Thomas Sniegoski: Where Angels Fear to Tread

“There’s someone here to see you,” Broughton said, his voice sounding nasal.

“Tell him I’m busy.” Poole started to pull the door closed, but Broughton’s foot blocked it.

“No, sir,” the man said, a disquieting look in his eyes. “You must see this fellow now.” The valet took the handkerchief away from his nose, allowing the blood to flow freely. “He’s quite insistent.”

The voices from the hallway were louder now, buzzing, insistent that he listen, even though he’d heard their stories millions of times, and would continue to do so as long he was alive, or sober. He desperately wanted his rest and was tempted to refuse Broughton, but the look in his valet’s eyes—and the blood streaming from his nose—told him that might not be wise.

“Give me my robe,” Poole finally ordered, stumbling out of the special room.

Broughton handed his employer a terry cloth robe.

“Make a very strong pot of coffee,” Poole instructed as he slipped his pale, naked form into the warmth of the thick white bathrobe. It too tried to tell him how it had come to exist, and Poole shook his head violently to dislodge the images.

Broughton bowed slightly, handkerchief again pressed to his nose, and turned to leave.

“Who is it?” Poole asked suddenly, holding the ends of the terry cloth belt in each hand.

“Excuse me, sir?” The valet turned back to him.

“Who’s the visitor?” Poole asked. “What’s his name?”

“Mathias, sir,” Broughton said. “A Mr. Mathias from America.”

“American,” Poole grunted, cinching the belt tightly about his waist. “Bloody hell.”

Mathias hated to be away from his mistress, and hoped this bit of business wouldn’t take long.

He glanced down at the knuckles of his right hand, and the hint of blood that stained them. Nothing could stop him from seeing Poole.

Delilah needed him, and she would have him.

He got up from his chair in the elaborate den of the English country estate and walked to one of the large windows, looking out on what appeared to be miles of lush green grass and blossoming trees. Peacocks roamed the grounds, letting loose their strangely haunting call as they strutted about.

Mathias wondered how they would taste roasted on a spit over an open fire, the image bringing a smile to his face.

He turned back to the study, taking note of its ancient statuary and heavy, wood-framed glass cases filled with all manner of priceless artifacts, from jeweled goblets to bracelets made of gold.

Objects of great worth, no doubt found by Poole using his unique ability, Mathias wagered. But did this man have the talent required to find what his mistress most desired?

“Admiring my baubles?” asked a voice from behind him, a voice Mathias immediately found annoying.

He turned to look at the man standing in the doorway to the study. He was thin, and dressed in an expensive cream-colored suit, his white shirt unbuttoned to display a pale, hairless chest.

“Just a few of my private acquisitions, ones I couldn’t bear to part with,” the man said, stepping farther into the room. “I’m Clifton Poole, and you must be Mr. Mathias.”

Mathias smiled coldly, walking toward the man, hand extended. “Just Mathias.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t shake hands,” Poole said nervously. “I hope you understand.”

Mathias moved with the quickness of a cobra snatching the man’s spindly, cold appendage in his.

“No, I hope you understand,” he said, holding tightly to Poole’s hand.

If what Mathias understood about Clifton Poole’s unique ability was true, the man was able to read psychic impressions from anything he touched, a strange mixture of psychometry and remote viewing, a kind of voice Poole could use to track items of great wealth and power.

Poole was a Hound of the highest esteem and someone Delilah believed could assist her.

Poole fell to his knees, his pale features almost gray, reminding Mathias of meat left to spoil in the hot summer sun.

He wondered what Poole was seeing. . experiencing. Mathias had most certainly led an interesting life, a professional soldier since the age of eighteen, eventually leaving service to his country and committing his extensive talents to the highest bidder. The life of a mercenary had been his pleasure, but he hadn’t really known the true meaning of the word until he had found her .

A powerful mixture of lust, fear, love, and awe flushed through his body as it always did with the thought of his beloved Delilah.

The Hound was crying, weakly attempting to pull his hand away, but Mathias continued to hold fast.

“What do you see?” Mathias asked, taking a certain amount of pleasure from the man’s discomfort.

“Please,” Poole begged through streaming eyes, “please let me go.”

“Do you see her?” Mathias asked urgently. “She is my world. . Nothing matters except her happiness. Do you see, Clifton Poole?”

“You. . you gave it to her.” Poole’s voice was strained, barely able to speak the words. “You gave her your soul.”

Mathias at last released Poole’s hand, and the Hound slumped to the floor of the study, whimpering.

“Yes, I did give her my soul,” Mathias said with a smile. He held his hand out, gazing at the strange scars on the back of it, the marks that she had given him, marks to show that he belonged to her. They were of two lips, a kiss, burned into the flesh of his hand. He wore the red, raised scars proudly. “And why not? I wasn’t using it anyway.”

Poole managed to crawl to a cabinet and used it to haul himself up from the ground. “What do you want?” he asked weakly, turning toward Mathias, the sound of fear in his voice.

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.