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  Where Angels Fear to Tread

  ( Remy Chandler - 3 )

  Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Six year-old Zoe York has been taken and her mother has come to Remy for help. She shows him crude, childlike drawings that she claims are Zoe's visions of the future, everything leading up to her abduction, and some beyond. Like the picture of a man with wings who would come and save her—a man who is an angel.

  Zoe's preternatural gifts have made her a target for those who wish to exploit her power to their own destructive ends. The search will take Remy to dark places he would rather avoid. But to save an innocent, Remy will ally himself with a variety of lesser evils-and his soul may pay the price…

  Where Angels Fear to Tread

  (The third book in the Remy Chandler series)

  Thomas E Sniegoski

  For Rusty, Kenn, and Remy—

  old friends and the new

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Love and so much more to LeeAnne, and to Mulder for helping me through another one.

  Many thanks also to Ginjer Buchanan, Cameron Dufty, Christopher Golden, Sheila Walker, Dave Kraus, Mike Mignola, Christine Mignola, Katie Mignola, Lisa Clancy, Pete Donaldson, Mom and Dad Sniegoski, Mom and Dad Fogg, David Carroll, Ken Curtis, Kim and Abby, Jon and Flo, Pat and Bob, Timothy Cole, and the followers of Delilah down at Cole’s Comics in Lynn.

  And a very special thanks to James and Liesa Mignogna.

  PROLOGUE

  Vietnam, 2004

  Everybody loved her.

  And when they didn’t, she made them.

  Delilah sat in the passenger seat of the old Jeep in a central Vietnam valley—the Cat’s Tooth Mountain barely visible through the thick canopy of lush vegetation—and waited for a sign.

  Large, buzzing insects flew about her head, but only for as long as she allowed them. A single thought to cease the annoying behavior was enough to send the simple life-forms back into the emerald green forest, although many chose to linger about the bullet-riddled corpses of the holy men lying on the ground at the entrance to the ancient vine-covered temple.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in the smells of this primordial location, the heady aroma of humid earth mingling with the thick scent of nearby coffee plantations. But it did little to calm her excitement.

  The waiting was always the most excruciating part.

  How many other faraway locations had she and her followers visited in their search for the prize? Delilah had lost count many years before, but she never gave up hope that the next unexplored cave system, forgotten temple, long-buried city, or forsaken church would offer what she so desperately sought.

  The sound of gunshots from within the temple had stopped only moments before; the rapid-fire barks of death had temporarily silenced the voice of the jungle. But now, regaining its courage, it started to speak again in its primitive language of buzzing, howling, shrieking, and squawking.

  And she continued to wait, watching for a sign from her followers, her eyes focused on the darkness of the temple’s entrance.

  Finally bored with just sitting, Delilah got out of the Jeep, her high-heeled black leather boots—inappropriate for any sort of jungle excursion—sinking into the damp, spongy earth, which was made even moister by the copious amounts of blood seeping from the bullet-riddled corpses.

  It had been quite some time since one of their expeditions had been met with such adversity. She still remembered an Inuit village in the Canadian Arctic where their attempt at locating the object of her obsession had left a bloodbath in its wake, with little to show for their troubles except some lovely fox pelts that she’d had a Paris seamstress make into a coat.

  She loved that coat but seldom had a chance to wear it.

  Pity.

  The way those villagers had fought, she’d thought for sure she had at long last been successful, but that wasn’t the case. The Inuit tribesmen had fought with such fervor, and for what? It was as if they somehow sensed the ruthlessness of her search and how she would let nothing stand in the way of finding her prize.

  It was an item she would kill again, and again, to find.

  And she had killed many times more since that doomed Inuit village, but she was still no closer to finding it.

  Until now, perhaps.

  There was movement inside the entrance to the temple, the thick obsidian dark churning like black smoke billowing from a wet fire, as a lone figure emerged.

  The man’s name was Seldon Blondelle, and he was an excellent Hound, a person gifted with an extraordinary sensitivity to objects of preternatural origins. It was his job to help her find what she so desperately sought.

  “Yes, Mr. Blondelle?” she prompted, holding her breath.

  Blondelle was thin—horribly emaciated—but that was to be expected, as he hadn’t eaten in weeks. The man took his job as her personal Hound very seriously, although as an extra incentive she’d made him promise not to eat until he had found her prize.

  He could barely stand, and swarms of hungry insects buzzed about his gaunt face as if drawn by his nearness to death. Stumbling, he leaned heavily against the stone frame of the doorway, licking dry and cracked lips with a dark, swollen tongue.

  “It’s here,” he managed, his voice an awful croak.

  His words were like magic, and she felt a vitality flow through her, the likes of which she hadn’t experienced in centuries.

  “It’s here,” Delilah repeated, heading toward him, walking atop the corpses as if they were little more than rubbish strewn in her path.

  Nothing would keep her from the item.

  Blondelle raised a trembling hand as she climbed the three stone steps to the temple landing.

  “Please.” He beckoned.

