Where Angels Fear to Tread

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Carl was bleeding from many places as he maneuvered himself between his attacker and the child, who was cradling his dying wife.

  Delilah was growing impatient, wishing the two would just kill each other and be done with it as she glared at her prize. She began to move around the men, as they continued their dance of death, moving closer to her objective.

  If you want something done right . . .

  She was close enough to speak to the child.

  “Zoe,” Delilah whispered, flexing the power of her voice. “Zoe, I was a friend of your mother’s.”

  The child didn’t seem to hear, hugging her mother and kissing her face and the top of her head, telling her over and over she was not dead.

  “Zoe,” Delilah said, trying again, flexing her vocal muscle.

  This time it worked, and she caught the child’s attention. Zoe looked up, her face flushed scarlet, her eyes swollen with tears.

  “Come with me, child,” Delilah said, holding out a hand. “I’ll take you somewhere you’ll be safe.”

  And as the words left her, Mathias screamed, lunging at Zoe’s father. The two stumbled backward, crashing into the classroom desks that had been pushed to the side of the room.

  The screams were wild, inhuman, like two savage beasts.

  Zoe became distracted, staring in terror at the battle being waged across the room from her.

  “Zoe,” Delilah demanded, cautiously moving closer.

  The child’s attention snapped back to her.

  “Take my hand, and everything will be all right,” Delilah said as she willed the child to her.

  Zoe looked about to do as Delilah wanted, when the damnable Deryn York fitfully twitched and let out a guttural moan.

  Delilah rolled her eyes, furious that the bitch hadn’t yet died.

  Zoe’s attention was back upon her mother.

  “The specialness says I can fix her,” Zoe said, patting her mother’s hair.

  “Perhaps we can,” Delilah said, “but you’re going to need to come with me before . . .”

  The men thrashed upon the ground in an expanding puddle of gore. Whose blood it was exactly was not known, but Delilah guessed it was likely from them both.

  “It says I have to take it back . . . take it back from the monster,” the little girl squeaked, obviously afraid.

  “Then let me help you,” Delilah said. She’d dropped to her knees, sliding closer to the girl.

  Close enough to grab her.

  Delilah reached out, taking hold of Zoe’s wrist and attempting to draw her near. She couldn’t help herself, being this close to the force that would free her from her punishment and allow her to shape the world as she saw fit.

  “You’re mine now,” the woman said.

  Zoe’s eyes grew wide, and a light began to fill them, growing so intense that it illuminated the child’s entire head, making it appear on fire from the inside.

  “I’ve got to take it back,” she said in a voice no longer her own. “It must be whole again.”

  And there came a deafening silence, followed by a roar so loud that it could have been heard the day the universe was created.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Even at the height of his power, Dagon had never felt like this.

  The power of creation flowed through his veins, charging each and every muscle in his body with the power to transform the world.

  It was what he’d always wanted; to take the world and bend it to its knees and make it learn who was its true master.

  The old god had returned, filled with vim and vigor, and ready to challenge any and all for the domination of all things.

  This was what he had been created to do, and soon the people of the world would awaken from their sleep, his name upon their lips.

  Dagon.

  But first he would have a snack, feasting upon the flesh and blood of one of Heaven’s born.

  Dagon found this one squirming in his grasp to escape, curious.

  He wore the form of a mortal, but deep inside, locked and hidden away, was the power of Heaven.

  Curious, yes, but not curious enough to stop him from dining upon the holy flesh of one of the Christian God’s soldiers.

  He brought the squirming angel closer, imagining what the taste of his flesh would be like. Sweet, he guessed, opening his mouth wide so he could bite. Dagon could smell the blood; he could feel the life and the power pulsing through the man’s body.

  This will be a meal to remember, he thought as his jagged teeth sank into the man’s throat.

  And his mouth was filled with the blood of angels.

  As much as he struggled, Remy could not free himself from the ancient god’s clutches, but it did not stop him from trying.

  It was all that he had now, the struggle . . . the fight.

  All that he’d had for most of his existence.

  He was created as a soldier to the Lord God, serving the Almighty in every manner, but it had become too much, and he had walked away. From one battle to the next; abandoning his true self, to wear the guise of humanity.

  Every day was a battle, but every day, as he moved closer and closer to gaining that spark of humanity, he realized it was a battle worth fighting.

  The memory of Madeline flashed before his eyes; the true prize to it all. Without her in his life, he would have attained nothing.

  She showed him what it was all about; to embrace his new-found humanity, while helping him to accept what he truly was.

  “You can’t stop being what you are,” she used to tell him. “It’ ll eventually kill you to deny it.”

  He knew she was right. . . . She was almost always right, and he begrudgingly accepted his nature. But it was his humanity, no matter how artificial, that he clung to the most.

  Remy loved to be human, there was no doubt about it, but there were times—times like this—when being cruel, and a powerfully inhuman bastard, was just what the doctor ordered.

  But there were no doctors handy; only the hot, rotting breath of a revitalized deity as his teeth drew closer.

