Where Angels Fear to Tread (6 page)

Mathias liked that sound; fear was good, an excellent motivator.

"My mistress has need of your talents," he said, "and is willing to pay quite handsomely for them."

The Hound shook his head. "I couldn't possibly—"

Mathias lunged forward and drove his fist down through the front of the case next to Poole, sending fragments of glass flying into the air and falling into the case.

"And that is why she sent me," he said. His knuckles were bleeding as he fished around inside the case for a beautifully intricate gold bracelet he had spied earlier. "I don't take no for an answer."

Mathias removed the bracelet, slipping it onto his wrist. "I think she'll like this," he said with a smile.

The study door opened and Poole's valet entered, carrying a silver serving tray with coffee. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw his employer and the glass on the floor around him.

"Broughton . . ." Poole beckoned pathetically.

"Bring that in here," Mathias instructed Broughton, ignoring Poole. He motioned the servant toward a nearby table. "I think a cup of coffee would be just the thing before we begin our journey." He turned toward the Hound. "Don't you agree, Mr. Poole?"

And Mathias smiled as Poole slowly nodded, a look of utter resignation on his pale, sickly features.

It was when she slept deeply that she remembered them.

Their faces flashed by her dreaming eyes, breaking what remained of a shattered heart into razor-sharp slivers of sorrow. The pain was excruciating, but it was also her fuel—the fuel that fed the fires of her rage.

They were her husbands and her children, her countless attempts at a normal, peaceful existence.

But
He
would not let her have that.

No matter how much she begged or prayed to be forgiven, He would eventually take notice of her happiness and steal it away with a swipe of His hand. She should have learned by now, but perhaps that was part of the curse as well—the belief that maybe, this time, she would be forgiven her trespasses and allowed to love with all her heart.

She remembered them, their beautiful faces haunting her from the past; she also remembered how they had died. From natural disaster to debilitating disease, one by one by one they were taken from her, leaving her only the memory of what she'd had, and the deep, burning pain of her loss.

She wanted to die, but He would not allow that either.

Although with each loved one lost, a piece of her humanity did die, and it had been a very long time since she'd last thought of herself as truly human.

In her dream, the children were crying for her, for their mother, a symphony of sorrow. She wanted to hush them, to hold them to her bosom, and tell them that soon they could stop crying.

That soon she would end the curse.

And they would all be together again.

Delilah awoke, not with a start, or a scream, or a cry dancing upon her lips. She awoke perfectly calm, a sense of satisfaction growing in her breast.

Mathias had returned; she could feel him, his sense of anticipation.

She stretched languidly upon the four-poster bed, then rose and slipped into a robe of Chinese silk. She pulled open her double bedroom doors just as Mathias drew near.

There was no question of whether or not he had succeeded in his mission.

For those who loved Delilah would rather die than fail her.

Her first impression wasn't the best.

A frail, silly-looking man in a dirty white suit, he was sitting on the balcony of her home, which overlooked the Bicol River in the Philippines, while sipping from a tumbler of whiskey.

"Mr. Poole?" she asked, stepping out through the open doors. The diaphanous material of her long dress floated in the humid breeze blowing from the river. "I'm so happy you came."

Mathias followed close behind her like the obedient dog he was, and the sight of him made Poole begin to tremble, the ice in his whiskey tinkling like bells.

"I had no choice," Poole said in an attempt at defiance.

Delilah clucked. "Oh, don't be like that." She seemed to float across the balcony and onto the divan across from him. Mathias remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, as if awaiting his next command.

"I have need of your special skills," Delilah continued.

A boy came from the house carrying a crystal pitcher filled with ice water and lemons. There was a tall glass on the table in front of Delilah, and he filled it without making eye contact.

"Thank you, Maynard," she said, taking a sip of the cold water. "Mr. Poole, would you like more whiskey?"

"I'm fine," he said, staring angrily into his glass.

Delilah motioned the boy away, and he left them alone.

Back to business.

