  Deryn held the back door open for Samson and his son, asking the strongman if he had any cigarettes to spare.

  She looked a little shell-shocked, but was holding up better than expected. It was one of the things Remy admired most about humanity—the ability to accept and adapt to the most insane situations.

  Deryn saw him and smiled as she lit up her cigarette.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  She nodded through a cloud of smoke as she shook out the match, letting it drop to the ground.

  “I’m going to get my daughter back,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You really shouldn’t be going,” Remy told her. “Let me handle it from here. I’ll bring Zoe back.”

  Deryn sucked on the end of her smoke.

  “Can’t do that,” she said. “Delilah says I have a connection to her, and you need me to find her. I have to go.”

  “I’m sure there are other ways we could—”

  “Delilah says I have to go,” Deryn interrupted forcefully.

  “I wouldn’t believe everything Delilah has to say.”

  “But I can’t afford not to believe her,” the woman explained. “I’ll do anything to get my daughter back.”

  “It might not be safe,” Remy said, knowing the words were useless, but he had to try.

  “Then I’ll just need to be extra careful,” she said as she finished her cigarette, not giving him the opportunity to attempt to convince her otherwise.

  And soon he was standing there alone with his thoughts, that awful feeling of dread anticipation in his gut.

  It was going to be there for a while.

  Poole had never imagined the power of a mother’s love.

  He barely thought of his own mother and, in fact, seldom thought of her as a mother at all; an incubator was more like it. It was as if she’d forgotten he even existed as soon as he was ejected from her icy womb.

  Poole’s first memories were indifference, annoyance, and disgust. He had never known his father. As a child, Poole had been left in the care of neighbors in the working-class English village, while his mother, whom he came to know as Eunice, worked two jobs—one at a textiles factory and the other at the local pub, where she had been a waitress.

  He guessed there was some form of attachment there, between him and her. She did provide him with food, and clothes and a roof over his head, but that pretty much had been it. As he’d grown older, they’d become more like roommates.

  By the time he was thirteen, his gift had kicked in, and being the thoughtful, independent child he had been shaped into, he set out on his own, using the unique abilities he’d been born with to make his fortune in the world.

  Sitting strapped into his seat aboard the private jet given to Delilah by one of her myriad and wealthy followers, Clifton Poole basked in the love of a mother for her child, the feelings left over from his bond with Deryn York, while wondering why his own mother had never loved him.

  He glanced over to the seat beside him, reaching across to make sure the seat belt was fastened tightly across the child-shaped metal statue. He’d grown quite attached to the vessel, and he wondered if his own love could ever be as strong as Deryn York’s.

  The container secured, Poole let his fingers again run over its smoot
h surface, closing his eyes to the images that flooded his mind.

  The power that Delilah had searched for had blocked his ability to locate it from every angle, but since the child’s mother had added her own special magick, he was able to see exactly where the power had gone.

  It was a marvelous feeling, traveling across thousands of miles without even leaving his seat, and he could not help himself from checking in on the child—and the power that resided within her—yet again.

  The last time he’d checked, Zoe had been asleep in her father’s lap, at some backwater location in West Virginia. Both he and the child’s mother had eventually been able to find it on the map, and this had made his mistress very happy.

  She’d even allowed him to have something to eat and to use the bathroom like a real person again. Life was good right now, and it was all because of a mother’s love.

  Poole felt the rush as he again traveled the path that the power had taken, zeroing in on the location of the child.

  And finding that he was being watched.

  The man gasped as yellow eyes studied him as if he were a bug crushed on a microscope slide. The power was in those eyes . . . those horrible eyes . . . and he tried to back away, to retreat to his body.

  But the eyes held him firm.

  Poole moaned and thrashed, hoping the others would come to his aid.

  What is this? a voice that caused his bowels to loosen asked. He could feel that voice inside his head now, rummaging around, searching for his identity. It ripped at his brain, tearing away dripping chunks of gray matter, and when it had finished, it started to laugh.

  It knew everything now.

  It knew they were coming.

  Poole squirmed in his seat, unable to open his eyes. He had to warn them . . . had to warn his mistress, but those eyes . . . those eyes would not let him go.

  The voice spoke again, like thunder reverberating through his skull. It told him they were more than welcome to try to take what was now his.

  They were welcome to try, but they would all die horribly in the process.

  Poole tried to tell the presence inside his head that he would do this—that he would pass on the warning—but the voice said he would rather deliver a warning of his own.

  An example of what they would be facing.

  And suddenly there was an entire beast inside his mind—a beast with fangs and claws, and an insatiable hunger for flesh and blood, and the human soul.

  The Boeing Business Jet flew along at thirty-two thousand feet as Remy sipped his soda water with lime. They’d been in the air a little more than an hour, and he figured they would be reaching their destination shortly.

  He looked around the cabin, strangely intrigued that Delilah could simply pick up the phone and have something like this at her disposal in a matter of minutes. He wondered how far her influence actually went; how many individuals had experienced her lips, and were now beholden to her in every way.

  The more he thought about this, the more he realized that Samson’s job was totally justified. Delilah was just too damn powerful to be allowed to live.

  But then again, she wanted to die, and if things went according to plan, that was exactly what would happen once Zoe was freed from Dagon and the Church of His Holy Abundance.

  If things were on the up-and-up.

  Remy glanced around to see Samson fast asleep. His kids were scattered around him, some also sleeping while others listened to iPods or played handheld video games.

