Thomas Sniegoski - Where Angels Fear to Tread

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, 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.