"You need me," Poole said with a laugh, before bringing the whiskey to his mouth. "What if I refuse?"

Delilah said nothing, mixing the ice and lemon in her glass with a long, delicate finger.

"You'll have this one here take me out into the jungle and put a bullet in the back of my skull?"

"Heaven forbid," Delilah said, in mock offense. "You're free to go at any time . . . after you hear my offer."

Poole gulped his whiskey, refusing to look at her.

"And what is your offer?" he asked, finally looking into her eyes, as if the whiskey had given him courage.

"Help me find what I'm looking for and I will make you a very wealthy man," she said. "It's quite simple really."

"I'm already a wealthy man," he replied.

"Oh, Mr. Poole." Delilah smiled. "Wealth can be measured in so many ways."

She held the man's gaze, working her magic upon him. He was like a fish on the end of a line, being slowly drawn to her.

"You will have whatever you need to find my prize. . . . Every resource will be at your disposal. Isn't that right, Mathias?" she asked.

The warrior behind her nodded. "Anything . . . just ask."

Poole smiled. "Anything?" he repeated, finishing off what remained of his drink. "How about some more of this?"

"Of course," Delilah said, about to call for Maynard.

"I want him to get it," Poole interrupted, holding out his glass to Mathias.

Mathias glared at him.

"You did say anything," he said, giving the tumbler a little shake, making the ice jingle merrily.

"Yes, we did," Delilah agreed. "Mathias, if you would be so kind."

Mathias stepped forward to snatch the glass from the man's hand, quickly turning and disappearing into the house.

Alone, Delilah and Poole smiled at each other.

"Does that mean you accept my offer?" Delilah asked.

"How could I resist?" Poole said with a giggle. "I've always wanted my own bloody island."

Delilah laughed with the vile little man, making him believe he actually had some power in this situation. She much preferred when they came to her willingly. "Only an island, Mr. Poole? You're thinking far too small."

They shared another laugh as Mathias returned with a tray, carrying an ice bucket, Poole's glass, and a bottle of whiskey. He set it down on a small table beside Poole.

"Just a little ice, please," Poole prodded.

The look on Mathias' face told Delilah there was nothing he would have liked better than to kill the English Hound with his own two hands. But ever the good soldier, her warrior carefully placed a handful of cubes into the glass and then filled it with whiskey.

"Thanks ever so much," Poole said as he took the glass from Mathias.

"Is that all?" Mathias asked, his words as sharp as a knife blade.

"For now," Poole replied, motioning Mathias back to his position behind Delilah's divan.

"So, what are you looking for?" Poole asked, taking a drink of his whiskey.

"Right to the point," Delilah said. "I think we're going to get along just fine, Mr. Poole." She turned her head slightly toward Mathias.

Immediately he left the balcony, returning just a few moments later with the iron statue they had taken from the Vietnamese temple, before detonating the explosives that had reduced the holy place to so much rubble. He cradled the metal infant in his arms, carrying it as carefully as he would have one of her many children.

"What is that?" Poole asked, his speech somewhat thick as the whiskey began to take effect.

Delilah flowed from the divan, meeting Mathias in the center of the balcony.

"A vessel," she said, staring at the statue. No matter how many times she looked upon it, it never ceased to infatuate her. Sometimes, late at night, when she fought to keep sleep from claiming her, she swore she could hear it crying.

"A vessel for what?" Poole asked.

"Give it to him," Delilah instructed, and Mathias slowly moved closer.

"No, wait," Poole cried nervously. He tried to set his drink down on the nearby table, but it crashed to the floor.

"This vessel once contained my prize, Mr. Poole."

The Hound was trying to move away. She was sure he could hear the vessel . . . hear it as it whispered its secrets to him.

Mathias placed the infant-shaped container at the man's feet.

"Please," Poole begged. His face had become bright red, and his body shook spastically. "Take it away."

"Touch it, Mr. Poole," Delilah commanded, using her talent to bend his will to hers.