  Samson didn’t trust the woman, and Remy could understand why. He really didn’t trust her either, but in order to find the child, he had to go along with the idea that what she was saying was true.

  But what if it isn’t? that nagging voice at the back of his mind asked.

  Remy unbuckled his seat belt and headed up closer to the front of the plane. He passed a sleepy Deryn York, and again wished she had listened to his warning. But then again, if it had been his child, would he have listened?

  Two of Delilah’s soulless thugs blocked his way.

  “I need to speak to her,” Remy said, attempting to keep his annoyance in check.

  “The mistress does not wish to be disturbed,” one of the two men blocking his way said. His voice was emotionless, like something spat out from a computer program.

  Remy could feel his Seraphim nature recoil, disgusted that something so empty and vacant as this man would be allowed to walk about freely. He hated to think what fate would have befallen the man—all of the men in Delilah’s service—if his true self were allowed to walk about freely.

  “I’m not going to tell you again,” Remy said. “I need to speak to Delilah.”

  The men stood their ground, and Remy felt his anger reach a critical point. He was just about to force his way through, when he heard a voice call out.

  “Let him pass,” Delilah called.

  The men obediently stepped aside, allowing him to walk down the aisle to where Delilah was sitting. Mathias stood beside her chair like a faithful guard dog.

  “I want to speak to you, alone,” Remy said to her, but his eyes were locked on Mathias.

  “What you say to her, you can say to me,” the soulless man answered.

  “Boys, boys,” Delilah said, holding a flute of champagne. “There’s no need for these displays of aggression. We’re all on the same side.

  “Very well.” She sighed. “Mathias, please, let us be for a bit.”

  The man looked hurt.

  “Be a dear and listen,” she added, a touch of venom in her words.

  Begrudgingly, Mathias agreed, leaving the section at the front of the plane to join the others in Delilah’s thrall.

  “Would you like some champagne?” she asked Remy as he took the seat across from her.

  “No, thank you.”

  “So, what do you wish to talk to me about?” she asked, eyeing him over the top of her glass as she took another sip.

  Remy paused, feeling the raw sensuality of a seductress, knowing that if he were truly human, he would have had no power against someone like her.

  “I want to be certain we understand each other,” he said finally, his voice soft, without a hint of emotion.

  She smiled that extra-wide smile that made him feel uneasy.

  “Of course we understand each other,” she said, nibbling on the edge of her glass. “We’re all in this together. By retrieving the child, we all get what we want: You help a child return to her loving parent, and I gain access to an ancient power that will finally release me from my curse.”

  She laughed before having some more of her drink.

  “Even that muscle-bound buffoon and his army of urchins get what they want when I’m finally allowed to die,” she said, gesturing with her nearly empty glass.

  Delilah giggled as she removed the bottle from the ice pail and poured herself another glass. “A shining example of cooperation,” she said, placing the almost-empty bottle back where she’d found it, and leaning back in her seat. “Does that make you feel better, Remy?” she asked.

  Remy let the Seraphim show its face. He felt his eyes become like fire, and his flesh begin to radiate light and heat.

  “I know what you are,” he said, his voice losing any trace of humanity. “If you should betray me . . . or if any harm should come to the child, her mother, or my companions, I will show you what it truly means to suffer, and there will be nothing in Heaven or on Earth that will release you from this torture.”

  He drew back upon the Seraphim, putting it back where it belonged. “I hope we understand each other,” Remy said, getting up.

  Delilah looked about to say something, but she was interrupted by the most unholy of sounds: a scream that had traveled from the far end of the plane to the front.

  Remy reacted at once, dashing down the aisle, pushing past the soulless, as well as past Samson’s children, who had risen from their seats but had gone no farther to inspect.

  Deryn’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm as he passed.

  “That’s Poole,” she said, staring down the aisl
e where the horrible sound had originated.

  Remy had seen the man briefly. He had appeared quite crazy as he had boarded the plane, clutching some kind of metal statue in the shape of an infant child. He’d gone directly to the very last row of the private jet to sit alone.

  “Stay here,” Remy told Deryn, removing her hand from his arm.

  He could see the top of Poole’s head sticking up above the seat, his wispy hair moving in the breeze of the circulating air.

  With great trepidation he came around the side of the seat, and was horrified at what he found.

  Poole sat perfectly rigid, still strapped into his seat. He was covered in blood, his clothes torn to shreds, as was his flesh. His stomach had been ripped open, and his insides had spilled out onto the floor to pool at his feet. Remy leaned into the larger of the wounds, examining the broken rib cage, and how the direction of the shattered bones appeared to be pointing outward.

  As if something had punched its way out from the inside.

  Dagon burned with the fires of creation, and it was good.

  The ancient deity could feel his decaying body rebuilding itself, discarding the human form that had been more like a prison, and replacing it with something so much better—something beautiful, divine.

  With trembling fingers, Dagon reached up and pulled away the rotting flesh to reveal golden-scaled skin beneath. The old flesh had turned gelatinous, continuing to decay in his very grasp. The god threw handfuls of the foul waste onto the floor; tearing more and more of the humanity he had worn away to reveal what he was always supposed to be.

  What he dreamed he’d be.

  The child sat beside her still-unconscious father, rocking from side to side and muttering unintelligibly. Dagon could still sense the raw power churning inside her and was tempted to feed upon her some more, but decided against it.

  The totality of the power that existed within this child could very well be too great even for one such as Dagon to contain. But he would keep her as his own, eventually taming the unbridled God-power that lived within her to bend to his desires.