  She knew what he wanted; the sound of his rumbling stomach was almost as annoying as the incessant hum of the jungle bugs.

  “You’ve done well, Mr. Blondelle,” she told him with a rewarding smile. “You have earned the right to eat again.”

  The man’s eyes closed and he started to sob. “I can eat,” he said in a trembling hiss as he pushed himself off the wall, heading unsteadily down the steps toward the Jeep and the food supplies stored in the back of the vehicle.

  There was a sound like the crack of a bullwhip, instantaneously followed by a flash from within the darkness of the temple entrance. Delilah spun around to see Blondelle fall forward, the back of his head opened up to the jungle by a well-placed bullet.

  She turned again to the entrance to see one of the Vietnamese holy men cautiously emerging, chattering in his foreign tongue as he aimed a pistol, ready to gun her down.

  “Don’t you dare point that thing at me,” Delilah raged.

  The man instantly dropped the weapon to his side. She could see he was struggling to fight her, to usurp her will, but those who were capable of such a feat were few and far between.

  She remembered the days when she would have played with the man first, maybe forced him to pluck out his own eyes and crush them between his teeth, before ordering him to kill himself by smashing his head repeatedly against the ground.

  But that was a Delilah with little purpose—a Delilah drunk on the cruelty of the world and the accursed one who’d made it that way.

  “Shoot yourself dead,” she instructed the man, who immediately placed the gun beneath his chin and fired, the top of his head erupting in a plume of crimson.

  She stepped over the man’s still-twitching legs and eased herself into the cool darkness of the temple entrance, allowing her eyes to adjust.

  More gunfire shattered the fragile silence within the temple, and she pressed herself firmly against the vine-covered stone wall, assessing its location. T
he shots were coming from somewhere down the corridor. She charged the hall’s length to find another doorway, and stairs descending into a larger chamber.

  Bullets chewed across the wall to her left as she reached the bottom of the steps, which opened into a temple of some kind, a primitive place of ceremony, lit by flickering candlelight.

  A hand grabbed her wrist firmly, yanking her to cover behind a pillar as more bullets mercilessly tore through the stone where she’d just been standing.

  “What are you doing down here?” Mathias demanded. “I told Blondelle to make you wait in the Jeep until we secured the area.”

  “The Hound is dead,” Delilah said.

  “All the more reason you should have stayed put,” her head of security growled.

  She was tempted to tell him to shut his mouth, and he would never have spoken again, but this wasn’t the time. “Is it true?” she asked instead, attempting to keep her excitement in check. “Is it here?”

  “Blondelle believed it was,” the man answered as the members of his security team continued to shoot at the priests defending their temple.

  Delilah peered around the pillar to catch a glimpse of the holy men, but a spray of automatic gunfire threw a cloud of powdered stone into her face, obscuring her vision.

  “Damn them!” she shrieked, digging at her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Mathias asked, genuine concern in his voice. Mathias loved her more than his own life, and he would have given her the world if she asked for it.

  But she didn’t want the world.

  Yet.

  “I’m fine.” She impatiently waved off his worried ministrations. “Just put a stop to this before—”

  “What’s this?” Mathias interrupted, peeking out from behind the ceiling support.

  One of the priests, his thin body adorned in robes of deep scarlet and yellow, had emerged from cover, wildly firing a handgun as he made his way to the ancient altar.

  “What’s he doing?” Delilah demanded, her eyes still watering from the dust.

  “I don’t know,” Mathias replied, trying to get off a shot, but opposing gunfire continued to pin him and Delilah to their places behind the pillar.

  Delilah waited for an opportunity between gunshots, then again stuck out her head. The priest was crouched before a small, curtained shrine on the altar. She watched as he pulled a disposable lighter from beneath his colorful robes and lit a dangling fuse that snaked out from beneath the curtain.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked again, starting to stand. “What is he doing?” she repeated, louder still.

  Delilah stepped out from behind the safety of their cover.

  “Delilah!” Mathias called out, reaching to pull her back, but she evaded his hands as she stalked out into the open.

  He screamed her name again, while his team members continued to fire at their opponents in an attempt to protect her.

  She grunted in pain as a bullet punched into her shoulder, but she did not stop. The scent of her blood mingled with the damp, stagnant air and the acrid smell of gunfire, and she used it as fuel to push herself on.

  The priest saw her coming and withdrew a ceremonial dagger from beneath his robes, positioning himself in front of the curtain and the hissing fuse. His eyes told her he was willing to die rather than let her have what the curtain hid.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught movement from the shadows around her, and she knew she must act. She hated to abuse her gifts, fearful that each use sent a tremor out into the ether, alerting her enemies to her whereabouts. But there were times when it simply could not be avoided.

  “Stop shooting!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

  And the barking of the guns ceased instantaneously.

  “Stay where you are.”

  The old priest managed to turn slightly toward the shrine, drawing Delilah’s attention to the still-burning fuse, which had almost reached the pale yellow curtain.

  “You there,” she ordered the priest, “stop that fuse now.”

