Where Angels Fear to Tread

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Again Remy marveled at Methuselah’s stone body as he mixed one drink after another; his dexterity was truly amazing.

  The waitress had her drinks and was off again.

  “Sorry about that,” Methuselah said. “You were saying?”

  “I’m looking for information,” Remy stated flatly.

  Methuselah picked up the dusty Scotch bottle and offered him another, but Remy passed, placing his hand over the tumbler’s top.

  “I’m good.”

  “Maybe I can help,” the stone man said, placing the bottle back amongst many others behind the bar. “What are you looking for?”

  “It’s not much, but in this case I’m working, I’ve come across these strange marks . . . almost like a brand.”

  “What do they look like?” Methuselah asked.

  “Lips,” Remy stated. “It looks like these guys have been kissed by some pretty full lips that have left an indelible mark.”

  Remy stared at the silent bartender, attempting to read him, but as before, there was very little expression available on the stone face. He would have had better luck with one of the Easter Island heads.

  “I’ve got nothing,” Methuselah said finally, picking up the damp cloth and starting to wipe down the counter again.

  And that was when Remy heard the commotion.

  “You’d better go get your dog, Chandler,” Methuselah said, and Remy spun around on his stool to see that Marlowe had found his way into one of the more foreboding corners of the room, and was currently attempting to have a discussion with a demonic entity about its appetizer—it looked like one of those big fried onions.

  Of all the things in the bar, of course Marlowe had to bother that one.

  Demons were foul; there was just no other way to describe them.

  Knowledge of the dark entities was scarce, but some in the know believed they were a life-form that existed in the all-encompassing darkness before the Lord God turned on the lights, while others thought they were one of God’s failed experiments, something that went really, really wrong.

  Nonetheless, they existed, even after multiple attempts by various angelic hosts to wipe them out. And they waited in the shadows for their opportunity to bring darkness back to the world, in any form they could.

  Like this one, for example, Remy thought as he slid from his stool and moved past the tables and chairs to get to the scene. This one wants to cause problems by hurting my dog.

  Not a good idea.

  The demon had stood up from its chair, its pale, moist flesh glistening in the candlelight from the table. The creature was completely hairless and glared at Marlowe with eyes like two red LEDs adrift in twin pools of darkness. Its mouth was pulled back in a snarl that could have been disgust, or rage, and its sharp yellow teeth were as rude as the rest of it.

  Marlowe, on the other hand, was sitting before the demon’s table, looking as pretty as could be, tail wagging happily—the perfect example of a good dog who deserved a piece, or two, or three, of somebody’s onion appetizer. It was obvious that Marlowe really wasn’t picking up on the hostility.

  “Marlowe, no,” Remy commanded.

  The Labrador looked his way with that perfectly simple look, drool trailing from the sides of his grinning maw.

  “You know it’s not polite to beg,” Remy scolded.

  “Food,” the dog woofed excitedly, looking back at the demon still standing by its table.

  Pointed spines had begun to emerge from the demon’s pale flesh, their tips, dangerously sharp, dripping with moisture.

  “There’s no need for that,” Remy said to the demon, his voice booming.

  Methuselah’s became deathly quiet as all eyes turned to Remy and conversation stopped. Obviously they’d had no idea there would be entertainment this night.

  The demon cocked its head strangely, studying Remy. It had no nose, but Remy could see some form of a sensory organ, pulsing beneath the wet skin that was pulled tight across the angular skull of its horrible face.

  “You should pay better attention to your pet,” the demon said. Its voice sounded as pleasant as fingernails being dragged down a blackboard.

  “I know; I’m sorry about that,” Remy said with as much honesty as he could muster.

  The Seraphim was still awake, and it rose to the situation.

  “Sometimes his belly gets the better of him,” Remy said goodnaturedly. “We’re sorry to have disturbed your meal.”

  He was about to call Marlowe away again, but the demon had other things in mind.

  “This cur invaded my personal space,” it screeched, turning its attention back to Marlowe, who had remained sitting, still staring at the untouched fried onion in the middle of the table. “I am within my rights to harm it.”

  And then the demon did a very bad thing. It extended its long, bony index finger, one of the dripping poison quills pointed directly at Marlowe’s face.

  And for that, the Seraphim emerged.

  Remy’s body erupted in light, the human flesh that he wore on the verge of being shed. Remy could barely restrain the divine power that had bubbled to the surface of his humanity, ready to cast it aside and lay waste to this loathsome being.

  “Stay your hand, wretch,” the angel Remiel ordered, the power of his words and the radiance of his presence causing the demon to cry out in pain. It dropped to the floor of the tavern, averting its sensitive eyes from the light of Heaven.

  In the light cast by his angelic frame, Remy could see the reaction that his actions had caused. The patrons of Methuselah’s looked upon him with expressions of fear and awe, the glory of his form forcing the shadows from every nook and cranny, and filling them with the Almighty’s resplendent light.

  And then he saw something that didn’t seem to belong in a place such as this; in a far corner, now cleansed of concealing shadow, two fearsome angels of Heaven—of the Retriever host—tensed for conflict.