  Remy was thinking of Zoe and how he was going to be breaking his promise to her mother that he would find her.

  He was thinking how sorry he was, when the teeth of Dagon bit down upon his neck.

  A scream—and blood—bubbled up in his throat.

  The blood rushed into Dagon’s mouth, forcing its way down his eager throat.

  And it began to burn.

  At first he had no idea what was happening, the pain unlike anything he had experienced before.

  Dagon tossed his prey aside, as he came to the fearful realization that he’d been abandoned; that the power of God had left him.

  No, it had been stolen.

  The Seraphim was free.

  Remy had no idea what had happened, knowing only that the power of Heaven that he hid from the world was free, and there was no holding it back.

  The Seraphim burned in its rage, shucking off Remy’s disguise of humanity to clothe itself in the armor of fire and fury.

  For the moment, Remy was gone, replaced by the angel Remiel. Placing a hand that burned like the sun against his throat, he closed the oozing bite with a hiss and turned his attention to the being that roused his anger.

  “Dagon!” the Seraphim bellowed, as his wings of gold unfurled and he took to the air in pursuit of his foe.

  The deity stumbled across the church grounds, the blood of the angel still eating away at his flesh—his glorious new flesh—like the most corrosive of acids.

  The dead he had raised still walked, running by his side like a pack of obedient dogs, eager to please.

  Dagon heard the sound of pounding wings behind him, and knew he was being stalked from the air. He stopped, turning to see the fiery form as it dropped from the early-morning sky. The angel landed in a crouch, his wings slowly fanning the air as he approached his prey.

  Something had happened to the child, and the power that resided within her. Dagon needed to know the cause of his depletion, and whether or not he would be able get it back.<
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  “Destroy him,” Dagon commanded his reanimated troops, while running toward the classroom building.

  Hopefully the dead would buy him the time needed to search out the problem and reacquire his godly manifestations.

  The dead came at him in a wave, eager to do their master’s bidding to the end.

  Remiel smiled, an unfamiliar expression of feelings that normally he would not show. The Seraphim gathered that not all of his human traits had been cast aside.

  But the angel was happy; happy to be free.

  And doing what he knew how to do best.

  The dead came at the Seraphim in an attempt to destroy him, and he met their attack in kind.

  He would end their lives again, only this time permanently, leaving not even the smallest piece of flesh or bit of bone to be resurrected.

  The dreams of a perfect world threatened to seduce her again, but Delilah did not want dreams; she wanted reality.

  And in order for that perfect world to be hers, she knew what had to be done.

  The child was using the power. . . . To the best of her limited ability, she was using the power.

  Creation pulsed from her tiny body in waves, affecting their surroundings in the most bizarre of ways. The building in which they’d fought was coming apart, as if the glue that held the very structure together had come unstuck and all the pieces were drifting apart.

  The room moaned like a beast in pain as it was slowly disassembled.

  Delilah could see that the child was trying to focus, attempting to rein in the tremendous power at her disposal, and to use it to bring her mother back to health.

  Such a small, insignificant feat it was for a power so great.

  “Zoe,” Delilah called again, climbing back onto her feet. She caught a glimpse of her hand, which had been holding Zoe’s arm when the power had come alive. It was a shriveled black thing, barely functional, but this was just more incentive for her to obtain the prize.

  She bravely approached the child again, dodging pieces of concrete and cinder block that floated in the air, their gravity inexplicably canceled.

  The child had placed a glowing hand upon her mother’s stomach, her eyes closed in deep concentration.

  Delilah was afraid that the power would be wasted, that this foolish child would use up the greatness that had been hiding inside her on the single act of restoring her mother to life, when there were so many other, and far more important, miracles to perform.

  “Zoe, please . . . ,” Delilah began. “Let me help you.”

  The child stirred, her eyes languidly opening as if waking up from a dream.

  “Mommy’s hurt bad,” she said. Her voice still sounded different, as if there were something else present. This seemed to be no longer Zoe alone, but Zoe joined with another. “I have to try and fix her.”

  Zoe’s eyes closed again as she went back to concentrating on mending her injured parent’s mortal wound.

  It was more than Delilah could stand. To be this close and not have it be hers . . . To be perfectly honest, it drove her a little mad.

  “Give it to me!” Delilah screamed, grabbing hold of the child; pulling Zoe away from the act she struggled desperately to perform.

  The child was stunned, the amount of concentration she needed to maintain the power, or as she called it, the specialness inside her, temporarily interrupted. The power began to radiate from her tiny body again, the pieces of timber, glass, and stone floating in the air beginning to move faster, drawn toward some invisible current forming somewhere in the air around them.

  The ceiling came apart with a scream, exposing them all to the dawn sky.

  Delilah sensed it was only a matter of time before the power was fully unleashed, and she would be unable to control it. Through contact with the child she could feel it emerging, growing stronger and more confident, eager to do that for which it was intended.

  It was the power of God . . . the Maker . . . a piece of the notion that had shaped the universe.

  And for what she had endured, she deserved to have it.

