Where Angels Fear to Tread

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “And the mark?” Remy asked.

  “Now, that’s the interesting part,” Samson said. “It seems that after God cursed her, she went through a bit of a change. Delilah became less human and more demonic with each passing century. She changed physically. She had the ability to command the weak-willed, and to feed off the souls of her victims. She became a succubus.”

  “She leaves her mark when she feeds on their souls,” Remy said, finally understanding.

  “The ultimate hickey,” Marko said.

  “So you’re still looking for her?” Remy asked.

  The waitress came back into the room with the bagged leftovers, asking if anybody wanted coffee or dessert. Marko and Carla ordered the fried ice cream, while Samson ordered another beer and Remy asked for a cup of tea.

  “I swore to God that I would serve Him for as long as He wanted,” Samson said. “And my job is to find that soul-sucking bitch and put her out of His misery.”

  “All this time though, and you still haven’t found her?”

  “The bitch goes dormant,” the strongman explained. “As if she’s ceased to exist. A hundred years have been known to go by until she starts to use her twisted gifts again. I can feel it in my bones; makes them ache something awful. And I’ve been feeling pretty awful of late.”

  The waitress brought the desserts and drinks, and asked if they’d like anything else.

  They all said no and thanked her. She told them she’d be back shortly with the check.

  “She’s been active all right,” Remy said as he dunked the tea bag in his mug of hot water.

  “And now you know why we picked you up,” Samson said, pointing at Remy with his beer bottle. “So, that case you’re working on, give me some details.”

  “It’s a missing person’s case,” Remy said as he brought the mug of tea to his mouth. He took a sip of the hot liquid. “A six-year-old child. And it seems as though Delilah might be looking for her as well.”

  “She’s been known to steal a few in her travels,” Samson explained. “Raises them as her own; they grow up to serve her and all that. Of course, she feeds on their souls to make them more obedient.”

  Remy shook his head as he held on to his mug, warming his hands. “Seems a little more complicated than that. I think the child is gifted.”

  “What, she can spell well or do math problems off the top of her head?”

  “No, the I-think-she-can-see-the-future kind of gifted.”

  “That could be useful,” Carla said, licking her spoon clean of ice cream.

  “But what would she need that for?” Samson asked. “There are seers all over the planet. What makes this kid so fucking special that it’s brought her out of hiding?”

  “I guess that’s the million-dollar question,” Remy said, sipping his tea. “I’m not sure if this means anything or not, but both Mom and Dad were once involved with a cult called the Church of Dagon.”

  “Dagon?” Samson asked, blind eyes squinting. “The Philistines worshipped a god named Dagon. Matter of fact, it was a Dagon temple I brought down on top of their worthless heads.”

  “The parents were supposed to provide a host body for Dagon in the form of their unborn child, but the ATF saw things a bit differently and broke up the party before the old god could take up residence.”

  The waitress brought the check on a small plastic tray and left it by Samson’s right hand.

  Remy reached for it, but Samson swatted his hand away.

  “I got this,” he said. “Marko, take care of this and I’ll pay you back.”

  Marko laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said as he took the check from his father.

  “Disrespectful punk,” Samson growled.

  “So do you think there’s some kind of connection between this church business and Delilah?” Remy asked.

  “If there is, I can’t see it, pardon the pun,” the blind man said with a chuckle. “But it’s good info, just in case.”

  “Delilah’s goon squad took my client,” Remy said. “I need to find her yesterday.”

  Samson nodded in agreement. “We’ll keep our ears open. If we hear anything, you’ll be the first person we call.”

  “Thanks,” Remy said. “And thanks for dinner.”

  “No problem,” the big man said. “Just remember to keep us in the loop if you should come across any promising leads.”

  “Will do,” Remy told him.

  Carla and Marko got up to pay the check and have another cigarette, leaving Samson and Remy to themselves again. The room was silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

  “Married?” Remy asked, breaking the quiet.

  “Who, me?” Samson said.

  “Yeah, I thought with the kids, maybe . . .”

  The big man chuckled. “After what I went through? I’d never trust another one of them. I’ll fuck ’em, but I won’t marry ’em.”

  He got a good laugh out of that, but Remy could sense a certain sadness in the man’s words.

  “Do you still love her?” Remy asked him.

  Samson went stiff, his last beer almost to his mouth. “I should smash your fucking angel face in,” he said with an animalistic growl.

  “Answer the question . . . truthfully.”

  Samson downed the remainder of his beer, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Yeah, I love her.” He scowled. “I love her enough to want to strangle the life from her body with my bare hands. If that’s not love, I don’t know what the fuck is.”

  Marko and Carla dropped Remy back at the Nightingale Motor Lodge to pick up his car. They’d driven by the side of the building for a look, only to find the area cordoned off with wooden horses, the hole in the wall covered with sheets of opaque plastic that seemed to breathe in and out like some kind of gigantic, artificial lung.

  Samson’s kids got quite a kick out of the damage they’d caused.

  They left Remy at his car, reminding him to give them a call if he should hear anything about where Delilah might be holed up.