  They were clad in the awesome armor of their class, and all Remy could think of was a stealth bomber, ready to lay waste to an enemy and its territories. Their eyes were cold, and their exposed flesh resembled the surface of glacial ice.

  These were the personification of God’s intensity, His desire to reclaim any and all that had been taken from Him.

  Sensing the potential for escalating violence, Remy pulled back upon his holy essence, tucking it fitfully away before matters could get out of hand.

  His flesh tingled like the aftereffects of a severe sunburn, but his humanity remained intact.

  As his divine light was extinguished, the darkness wasted no time in rushing back to flood the secret corners, swallowing up the mysteries that had momentarily been exposed.

  Why are Retrievers here? Remy wondered, but that was something he would have to think about later, and in another place.

  He’d worn out his welcome at Methuselah’s.

  The patrons continued to watch him with equal parts fear and hostility. Marlowe, on the other hand, sat, completely unfazed by the activity around him, his eyes still fixed on the prize on the table.

  “You know dogs can’t have onions,” Remy said, grabbing his collar and pulling him away.

  The demon cowered on the floor, a foul-smelling fluid leaking from its moist, almost luminescent flesh.

  “Never threaten a man’s dog,” Remy said to the trembling thing. Then, holding on to Marlowe’s collar, Remy escorted the Labrador back to the bar where Methuselah watched.

  “Sorry about that,” Remy said, but the golem remained quiet. “What do I owe you for the Scotch?” Remy asked, using his free hand to fish his wallet from his back pocket.

  Methuselah held up his blocky hand. “It’s on the house,” he said with a rumble of stone against stone.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Remy said. He pulled a business card from his wallet and laid it on top of the superclean wooden bar.

  The golem reached for it, delicately picking it up.

  “If you should hear anything or think of anything about those marks I mentioned, give me a call.”

  Sliding the card i
nside his vest pocket, Methuselah nodded. “Will do.”

  Marlowe in tow, Remy started for the door, still feeling the eyes of the tavern upon him.

  The minotaur stood up from its chair by the door, giving Remy the hairy eyeball as it opened the door for them.

  “Sorry for the commotion,” Remy said again, loud enough for Methuselah and the remaining patrons to hear.

  And the minotaur slammed closed the heavy tavern door behind Remy and Marlowe with a good-riddance-to-bad-rubbish kind of grunt.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Delilah was exhausted from her travels, but she would not rest until the object was finally in her possession.

  And if she could not rest, neither would those who served her.

  Clifton Poole had been set up in his own room and given everything he could possibly need in order to lead them to her prize.

  So far his attempts at divining its location had not borne the kind of results she had hoped for, and she prayed this morning would be different.

  She strolled down the corridor of her new Boston home, high heels clicking upon the meticulously cared-for hardwood floors. She knew she was being followed and deliberately slowed her pace, then turned to confront a woman in a navy blue suit.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a powerful voice that reverberated down the sprawling corridor.

  “I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” the woman said, cowering beneath Delilah’s gaze. “I’m Ms. Burnett . . . Janice Burnett. . . . I . . . I brought you to this house.”

  Delilah smiled. “Of course, Ms. Burnett.”

  She looked up and down the corridor, at the beautiful religious murals painted on the walls. The estate, once owned by the Archdiocese of Boston, had been put on the market to help pay restitution to the victims of the recent clerical sex abuse scandals.

  Their loss was her gain.

  “You’ve served me well,” Delilah said to the young woman.

  Ms. Burnett looked as though the weight of the planet had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. “Oh, thank you,” she said, tears beginning to flow from her eyes. “You don’t know what that means to me.”

  But Delilah knew exactly what it meant; how special it was to serve her. All it had taken was one conversation with the Boston real estate agent for her to realize how much she had wanted to please Delilah.

  Ms. Burnett rushed down the corridor and dropped to her knees in front of Delilah. “I . . . I didn’t know if you were happy . . . if I had pleased you,” she said, reaching for Delilah’s ring-covered hand, lovingly kissing it.

  Delilah pulled her hand away, startling the woman.

  “I’m pleased,” she said. “For now.”

  Burnett stared up at her with wide, desperate eyes.

  “What else can I do for you?” she begged. “Ask me anything. . . . I’ll do anything to . . .”

  “Go,” Delilah said with a wave of her hand. “I have other concerns that demand my fullest attention.” She turned her back on the groveling woman and continued on down the hall to Poole’s room.

  She rapped loudly on his door with one of her rings. “Mr. Poole,” she called out, pulling a key from the pocket of her slacks.

  She opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room was dark, and it stank of stale sweat and bodily waste.

  Delilah fumbled on the wall to the right of the door, searching for the light switch. Finding it, she flipped it up, and a chandelier brilliantly illuminated the room.

  Poole screamed, his naked body appearing pale and malnourished in the light as he hunched over his work upon the floor.

  Had she given him permission to eat? Delilah couldn’t remember, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment.

  The Hound dipped his fingers into a bucket of his own waste and drew feverishly upon the hardwood floor.

  She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Mr. Poole,” she announced, trying not to breathe in the foul aroma.