Unable to resist her, the Hound leaned forward, fingers splayed to touch the child. He screamed as his fingertips brushed the sides of the infant's head. He tried to pull away, but the power of the vessel drew him back. He slid from his chair, dropping to his knees, running his hands over the tarnished metal body. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and he was murmuring indistinctly as tears stained his face.

His probing fingers found the hidden latch, splitting the metal child open, allowing him access to where Delilah's prize had rested for centuries.

Poole gasped, his breath catching in his throat.

"Control, Mr. Poole," Delilah barked.

Her commanding words seemed to have an effect as his eyes rolled forward, and he seemed to be trying to focus on the smooth, concave surface inside the vessel.

He reached out a shaking hand, but quickly pulled it back, as if afraid he might be burned. "I—I can't," he sobbed pathetically, a trail of mucus running from his nose. "Please, I just want to . . ."

Delilah was growing impatient. She wanted her answers now.

"You will, Mr. Poole," she snarled, reaching out to grab hold of his wrist, forcing his hand down into the open body of the vessel.

The Hound immediately began to scream and scream. . . .

And Delilah wasn't sure if he was ever going to stop.

CHAPTER THREE

R
emy knew it was going to be one of those days.

"It's hot as Hell in there," the man from McNulty Heating and Cooling warned as he held open the front door to Remy's office building.

He was short and a little fat. The front of his light blue shirt was stained with grease, his dark navy work pants powdered with dust.

"Let me guess," Remy said, passing through the foyer. "The air-conditioning is broken."

The repairman laughed. "You must be the detective." He pointed at the building registry hanging on the wall in the lobby.

"Bingo! Any idea when it'll be fixed?" Remy asked, more out of curiosity than anything. He really wasn't affected by temperature, be it hot or cold.

The McNulty guy smiled, shaking his head. "Haven't a clue. We're gonna have to order some parts—could take a few days."

Another McNulty employee, a disgruntled look on his face, came up from the building's basement.

"What's the verdict?" the first asked.

"Put a fuckin' bullet in it," he grunted. "Gonna need a whole new unit." He kept right on walking through the doorway and out to a van parked in front of the building.

"There you have it," Remy's new friend said with a shrug.

"Guess so." Remy turned toward the stairs.

"What, you're still going up?" the repairman asked from the doorway.

"Yeah, probably push some papers around and take an early lunch."

"Better you than me," the man said, letting the door close as he left to join his partner. "It's gonna be hot as Hell up there."

Remy continued up the stairs to his office, letting the man's words bounce around inside his skull. He was tempted to explain that Hell was actually a place of extremes—of both intense heat and numbing cold—but he doubted the repairman would have really much cared, and then of course, he would want to know how Remy knew so much about the infernal realm.

Why, I was just there on business
, he imagined saying.

He chuckled out loud and unlocked his office door. But still he couldn't help wondering what was happening in Hell. After usurping Heaven's power there, the Son of the Morning had begun to reshape the realm. What had once been prison to those who had followed him in his rebellion against Heaven was slowly becoming Lucifer's twisted version of the Eternal Realm. And how exactly did Heaven plan on dealing with that?

Remy shook his head. Those were matters of the damned and the divine, with humanity caught square in the middle.

He stepped into his office and realized the air-conditioning repairman had been right. It was stifling in the room. He closed the door and went directly to the window, opening it wide in the hope of catching a breeze to air out the stale, musty smell.

Then he checked his phone for messages and, finding none, decided to spend the morning working on invoices and paying some bills. But first there was a mighty need for coffee.

He had just filled the machine and set the carafe to collect the elixir of life, when there came a knock at the door and a woman cautiously entered the office.

"Hi," Remy said cheerfully, moving toward her in greeting. "May I help you?"

The woman was wearing a dungaree jacket and skirt, and a bright red T-shirt. She was about five foot six, with bleached blond hair, and looked at first to be in her late thirties, although as Remy drew closer, he realized her eyes didn't seem as old as she appeared.