Where Angels Fear to Tread

CHAPTER TWO

Clifton Poole took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled, awaiting the effects of the drug combination he’d just taken.

It was a special cocktail of barbiturates and antidepressants made just for him after years of trial and error. It was the only thing that would silence the voices.

Everything in the world had a voice—psychic impressions left by contact with living beings—and Poole could hear them all, whether he wanted to or not, which was why he so enjoyed his special medication, and the numbing bliss it provided him, no matter how short.

He lay naked in the windowless room of his country estate in Lincolnshire, England, surrounded by nothing. Built to his own specifications, the room was only cold plaster walls and ceiling and a wooden floor. No more than three people were involved with its design and construction, and the materials had come from local merchants.

The voices that radiated from this room were minimal, and the drugs readily dulled them, allowing him to slip into sweet, restful oblivion, without too much of the usual commotion.

Poole felt himself drifting down, down, down, into the darkness of the abyss, the prattling voices growing softer and less defined by the second.

He was just about to succumb to the embrace of his beloved mistress, oblivion, when he noticed the pulse of color through the lids of his closed eyes. He tried to ignore the yellow flash that was trying to pull him from his rest.

But he opened his eyes instead.

The room clamored to tell its story, as over the single, wooden door, a yellow bulb flashed for his attention.

Look at me. I come from a factory in China where . . .

He watched the light continue to flash, praying it would stop, but it didn’t. He sighed, blocking out the voices, and climbed awkwardly to his bare feet.

“This had better be good,” he slurred as he stumbled numbly to the door and opened it to find his valet, Broughton, standing on the other side, white handkerchief pressed to a bleeding nose.

“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.

She remembered them, their beautiful faces haunting her from the past; she also remembered how they had died. From natural disaster to debilitating disease, one by one by one they were taken from her, leaving her only the memory of what she’d had, and the deep, burning pain of her loss.

She wanted to die, but He would not allow that either.

Although with each loved one lost, a piece of her humanity did die, and it had been a very long time since she’d last thought of herself as truly human.

In her dream, the children were crying for her, for their mother, a symphony of sorrow. She wanted to hush them, to hold them to her bosom, and tell them that soon they could stop crying.

That soon she would end the curse.

And they would all be together again.

Delilah awoke, not with a start, or a scream, or a cry dancing upon her lips. She awoke perfectly calm, a sense of satisfaction growing in her breast.

Mathias had returned; she could feel him, his sense of anticipation.

She stretched languidly upon the four-poster bed, then rose and slipped into a robe of Chinese silk. She pulled open her double bedroom doors just as Mathias drew near.

There was no question of whether or not he had succeeded in his mission.

For those who loved Delilah would rather die than fail her.

Her first impression wasn’t the best.

A frail, silly-looking man in a dirty white suit, he was sitting on the balcony of her home, which overlooked the Bicol River in the Philippines, while sipping from a tumbler of whiskey.

“Mr. Poole?” she asked, stepping out through the open doors. The diaphanous material of her long dress floated in the humid breeze blowing from the river. “I’m so happy you came.”

Mathias followed close behind her like the obedient dog he was, and the sight of him made Poole begin to tremble, the ice in his whiskey tinkling like bells.

“I had no choice,” Poole said in an attempt at defiance.

Delilah clucked. “Oh, don’t be like that.” She seemed to float across the balcony and onto the divan across from him. Mathias remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, as if awaiting his next command.

“I have need of your special skills,” Delilah continued.

A boy came from the house carrying a crystal pitcher filled with ice water and lemons. There was a tall glass on the table in front of Delilah, and he filled it without making eye contact.

“Thank you, Maynard,” she said, taking a sip of the cold water. “Mr. Poole, would you like more whiskey?”

“I’m fine,” he said, staring angrily into his glass.

Delilah motioned the boy away, and he left them alone.

Back to business.

“You need me,” Poole said with a laugh, before bringing the whiskey to his mouth. “What if I refuse?”

Delilah said nothing, mixing the ice and lemon in her glass with a long, delicate finger.

“You’ll have this one here take me out into the jungle and put a bullet in the back of my skull?”

“Heaven forbid,” Delilah said, in mock offense. “You’re free to go at any time . . . after you hear my offer.”

Poole gulped his whiskey, refusing to look at her.

“And what is your offer?” he asked, finally looking into her eyes, as if the whiskey had given him courage.

“Help me find what I’m looking for and I will make you a very wealthy man,” she said. “It’s quite simple really.”

“I’m already a wealthy man,” he replied.

