by J. Kenner
The one still standing remained in front of his master, a ceremonial knife held out as a weapon. But I was ready for him, willing to cut him across at the torso if that was what it took to get to the master. To destroy him and the Box.
I drew the sword back and put all my power into it. I lunged—and then my body spasmed with pain. The sword and blade tumbled from my hand, and I looked down to see the neat hole in the front of my shirt, the blood almost invisible against the black fabric.
I looked up to see the priest I’d sliced through the chest drop his arm as if weighted. And I had time for only one coherent thought before I dropped to the ground: Gun.
37
Blackness.
Silence.
And then something.
Pinpricks of light.
Hints of speech.
A babble. Voices. Nonsense.
An incantation.
Reality rushed back at me—everything. The demons. The ceremony. The gun.
And, of course, the gates of hell.
I kept my eyes closed and took stock of my situation. I was lying on something cold and hard. The floor, I presumed, as I could hear the shuffle of what sounded like feet near my head. I felt something heavy on my belly, and though I desperately wanted to open my eyes and look, I didn’t I needed to think before I acted because I was certain—damn certain—that I had only one shot at winning this for the home team.
My biggest advantage, obviously, was that they thought I was dead. Soon enough, though, someone would notice that my wound had healed and my heart was beating.
I listened, certain I still heard only three. The injured vassal was at my feet, his breathing shallow. The strong one stood near my right hand, the priest near my left, muttering in a language I didn’t understand.
My blade was on the floor somewhere, but I still had a blade in an ankle holster. I had something heavy on my belly. And I had the element of surprise.
What I didn’t have was time. And because I could afford to waste no more of it, I opened my eyes, at the same time lashing out with my right arm and knocking the vassal down as I arced my hand down and toward my ankle. I didn’t make it, instead grabbing the ceremonial knife he’d dropped and smashing it into his throat. Blood spurted, coating my hand and teasing my senses.
I tossed the athame aside and reached for my own knife, wiping the vassal’s blood on the leg of my jeans. I needed my blood to destroy the Box, not the blood of a demon’s servant.
To my left, the priest had rushed forward instead of back, and I realized that he was going for the Box of Shankara—which, I realized with a start, was the heavy thing on my belly.
I snatched it up, rolled to the side and over the bloody and fallen vassal, and sprang to my feet as the high priest and the injured vassal both rushed me.
My hand, however, had healed, and the Box remained intact as I carried it. I stopped everyone cold by dropping it and then slamming my blade through both my palm and the middle of the Box, even as the high priest screamed in protest.
“You must not!” the vassal yelled, rushing me, his eyes focused on the Box. I jerked my knife free of my hand, ignoring the pain, then used the Box to bash his head in. Even as I did, the Box was disintegrating, falling away like bits of golden dust in my hands. An ancient relic whose time had passed.
I felt a tug of satisfaction as I turned to the high priest.
“It’s over,” I said. “You lose.”
He stared back, his eyes clouded with cataracts and his skin wrinkled and leathery. He spoke only one word, his head going side to side even as he repeated it over and over: No.
I moved to him, my knife at the ready. This wasn’t over yet. I wanted more. I wanted him.
“Please,” he whispered.
“Please?” I repeated. “You think I’ll let you live for please? You’re trying to open the gates of hell.”
“No!” The sound seemed not to come from the priest at all, but to echo all around me, as if the demons I’d slaughtered were screaming out in protest.
The priest gaped at me with wild, wide eyes. “No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not—”
“—ever going to finish what you started,” I said as one final, evocative no echoed through the room. I ignored it, my blade sliding into the demon priest’s heart like butter. His body collapsed, his expression one of disbelief.
Yeah, well, believe it, brother.
I drew in a harsh breath as my body spasmed, the deep regret of an unfinished job filling me, along with the pure, clean certainty that no matter what, in the end, the light would prevail. The feeling warmed me, calmed me, and, frankly, confused me. Not the powerful rage that usually consumed me when I killed a demon. This time I was filled with a sense of peace. Remorse, yes. But also something else. A sensation that in the end, good would prevail.
A sensation I could only categorize as faith.
It was, I was certain, my reward. The proof that I had secured the gate. The angels, I thought, were singing.
I wanted to revel in it. To drink it in. To bathe in it like someone discovering light after hiding, lost, in a cave.
I didn’t have the chance. Instead, I saw the glint of a blade coming right at my head. And then I saw the man who wielded it—Deacon.
And that was when I realized the source of that final No.
Not the demonic priest, but Deacon. Now here to seek revenge.
He caught me before I had time to react, and the tip of his blade pressed into my jugular, his arm tight around my chest. He held me intimately, almost sexually, and a hundred regrets whisked through my mind, the most tangible that I’d been a fool. That I’d trusted a demon, and a Tri-Jal at that.