  Instinctively, Delilah resorted to her nature, the rumbling hunger that suddenly formed in her belly driving her to act.

  She would take this power, as she had taken countless souls for sustenance throughout the ages.

  Delilah leaned toward the still-startled Zoe, her full lips eager to touch the child’s, firmly latching on and drawing out the immense power, like poison being sucked from a wound.

  But this poison would not kill. Oh no, she thought, feeling the crackle of unearthly energy upon her lips just as they were about to touch.

  This poison would bring her life.

  She’d almost convinced herself that she had attained her goal, that finally, after so very long, she would at last have peace. But it was not meant to be, and she was sure the Lord God Almighty must have had something to do with it.

  The horned god, Dagon, was suddenly amongst them, tearing the child from her grasp.

  Delilah was hurled backward, a floating piece of brick wall violently halting her progress before she dropped to the ground.

  “This power is not meant for the likes of you,” he snarled with a shake of his great, horned head.

  She was startled by the ancient deity’s appearance, noticing the horrific burns around his mouth, neck, and chest, in direct contrast to the perfection of the rest of his body.

  The look in the ancient god’s eyes was fierce. She had seen that look many a time before, her own hungry reflection staring back at her.

  He wanted the power as well and would move Heaven and Earth to have it.

  Zoe, who had been tossed aside when Dagon made his appearance, let out a soft cry as she rose to all fours, scrabbling across the now-dirt floor—strips of linoleum soared in the air above them like awkward kites—to again be with her mother. The little girl’s movement was enough of a distraction for Delilah to make her move.

  “Now, Mathias,” she demanded.

  Her loving servant had been waiting, crouched in the darkness of a corner awaiting his mistress’ ascension. He would do anything for her; she owned him body and soul, and now it was time for him to perform the ultimate sacrifice.

  The former mercenary, his body beaten and bloody from his earlier conflict with Zoe’s father, sprang from his waiting place. From the air he selected a jagged spear of something that had been broken into pieces when the power of creation had begun to dismantle the structure they were in.

  Mathias had no concern for his own safety as he came up behind the horned god, thrusting the makeshift spear at Dagon’s back, just as Delilah’s rival for the blessed power started to turn.

  The deity lashed out as the spear pierced his side, striking Mathias with such savagery that it snapped the man’s neck, spinning his head entirely around and sending his body flying, dead before he even touched the floor.

  Maybe in death he would find something close to what the power had enticed him with earlier, Delilah briefly considered, already forgetting the man who had given his life for her.

  There were far more important matters to concern herself with.

  She dodged the flailing arms of the horned god. The metal spear had come through at an angle, up through the rib cage and out the chest. If the ancient god still had a heart, and it was located in the typical spot as in most living things, it had either been narrowly missed or at least damaged by the jagged foreign object.

  This gave her the advantage; this gave her those extra moments to achieve what she had to do.

  Delilah moved through the field of floating rubble, feeling the bits of weightless debris grazing her face and body as she drew closer to her destiny.

  Zoe was still beside her mother, though now the two of them floated above the dirt floor, encircled by a ghostly light. Deryn’s blood floated as well, a crimson cord that extended from her mortal wound, to slither in the air around them. The power, as manipulated by the child, was healing the woman. She thrashed in the gravityless air, her breathing coming in short, pai
ned gasps as the magick moved through her, doing as the child desired.

  And Delilah prayed—to whom or what she really wasn’t sure—that once she reached the child, and placed her hungry lips upon hers, there would be enough creation left to bring about her personal paradise.

  She entered the corona of light around the pair, taking hold of Deryn York’s floating form and pushing it aside in order to get to Zoe. With trembling hands, she reached out, taking the child’s cherubic face and drawing it to her.

  And in a moment of absolute bliss, their lips touched, and Delilah drank deep from the well.

  The last of the walking dead were about to be vanquished, when Remiel felt the beginning of change in the world.

  The angel felt it in his wings, the tips of his golden feathers feeling the ether torn apart like gossamer to reveal the beginnings of something new and fragile beneath.

  A dead man, too stubborn to lie down, made one final attempt at attack, hauling his moldering carcass across the burning bodies of his brethren, attempting to sink his teeth into the angel’s flesh.

  He joined his brothers and sisters in final death just as his broken teeth touched Seraphim skin; a rush of heat and holy light incinerated the misbegotten thing before it could do any harm.

  “Kinda like a bug light,” a gravelly voice spoke.

  Remiel whirled, always ready to continue the battle; he saw the large man and immediately recognized a kindred spirit.

  “Samson,” the Seraphim said, impressed that the warrior had survived the skirmish.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he answered. The big man looked around, tilting his blind head back slightly to smell the air. “Do you smell that?” he asked.

  “Smell it. Feel it. Dread it,” Remiel answered. “Forces are being played with here that should remain untouched.”

  The Seraphim reacted, spreading his wings and becoming one with the air. The very fabric of reality was being trifled with—the weave of God itself—and he would do everything in his power to see it protected.