“Oh, Mr. Poole.” Delilah smiled. “Wealth can be measured in so many ways.”

She held the man’s gaze, working her magic upon him. He was like a fish on the end of a line, being slowly drawn to her.

“You will have whatever you need to find my prize. . . . Every resource will be at your disposal. Isn’t that right, Mathias?” she asked.

The warrior behind her nodded. “Anything . . . just ask.”

Poole smiled. “Anything?” he repeated, finishing off what remained of his drink. “How about some more of this?”

“Of course,” Delilah said, about to call for Maynard.

“I want him to get it,” Poole interrupted, holding out his glass to Mathias.

Mathias glared at him.

“You did say anything,” he said, giving the tumbler a little shake, making the ice jingle merrily.

“Yes, we did,” Delilah agreed. “Mathias, if you would be so kind.”

Mathias stepped forward to snatch the glass from the man’s hand, quickly turning and disappearing into the house.

Alone, Delilah and Poole smiled at each other.

“Does that mean you accept my offer?” Delilah asked.

“How could I resist?” Poole said with a giggle. “I’ve always wanted my own bloody island.”

Delilah laughed with the vile little man, making him believe he actually had some power in this situation. She much preferred when they came to her willingly. “Only an island, Mr. Poole? You’re thinking far too small.”

They shared another laugh as Mathias returned with a tray, carrying an ice bucket, Poole’s glass, and a bottle of whiskey. He set it down on a small table beside Poole.

“Just a little ice, please,” Poole prodded.

The look on Mathias’ face told Delilah there was nothing he would have liked better than to kill the English Hound with his own two hands. But ever the good soldier, her warrior carefully placed a handful of cubes into the glass and then filled it with whiskey.

“Thanks ever so much,” Poole said as he took the glass from Mathias.

“Is that all?” Mathias asked, his words as sharp as a knife blade.

“For now,” Poole replied, motioning Mathias back to his position behind Delilah’s divan.

“So, what are you looking for?” Poole asked, taking a drink of his whiskey.

“Right to the point,” Delilah said. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Mr. Poole.” She turned her head slightly toward Mathias.

Immediately he left the balcony, returning just a few moments later with the iron statue they had taken from the Vietnamese temple, before detonating the explosives that had reduced the holy place to so much rubble. He cradled the metal infant in his arms, carrying it as carefully as he would have one of her many children.

“What is that?” Poole asked, his speech somewhat thick as the whiskey began to take effect.

Delilah flowed from the divan, meeting Mathias in the center of the balcony.

“A vessel,” she said, staring at the statue. No matter how many times she looked upon it, it never ceased to infatuate her. Sometimes, late at night, when she fought to keep sleep from claiming her, she swore she could hear it crying.

“A vessel for what?” Poole asked.

“Give it to him,” Delilah instructed, and Mathias slowly moved closer.

“No, wait,” Poole cried nervously. He tried to set his drink down on the nearby table, but it crashed to the floor.

“This vessel once contained my prize, Mr. Poole.”

The Hound was trying to move away. She was sure he could hear the vessel . . . hear it as it whispered its secrets to him.

Mathias placed the infant-shaped container at the man’s feet.

“Please,” Poole begged. His face had become bright red, and his body shook spastically. “Take it away.”

“Touch it, Mr. Poole,” Delilah commanded, using her talent to bend his will to hers.

Unable to resist her, the Hound leaned forward, fingers splayed to touch the child. He screamed as his fingertips brushed the sides of the infant’s head. He tried to pull away, but the power of the vessel drew him back. He slid from his chair, dropping to his knees, running his hands over the tarnished metal body. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and he was murmuring indistinctly as tears stained his face.

His probing fingers found the hidden latch, splitting the metal child open, allowing him access to where Delilah’s prize had rested for centuries.

Poole gasped, his breath catching in his throat.

“Control, Mr. Poole,” Delilah barked.

Her commanding words seemed to have an effect as his eyes rolled forward, and he seemed to be trying to focus on the smooth, concave surface inside the vessel.

He reached out a shaking hand, but quickly pulled it back, as if afraid he might be burned. “I—I can’t,” he sobbed pathetically, a trail of mucus running from his nose. “Please, I just want to . . .”

Delilah was growing impatient. She wanted her answers now.

“You will, Mr. Poole,” she snarled, reaching out to grab hold of his wrist, forcing his hand down into the open body of the vessel.

The Hound immediately began to scream and scream. . . .

And Delilah wasn’t sure if he was ever going to stop.