  “I’m trying,” he screamed.

  His work was elaborate; a map, covering a good eighty percent of the floor inside the nearly barren room, and she was certain it would soon encompass even more than that.

  “But when I get close . . .”

  He started to scream, his body thrashing upon the floor as if electricity were being pumped through him. Then just as suddenly, he seemed to recover, crab walking across the floor to a stack of atlases and maps piled in the corner.

  The metal child vessel, which had once contained the object of her desire, sat there as well, arms outstretched.

  “Do you have anything, Mr. Poole?” she asked, fearing his answer.

  He ignored her, scratching at his filthy genitalia, before snatching a road map from the floor and unfolding it to its fullest. He practically lay upon it, pressing his face to the elaborate cartography, as he muttered unintelligibly.

  He reached out and dragged the empty vessel closer, holding it in his arms, as he studied the map, licking the metal container’s head with a thickly coated tongue.

  “Talk to me, Mr. Poole!” Delilah bellowed, flexing the muscles of her commanding ability.

  Poole recoiled as if slapped, then fell backward to the floor.

  She crossed the room, careful not to step upon the waste.

  “It knows we’re looking,” Poole rushed to explain. “It knows we’re looking and hides when I try to find it.” He grabbed the sides of his head in pain and slowly began to rock. “It’s putting . . . putting things inside me . . . inside my skull . . . trying to stop me. . . .”

  “But you won’t stop, will you, Mr. Poole?” Delilah asked him.

  “No,” he screamed, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “I have to find it . . . find it for you . . . so . . . so you’ll be happy.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  Delilah tried not to think about how close she had been. If only they had moved just a little bit faster, they would have found the father and child in the city, but now they had gone.

  And no one could tell her where they’d gone.

  “So, to keep me happy, you will continue to search. . . . You will not sleep; you will not eat. . . . You will not piss or shit. You will not stop for a second. Do you understand me, Mr. Poole?”

  The Hound twitched, trembling beneath her gaze.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” she asked with a predatory snarl.

  Poole flopped about, scrabbling across the filth-covered floor on his hands and feet as he resumed his search.

  Delilah strode from the room, locking the door behind her and turning to find Mathias waiting patiently.

  “I hope for your sake you don’t have any bad news,” she warned.

  Mathias averted his gaze. “No, my mistress, but I might have something you’ll find pleasing.”

  Delilah was curious.

  “Well?” she urged.

  “It may not be exactly what you’re looking for, but perhaps it could eventually bring us to that,” the mercenary said.

  “Get to the point, Mathias.”

  Mathias looked up, staring into her dark eyes.

  “The child is with her father,” he said. “He accompanied her to the hospital that morning.”

  She stepped closer, sensing something at the brink. “Get on with it,” she hissed, motioning with her hand.

  “The child is with the father,” Mathias repeated.

  Delilah loomed closer, her control nearly failing.

  “The father,” he said again, and she was about to reach out and pluck out his eyes when, suddenly, she understood what he was saying.

  “She came to the city with both parents,” Delilah said.

  “And according to Parsons, the mother was calling repeatedly, trying to find them.”

  “They may have contacted her,” Delilah said, trying to keep her excitement in check.

  “Perhaps,” Mathias said. “Who knows what we might learn if we were to speak to her?”

  Images of the lives she had led, of the loves she had had, flashed through Delilah’s mind. . . .

  “Find her,” she commanded.

&nbs
p; The images reminded her of what she could have again, what could still be, if only . . .

  “And bring her to me.”

  Marlowe was hungry, but then again, when wasn’t he?

  They’d managed to make it back from Methuselah’s pretty much unscathed, but with very little to show for their efforts.

  On the drive home, Remy tried to explain to the Labrador why it was a bad idea to try to get demons to give him food, but the dog just didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t everybody want to share their food with him? After all, he was Marlowe.

  Remy couldn’t argue with that kind of logic, so he let it drop.

  They found a parking space on Irving Street and returned to the brownstone just as the early risers were starting to make their way downtown.

  They were barely through the door when Marlowe demanded his breakfast, which he quickly scarfed down, followed by half an apple.

  And that finally left Remy free and clear to shower and get ready for the day.

  Methuselah’s had left him feeling grimy. It wasn’t the tavern per se, but what he had seen there, revealed when the shadows had been pulled away like a magician’s trick.

  Retrievers, and not the good, four-legged kind.

  God’s Retrievers.

  Not good at all. All he could imagine was that the situation between Heaven and the newly reconfigured Hell was starting to heat up.

  Clean and dressed, Remy headed back downstairs to find Marlowe fast asleep on the couch.

  It was beginning to feel a little muggy inside, the hint of higher temperatures to come, so he put the air conditioners on for his pal, then went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee for himself. He picked up his cell phone from the counter where he’d left it to charge and found he had missed a call from Father Coughlin.

  He hit REDIAL, and the old priest picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s Remy,” the angel said, taking his Little Britain mug from the dish rack and setting it down beside the coffee machine, which was still brewing.

  “And where were you at such an early hour?” the priest asked curiously. “Out fighting crime, were we?”