  The ride home was uneventful; the radio tuned to some talk show that he wasn’t really listening to. His brain was caught in a loop, turning what few facts he had round and round inside his head.

  Parking was particularly bad, so he was forced to park on Cambridge Street, and walk all the way up the hill, to his house on Pinckney Street.

  Remy let himself into the brownstone to the sound of the most ferocious dog in the world. Marlowe barked like crazy, bounding from the living room to greet him at the door.

  From the ruckus he was making, Remy knew Ashley was still there, and Marlowe was protecting her.

  “Hey, Ash,” Remy said as he came in, closing the door behind him. “Sorry I’m so late.”

  He found Ashley sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, her schoolbooks spread out all around her.

  “Hey, Remy,” she said sleepily.

  “Were you working or dozing?” Remy asked, standing in the doorway.

  “A little of both really,” she said. The television was on, and she grabbed the remote to shut it off.

  He went into the kitchen, Marlowe at his heels. “Did Ashley let you out?” he asked.

  “No,” the dog told him.

  Remy opened the door and let Marlowe out into the backyard.

  “I just let him out,” Ashley bellowed from the living room.

  “He told me you didn’t,” Remy said.

  “Well, he’s a big fat liar then,” she said.

  “How dare you call my faithful canine companion a liar,” Remy said, opening the screen door to let the dog back inside. “I bet she hasn’t given you any snack either,” he addressed the Labrador, knowing full well she probably had.

  “No snack,” Marlowe said, sitting down at Remy’s feet, his tail sweeping the floor.

  Remy got a few dog cookies from a monkey cookie jar on the counter.

  “He’s had a bunch of treats too,” Ashley called out again.

  “I know she lies,” Remy whispered loud enough for Ashley to hear as he gave Marlowe two cookies, which he promptly inhaled.

  “Lies,” Marlowe agreed, hoping Remy w
ould give him some more.

  “That’s enough for now, buddy,” Remy said, reaching out to pat the dog’s square head.

  “All right, I’m getting out of here,” Ashley said sleepily, standing in the doorway, her overstuffed book bag slung over her shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Remy told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. Removing two twenties, he gave them to her. “Here ya go.”

  “What’s that for?” she asked with a scowl, not taking what was offered.

  “Your pay,” he said. “Take it.”

  “No thanks,” she said, walking to the door. “This wasn’t an official gig,” she told him.

  “I’ll catch you later then,” he said.

  “You do that,” she agreed, giving him a smile that he was sure melted teenage boys’ hearts all over Boston.

  She was opening the door when she stopped.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey what?” Remy answered, about to make a pot of coffee.

  “Who’s the artist?” she asked, and gestured toward the living room.

  He remembered he’d been going over Zoe’s drawings last night and had left them out.

  “A little girl who’s gone missing,” Remy said. “She’s pretty good, eh?”

  “Pretty freaky,” Ashley stated. “I can’t believe some of the stuff she drew.”

  “Anything particularly freaky?” he asked.

  “The one of that hand thing,” she said. Ashley dropped her bag at the door and went back to the living room. Remy and Marlowe followed her.

  She had picked up the pieces of paper and was going through them. “When I first saw the drawing, I couldn’t believe it, y’know? Why would a little kid be drawing something like that?”

  Finding the drawing, she handed it to Remy. The picture was of what looked like a hand, with a stick, or nail, going through the center, blood dripping down the wrist from the entry point.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “What, you don’t?” she asked. “Don’t tell me there’s something I know that you don’t?”

  “Keep this up and I’ll never call you again at a moment’s notice to take care of my dog,” he said in mock seriousness.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler, sir; I’ll be good.”

  They laughed, then turned their attention back to the drawing.

  “Seriously, what is it?” Remy asked.

  “It’s a statue out in front of the old Boston archbishop’s mansion in Brighton,” she explained. “When Mom was working for Catholic Charities, she used to take me there for special meetings and luncheons and stuff, and I used to see this creepy statue right out in front of the building. I think it’s supposed to be Jesus’ hand or something like that.”

  Remy continued to stare, ideas starting to formulate.

  “I think the church is supposed to be selling the building to Boston College,” she continued.

  “I think you’re right,” Remy said.

  “All right, I’m leaving,” she said, walking to the door again.

  Remy said nothing and did not move.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said sarcastically, opening the door and hauling herself and the heavy book bag out into the hall. “I can get the door and this two-ton book bag perfectly fine all by myself.”

  “Take it easy,” he said, responding to the teenager on the most rudimentary level.

  The detective’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Why would she have drawn this, Marlowe?” he asked.

  The dog had climbed up onto the couch and was watching him.

  “Why this?” he asked. “She must’ve seen it,” he said. “It must mean something if she drew it.”

  The Labrador lowered his face between his paws and sighed. He wasn’t at all interested in anything Remy had to say, not unless it had something to do with food, or a nighttime walk.

  He’d left his cell on the kitchen table and went for it. From a wrinkled piece of napkin scrawled on at the China Lion, Remy read and punched in the number Samson had given him. It rang three times before being answered.

  “Yeah,” said a distinctly female voice.