“At least now I know that you don’t die the ordinary way,” he whispered. “It was you at the Caller’s, and leaving you for dead clearly wasn’t good enough. I should have cut off your head. That’s not a mistake I’ll make twice. I don’t like being used, Lily. And I damn sure don’t like being lied to.”
I closed my eyes and tried to be brave. “Do it,” I hissed as the blade pressed in against my neck. “At least I’ll know the gates of hell will remain safely locked.”
He held me tight the blade at my throat his forearm clutching me firmly under my breasts. Then his arm relaxed and the blade fell away.
I sucked in air, realizing I’d been holding my breath, then stumbled as he shoved me to the ground. I looked up and found my own crossbow aimed at my head.
“Move,” he said, “and you die. I’ll cut off your head and bury your body if I don’t like what you have to say.”
I stayed perfectly still, watching him. The tenseness of his body. The tendons in his hands, his arms. He was rage personified, and I swear I would not have been surprised to see him turn into a swirling tower of flame, capable of destroying anything in its path. More than that, wanting to destroy.
He breathed. That was all he did for at least three solid minutes—the longest minutes of my life. He breathed. And slowly—oh, so slowly—the muscles began to relax. I watched as he brought the fury under control, reining it in like one might tame a wild horse. He even shuddered, as if shaking off something horrible.
“Talk,” he said, but this time control edged the anger in his voice. “What did you mean about keeping the gates locked?”
“What did I mean?” I repeated, my voice rising with disbelief. “You lying son of a bitch, you know what I mean. We talked about it. Hell, you said you saw me in a vision. Nice touch, by the way. Cozy up to the girl and get her to share her secrets.”
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “Spell it out for me exactly why you’re here.”
It was ridiculous, but because he was the one holding the crossbow, I complied. “I came here to do exactly what I did. To kill your little demon buddy there who was trying to unlock the Ninth Gate to Hell. You can kill me now, but I’ll die knowing that because of me he’s dead, and the gate to hell is still locked tight, just like it should be. And the
re’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“Locked,” he repeated, the crossbow dropping slightly. “Locked? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You killed the one man who knew how to close the Ninth Gate to Hell. To seal it up tight. The demons are still coming, Lily. And they’re coming because of you.”
38
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No fucking way.”
He held the crossbow at his side, but his grip was firm, ready to draw the weapon if need be. “He’s a priest, Lily.”
“A priest in hell, maybe,” I said, but some of the force had left my words.
“Dammit, Lily. Are you blind? The man was human. He was a priest. A very old priest who devoted his entire life to figuring out a way to close and lock the Ninth Gate.”
I fought a wave of nausea. “To close it?” This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. I’d seen the angel. I killed demons. I worked for God, dammit.
“Yes,” he said, his voice both angry and exasperated. “To close it. The gate’s already opened. I told you. It’s been open for thousands of years, and now it looks like it’ll be open a thousand more. Worse, it’ll be open at the convergence. Just a few more weeks, and they’re coming through. The horde is already gathering on the other side. Waiting. And now they’re praising you.” He stopped, and I saw fury play over his features. “You’re being played, Lily. You’re being played for a fool.”
I licked my lips, suddenly very parched. “That can’t be. I was sent. They sent me to keep the gate from opening. To prevent the fucking Apocalypse.” Even as I spoke, though, I knew there was nothing behind my words. They were as hollow as the lies Clarence had fed me. Lies. All of it lies. I knew it. Could feel it flowing inside me, the truth of Deacon’s words, hidden there in the essence of the dead priest.
Without Deacon, I never would have felt it. Would have assumed the warm glow of faith was merely the glow of a job well done. But now, knowing, I could dig deeper. And I could see it, could feel it.
“They played me,” I whispered. “Said I was doing God’s work. Saving the world.” I didn’t look up at Deacon. I couldn’t face him.
“You’re not working for heaven, Lily,” Deacon said. “You’re a hit man for hell.”
He bent down, touched me, and I whipped my arms back, flailing wildly to get away, beating and pounding on him to no effect even as tears streamed down my face. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” I clung to him, silently begging for comfort.
He answered the call, pulling me close and holding me tight. And right there, with the priest dead on the floor beside us, I broke down and sobbed in Deacon’s arms.
He let me go on for a moment his strong hands stroking my hair, caressing my back. But all too soon, he pulled away, taking the illusion of safety with him. “We need to leave. There’s no guarantee they won’t come looking for you. Leave now, they’ll see the result. They’ll be happy. Job well done, and Lily’s probably celebrating in a bar somewhere. Stay, and—”
“I’ll fucking kill them.”
