Where Angels Fear to Tread (32 page)

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, pained 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.

Samson heard the angel go, and hoped he wouldn't be too late.

The warrior could feel that the change had started, but the existing reality wasn't giving up without a fight.

It was a difficult and dangerous thing, changing what was and attempting to replace it with something else. It was a matter best left to the gods.

The blind warrior stood for a little while, appreciating the deathly silence, but also cursing it. He listened for a sign of life, something that showed him that at least some of his children had survived.

Samson listened hard, straining his enhanced hearing for a moan, or a sigh, or a troubled breath.

But there was none of that to be heard.

And with a heavy sigh of his own, he knew he must follow the angel, for he still had a job to finish.

He had the Lord's work to do.

Delilah felt the world begin to change, just as it was torn away from her.

She was hurled violently back, landing upon the ground, just as she heard the lovely sounds of her children awakening from their beds after a long night's sleep; just as she heard the sounds of their eager feet upon the floors above her head as they were coming down to her.

But it was all gone in an instant, when Dagon reasserted himself.

The deity was in a bad way, the burns that had eaten away the flesh around his mouth and chest having spread across most of his once-impressive physique.

He looked as though he'd bathed in acid.

From where she lay, Delilah saw that Dagon had taken the child, pulling her from the air and dragging her down to the ground.

In one of his misshapen hands he held what appeared to be a piece of broken glass, and he was poised to bring it down upon the struggling child; to cut her open to remove the prize they both wished to possess.

The child squirmed beneath the horned god's attempts, but he held her pressed to the ground long enough to commit his act.

The glass blade descended. Dagon had aimed for the heart, but the child's squirming distracted his aim, and the tip of the impromptu knife went into her stomach instead.

It was as if all sound were suddenly stolen away, and time slowed to a crawl.

The child's mouth was open wide in a silent scream, and her eyes bulged with the horror of what had just been done to her.

And then her eyes closed, and she went very still.

Dagon perched over the child's body, waiting for a sign.

He did not have long to wait.

The energy erupted from the child in a burst of invisible force, picking up the ancient god and tossing him aside like a rag doll.

Zoe floated up from the ground, her bloodied stomach mended in a flash of white and the smell of burning ozone; even the scarlet stains upon her clothes were soon but a memory.

Gone was the frightened little girl, unsure of the power—the specialness—that lived inside her. Here was a being who had embraced this might and who was about to show those that hurt her what true power was all about.

Dagon seemed to know this as he hauled his broken body up from the ground where he'd been discarded. It wasn't the first time the deity had been cast aside for something stronger.

"Please," he begged upon his knees before the floating child, "just a taste . . . I don't want it all. . . . Just a taste again . . . not to be forgotten . . ."

Zoe looked down upon the lowly god and snarled.

"I used to think you were scary," she said, her child's voice oddly alien, "but you're no scarier than a bug."

A terrible smile appeared upon the little girl's face, the pulsing circle of energy that surrounded her momentarily expanding outward to touch Dagon with its might.

It happened so quickly that the old god wasn't even given a chance to scream. In a flash, his entire mass had been turned to bugs, golden cockroaches that for a moment held the form of Dagon, before they dropped to the ground in a squirming heap.

And Zoe eagerly returned to Earth to enthusiastically stomp upon their skittering forms, happily crushing their shelled bodies beneath her sneakered feet.

Making certain not to miss a one of them.

The Seraphim Remiel plummeted from the morning sky, drawn to the enormous power radiating from the body of one human child.

The child had become a receptacle for a tiny fraction of the Lord God's power, but even a fraction of the Maker had more power than the puny human brain could ever hope to comprehend.

Here in the body of a little girl was the ability to create worlds, and from what the angel could see, it was driving her mad.

Remiel touched down upon the earth, avoiding pieces of the building that had somehow come apart and were now floating weightlessly in the air like an asteroid field.

The might of God was radiating from her in waves, growing steadily stronger as the child stood.

His human aspect felt sadness for the young one, eager to help in any way he could, but the Seraphim fought this emotion, seeing only the potential for extreme danger; danger to itself, as well as a threat to the world that God seemingly loved above all else.

It was the child who posed the threat with her inability to control the level of divine power that now coursed through her.

Remiel slowly approached, feeling waves of God's raw awesomeness radiating from the little girl; the potential to create . . . or to destroy.

"Child," Remiel called, his voice like the most beautiful of voices raised in song, "calm yourself."

Zoe looked at him in all his angelic glory and was terrified.

"Get away!" she screamed, and the ground spasmed violently, shaking him from his feet, the undulating earth carrying him away.

The angel spread his wings and took to the air, flying above the writhing earth.

"I mean you no harm," Remiel called down to her, but her fear was too great, and a terrific wind was summoned that was like the hand of a giant—
or God
—swatting him back to Earth like a bothersome insect.

The weather had started to react to the child's release; voluminous gray storm clouds, throbbing with electrical fury, were building over their heads.

"Mommy!" Zoe cried out as the thunder rumbled. "Where are you? I want my mommy."

Jagged bolts of lightning javelined down from the sky, attempting to skewer him with their electrical touch. Remiel scrambled across the ground, narrowly avoiding the deadly bolts raining from the Heavens.

The child was frightened, overwhelmed by what was happening to her; in a state of mind that could very well destroy them all.

The Seraphim was in a quandary. All that it knew was the option of battle, to wrestle something to the ground and end its threat by sword and burning all traces away with Heaven's fire.

But there was another way; a way the angel of Heaven did not care to recognize.

A human way.

The morning had become like night, the tumultuous air swirling the floating debris at greater and greater speeds, the other structures around the former building beginning to come undone.

The Seraphim momentarily struggled with its other side, the fragile human nature that it despised, this time proving itself to be the stronger. With a growl it allowed itself to be forced down, fully aware that if its weaker nature was not successful, it would be the Seraphim that reasserted itself, and the threat of the child would be put succinctly to an end.

Remy knelt upon the ground, feeling the physical characteristics of his warrior half recede. He was breathing heavily, his heart beating rapid fire in his chest as he glimpsed the nightmare he had been left to face.

The child had lost control, her fear causing the power to lash out uncontrollably and strike at the world that scared her.

She needed to see a friendly face; she needed to see someone who would tell her it was going to be all right. Not having any idea of what had happened to Deryn York, Remy took it upon himself to be that person. He hoped the little girl, filled with the power of creation, would recognize him, and not extinguish his life with a bolt of lightning.

The dirt and rock swirled faster in the air, stinging his exposed flesh. His clothes were in tatters, just one of the many pitfalls of assuming an angelic form, but he struggled on, shielding his eyes from the scouring grit, as he made his way toward the little girl at the center of the storm.