  “Carla?” Remy asked.

  “No, this is Carol.”

  “Is Samson there?” Remy asked, concerned that he might have the wrong number.

  “Yeah, wait a second,” Carol said. A hand was placed over the phone, and he heard the girl call for her dad.

  Another kid? Remy mused as he waited.

  He paced around the kitchen, listening to the vague sounds from the other end. He could hear scuffling and the distant sound of music, something old, like big band music.

  “Yeah?” Samson boomed.

  Remy held the phone slightly away from his ear.

  “It’s Remy.”

  “Miss me already?” the old man asked, and laughed a rumbling laugh.

  “Sure, that’s it,” Remy said. “I think I might have something.”

  The voice on the other end became suddenly serious.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Think I might have a location . . . the old archbishop’s mansion in Brighton.”

  “And what makes you think this?” Samson asked curiously.

  Remy had again walked into the living room, and was staring down at the drawing of an impaled and bleeding hand.

  “Let’s just say my source is pretty good.”

  The old man was silent for a bit, and Remy was about to ask if he was still there, when he spoke.

  “We should probably move on this pretty quick,” he said. “Delilah is not the nicest of people . . . if you could even call her people anymore. The longer your client is with her, the smaller her chances are of . . .”

  “Why don’t we meet in about an hour?” Remy said. “There’s something I need to do before we do this.”

  “An hour it is,” Samson said. “Just want you to know if this is what we think it might be, it isn’t going to be a walk in the park. There are a lot of people willing to die for that bitch.”

  The ancient warrior’s words slowly sank in.

  “I understand,” Remy told him. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  There was nothing more to say, and the phone went quiet in his hand.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Marlowe was awake.

  Remy had hoped to sneak out, but he should have known that was asking a little too much.

  “I have to go out for a while,” he told the animal, who was sitting at attention on the couch where mere moments before he had been sound asleep.

  “Where? ” the Labrador asked, his head cocked to one side.

  “To work,” Remy said.

  “Go with? ” Marlowe asked, getting down from the couch and stretching.

  “Not this time, pal.”

  The dog walked over and stared up at him. His tail began to wag.

  “Go with? ” he asked again.

  Remy didn’t have time for this. “You heard what I said. Stop being a brat.”

  “No brat,” Marlowe grumbled, insulted.

  “Yes, you’re being a brat,” Remy told him.

  The dog lowered his tail and slumped back toward the couch, lying down beside it, his face buried between his two front paws. He was playing the part of the saddest dog in the world, and Remy truly believed an Oscar might actually be in Marlowe’s future.

  “What’s wrong?” Remy asked.

  “Sad.” The Labrador refused to look at him.

  “I’m very sorry you’re sad, but I need to go.” Remy went to the front door, feeling Marlowe’s eyes on his back. And he couldn’t stand it.

  “I think I know what might make you less sad,” he said, turning at the door and seeing the dog raise his head inquisitively.

  Remy gestured for Marlowe to follow him to the kitchen and knelt down beside one of the lower cabinets. The dog had already figured out what was up, and he stood beside Remy, panting madly while his tail wagged furiously.

  Remy reached into a bag inside the cabinet and pulled out one of Marlowe’s favorite treats—a pig’s ear. Madeline had always thought the greasy, rawhide delicacies were disgusting, but Marlowe lo
ved them more than almost anything, and if something was to distract him from Remy’s leaving, it would be this.

  Marlowe was practically vibrating with excitement as Remy held out the pig’s ear. “Will this make you happy?”

  “Yes,” he barked, snatching the treat and running off to the living room floor.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Remy called out, the sound of powerful jaws crunching on smoked cartilage escorting him out the door.

  He walked back down the hill to Cambridge Street, grabbed his car, and drove up Charles Street on his way to Newbury. He had to pay a visit to Francis’ place again.

  There were certain things—certain dangerous things—that might be needed tonight, and he could think of only one place where they would be readily available to him.

  He found a spot on the upper end of Commonwealth and jogged around the corner to the brownstone. Letting himself inside, he was again aware of the sad silence of the place and thought of his friend.

  When Francis wasn’t guarding one of the passages to the Hell prison of Tartarus, he was earning a living as one of this world’s most deadly assassins. Working within the confines of his own strange moral code, he would kill for the highest bidder in order to afford one of the only things that made the exiled former Guardian angel truly happy.

  Weapons.

  He had a particular fondness for medieval weaponry, but anything he could use to end the life of some loathsome undesirable, for a ridiculous amount of money, was cool by him.

  Remy unlocked the door to Francis’ apartment and descended, going directly to the wardrobe where he’d found the key the other night.

  He didn’t want anything too obvious, so the swords and battle-axes probably weren’t going to do the trick. But then he found it, in a velvet-lined drawer—a military Colt 45 Automatic. He hefted the heavy black weapon; it would serve him just fine. He found a shoulder holster and helped himself to that as well.

  Remy then searched for some proper ammunition. Normal bullets were usually enough, but tonight, he would need something with a little more bite, especially if he intended to fight a soulless legion and Delilah herself.