Thomas Sniegoski: Where Angels Fear to Tread

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.

It hummed and pulsed and sang as it rested in the palms of his hands. He too was staring at it, her wonderful prize, his mouth moving soundlessly.

“Please,” she said quietly, holding out her own hands, the pink of recently grown skin glistening wetly in the object’s radiance.

And then she saw the look upon the old man’s face, and she knew everything was about to go horribly wrong.

“Give it to me!” she demanded, hoping the command would finally break him, leaving him quivering and wishing for death upon the altar floor, but it seemed to do nothing.

Her prize had given him the strength to defy her.

The old man simply laughed as he tossed the object into the air, and, like a dove released from the confines of its cage, it flew up toward the ceiling of the chamber, exploding in a flash of blinding brilliance.

And then it was gone.

“You bastard,” Delilah screamed in fury, charging toward the old man.

He just stood there, a look of serenity and calm upon his lined face, even though he surely knew what was about to happen.

“You selfish, selfish bastard!”

She grabbed him by the back of his neck with a hand still tender and fresh, pulling him to her.

Pulling him toward her eager lips.

They joined in a kiss; she felt him begin to struggle, but it was all for naught.

With this kiss she would feed upon his life and his soul, and leave very little behind for the insects of this damnable jungle to dine upon.

The old man flailed wildly, attempting to scream, but her lips blocked the scream’s escape, and she fed upon that as well, savoring the deliciousness of his terror, as everything that defined him as a man—as a living, breathing human being—was sucked away.

It took only a moment to steal the old man’s life. Then, unlocking her lips from the withered remains, she allowed the dried, brittle shell of the priest to fall to the floor of the altar, where it disintegrated into a choking cloud of heavy, gray dust.

Mathias coughed, waving a hand before his face. “Mistress”—he coughed again—“I’m so sorry.”

The priest’s life force coursed through her body, speeding her recovery. Her arms had completely re-formed, though they were quite pale; nothing a few days on the Riviera wouldn’t cure.

Delilah stepped down from the altar, Mathias holding her hand so she would not fall.

Standing in the center of the chamber, she looked around at the other priests, still held in her thrall, terror etched upon their faces.

“He could have let me have it,” she announced. “And it would have changed everything.”

She turned away from their fear-twisted features, heading across the stone floor toward the stairs that would take her out of the underground chamber.

“Delilah?” Mathias called.

She stopped, turning a cold gaze to him.

“What should we do with them?” he asked, motioning toward the temple priests.

“Use your imagination,” she said with a wave of her hand, and then ascended from the bowels of the Vietnamese temple, the sound of gunfire at her back.

Boston, now

Remy Chandler watched the older woman as she sat across from him, sipping her gin—no, her Tanqueray— and tonic from a short brown straw.

She’d been quite specific with the waitress.

He was trying to figure out what it was exactly that he didn’t like about her.

She leaned forward, placing her glass precisely in the center of the cardboard coaster in front of her. “My grandmother, God rest her soul, used to have two Tanqueray and tonics every day,” Mrs. Grantmore said, straightening the coaster. “She said they helped her keep her wits about her. She was ninety-eight when she finally passed.”

It was obvious that Remy was supposed to be impressed.

“Isn’t ninety-eight the new eighty-five?” he joked, taking a sip of his soda water with lime.

Mrs. Grantmore’s daughter, Olivia, sitting quietly beside her mother on the love seat in the lobby bar of the Westin Copley Place hotel, chuckled before taking a drink of her Diet Coke.

Remy liked Olivia. She seemed like a sweet kid.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Grantmore said dismissively, reaching for her drink and bringing it to her mouth, careful not to drip any of the condensation from the glass onto her white silk blouse.

Remy crossed his ankle over his knee, pulling the cuff of his dark jeans over the tongue of his brown loafer.

This meeting was exactly what he had expected, and one he would have preferred to have had at his office. Having it at the Westin, out in the open, was uncomfortable, especially with Olivia present.

“So. .,” Remy began, faking cheerfulness. He leaned forward in the overstuffed chair and placed his drink on the glass-topped table before him. “You’re probably wondering about my findings.” He grabbed the folder from the seat beside him and opened it.

Mrs. Grantmore turned to look at her daughter as she returned her glass to the coaster.

“Of course, Mr. Chandler. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. Go on. Tell us what you’ve found.”

Olivia, who had been silently staring into the bubbles of her soft drink, looked up, making eye contact with him.

He tried to assuage her fears with a comforting smile.

“You asked me to look into the background of one James Wardley,” he said, looking down at the file.

Mrs. Grantmore reached over and took her daughter’s hand. The look Olivia flashed her made it clear the gesture was not appreciated.

“Go ahead, Mr. Chandler. What did you learn?”

Remy shrugged. “To be honest, not a whole lot.”

He watched as the older woman’s features momentarily tightened, her stare becoming more intense.

Olivia looked as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“You found nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing,” Remy said, continuing the litany of his findings. “James Wardley of Lynn, Massachusetts, born August 16, 1988, to Harriet and Robert Wardley. Attended Lynn Classical High School, graduating in 2006 at the top of his class. Enrolled at Northeastern University, currently majoring in electrical engineering and—”