  For a moment he seemed to be fighting her, and she considered giving the order again, but it wasn’t necessary.

  With tears in his eyes, the old priest finally crouched down, grabbing the sizzling fuse between two fingers and halting its progress. Slowly he stood and turned back toward her, as if awaiting her next desire.

  Delilah breathed a sigh of relief, then took a moment to examine her shoulder. It hurt like hell and was bleeding profusely, but she would heal. She always did.

  It was all part of the curse.

  She looked around at the other holy men who had been defending the temple. They all watched with the same fearful expression that graced the face of the old man who stood before her.

  She climbed the two stone steps onto the altar platform.

  “Mistress,” Mathias called out. Hearing him, she turned around to see her security head and his team watching her with eager eyes. “Be careful,” he said.

  His concern for her safety was touching, but after all this time, she found herself throwing caution to the wind.

  Eye to eye with the holy man, she grinned widely. “What were you trying to hide from me?” she asked playfully.

  The man could not help himself, and the words spilled from his mouth in his native tongue.

  He still blocked her path, and she reached out with her good arm to roughly push him aside. Delilah could feel it now. She knew she was in the presence of something. .

  Something divine.

  Forgetting the pain in her shoulder, she reached out, pulling apart the curtains and letting out a squeal of pleasure when she saw it. She could barely contain the intensity of her feelings as she gazed upon the sculpture.

  It appeared to have been made of metal, crudely fashioned into the shape of a sitting infant, its short, chubby arms outstretched as if in welcome.

  Delilah reached out and grasped the statue.

  The pain was both immediate and excruciating.

  It was as if she’d tried to embrace the sun.

  She fell back, leaving behind her hands, burned to nothing more than black, crumbling ash. She rolled upon the altar, resisting the urge to scream and using the charred stumps of her arms to push herself awkwardly to her knees. The pain was all-consuming, but she could already feel her limbs beginning to grow back.

  The priest was smiling at her agony.

  “Mathias, come to me,” she managed, swaying to the song of her pain, forcing herself back from the brink of unconsciousness.

  She felt Mathias behind her. “Help me to stand,” she ordered, and he did as she asked.

  He held her about the waist as she turned toward the holy man. The priest was now chattering—praying, she imagined.

  It would do him little good.

  “Open it,” she spat, looking toward the metal idol upon the altar.

  The priest’s chatter ceased, but he did not move.

  She gave the order a second time.

  “Open it.”

  The man cried out in pain and lurched toward the altar. Thick, dark blood dripped from his ears, an unpleasant aftereffect for those who dared oppose her commands.

  The priest’s face was a mask of struggle even as his hands reached for the iron infant.

  “That’s it,” Delilah encouraged, watching his every move, trying to distract herself from the agony of her limbs growing back. Flesh and blood, arteries, veins, muscle, and bone, all coming back at once in a symphony of pain played specifically for her.

  The priest’s hand hovered near the infant statue’s bulbous stomach, trembling in the humid, tropical heat as if cold.

  “Do as you’re told and I’ll make the pain stop,” she whispered. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Blood was oozing from his ears, running down his neck. He started to pray again and pulled his hands away.

  The other faithful called to him from around the chamber, perhaps believing they could lend him some of their strength, hoping he woul
d be able to defy her commands.

  “Open it!” she bellowed, her voice booming horribly in the stone confines of the underground room.

  The priest moaned.

  “I’ll make the pain go away,” she said in a more controlled voice, although her own pain was quite incredible. “Open it and give me what I want. It’s quite easy.”

  “Mistress, my men and I could. .,” Mathias began, but she silenced him with a glance. The priest would open the idol; that was how it had to be.

  The priest was gasping for breath, thick, dark blood continuing to flow from his ears. Stiffly, he raised a hand toward the statue’s belly, his index finger beginning to glow, and rubbed the idol’s protruding stomach.

  Delilah watched in utter fascination, her newly formed skeletal hands flexing and unflexing. A hole—a keyhole—had appeared in the infant’s belly, and her anticipation grew to a near-uncontrollable level.

  The priest turned his tearstained face toward her, snarling as she stepped closer.

  “Do it,” she hissed, knowing that the old Vietnamese man was experiencing pain beyond measure. But it could be nothing compared to what she had endured throughout her long, long life.

  He inserted his still-glowing index finger into the dark hole. There was a sharp click, and a vertical seam appeared down the center of the idol.

  This is it, she thought. The moment she’d waited centuries for was finally here. What had pulled her from a living death of her own making was about to be revealed.

  She reached out with arms of exposed muscle and tendon, on the verge of tears. “Open it.”

  The priest started to twitch and groan. Finally, releasing a scream that seemed to come from somewhere in the depths of his soul, he pried the statue apart.

  It was as if all the stars in the galaxy were inside the belly of that metal infant and as if the eyes of the Heavens were all looking at Delilah. . looking at their new mistress.

  Her pain was suddenly gone.

  Tears streamed from her eyes as the priest slowly withdrew the idol’s wondrous contents.