“Or they’ll kill you,” he said, his dark eyes intense.
He stepped back and held out his hand for me. I didn’t take it though. I desperately wanted to lose myself in his arms again. I couldn’t though. I had to be smart now. I had to be careful. “You’re a Tri-Jal demon,” I said. “Why the hell should I trust you?”
I could see the fight for control in the way his eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. “Right now, I’m the only one you’ve got.”
“That’s not good enough,” I said. I stood up, ignoring his hand. “You’re a demon, Deacon. Just like the ones who’ve pulled a hell of a con on me. They gotta know I’ll be pissed if I find out. And now that they’re done with me, I figure my days are numbered. Kill me off when I’m done, and keep their secret safe. And, hey, isn’t it convenient that a Tri-Jal demon, the baddest of the bad, shows up to take me for a little stroll?” I shook my head. “Don’t think so.”
I started to walk away, and he grabbed my elbow, tugged me back.
“Take your hands off me,” I said. “Or else I’m looking inside. You want me to stay? Let me see what you’ve got locked up in there.”
He let go of me. “No.”
“Bye-bye.” I took another step.
“Lily.”
It was the pain in his voice that made me stop.
“That’s not for you to see,” he said. “What’s inside me. What I’ve done. What I’m still capable of doing. That’s off-limits. Always.”
“So you say.”
“But I am not here to harm you. I swear to you. And you’ve already been inside my head once. You know the path I’m on.”
“Redemption,” I whispered, before I could help myself.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
I hesitated, certain the smart thing to do was run from him. But I couldn’t. Right or wrong, in the end, I trusted him. More or less, anyway.
“I saw some apartments a few blocks east,” he said. “We can go there. Find a vacant one. Hole up. Talk.”
I saw the relief in his face when I nodded agreement, and I gathered up my blades and followed him out. I retrieved my coat by the angel, and we left the abandoned church, leaving the carnage behind. “Turn off your cell phone,” he said, after we’d traveled a block. “If it’s on, they can find you.”
I nodded, then clicked it off. “You said you tried to kill me. After I killed the Caller. Who, by the way, was a demon. Explain that one to me. If I’ve been working for demons, why did they have me killing them?”
“We can talk inside.”
“We can talk now,” I countered. I was still iffy on the trust thing, and I wanted more before I went into a closed room with this man.
He glanced sideways at me once, then nodded. “You’re right that he was a demon,” he said, “but Maecruth sought redemption.”
“Maecruth?”
“The Caller.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure I liked knowing that he had a name. “He wanted heaven?”
Deacon shrugged and kept walking. “The concept of heaven and hell is a mortal one. Let’s just say that he was drawn to the light. He wanted the chance to take it in. To fill the shadows within himself. But the dark in him was too thick. Like oil. Like what you see when a demon is slain. And the task for redemption was great.”
“He had to get the Box of Shankara to the priest,” I guessed.
“Right. The Box has been missing for centuries. But Father Carlton needed it for the ceremony. Maecruth managed to steal it from a demonic vault.”
“Father Carlton,” I repeated. “That was his name?”
“Yes.”
I said a silent apology to Father Carlton. “So what I’ve done . . . I can make it better by finding a way to close the gate again. Or even by finding a way to destroy all the keys? Changing the locks on the door?”
“The Box of Shankara was the only key that would lock the Ninth Gate.”
“Oh, God.”
He looked at me sideways. “There are legends, though. Stories of a key that will lock all nine gates.”
A bit of hope fluttered within me. “Where is this key?”
“No one knows.”
I nodded, determined now. “Well, I’m damn sure going to find out.”
I watched his face, saw his approval, and smiled.
“Here?” he asked, nodding at an apartment complex that looked to be in imminent danger of condemnation.
“Luxury living. Let’s go.” I led the way, but stopped on a set of cement stairs. “We’ll go in, but you need to finish telling me your story. I don’t like it, I leave. And I get any hint that you’re scamming me, I will take you down so fast you’ll be a puddle of black goo before you have time to form a cohesive thought. Got me?”
He pushed past me up the stairs. “I mean you no harm, Lily. I know it, and you know it. So don’t threaten me. It isn’t becoming.”
I could hear the knife in his voice and swallowed. He was
right. I did know it. And right then, I was glad that Deacon was on my side.
We found an empty apartment on the third floor and settled in on the floor of the empty living room. The place smelled like cigarettes and urine, and the gray carpet was probably supposed to be beige. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it would do.
“Maecruth,” I pressed. “How did you come to be there?”
“I believe it’s my turn to ask questions.”
I shook my head. “Sorry. No. I want to hear about the night you killed me. Trust me when I say I’m really interested in that. And yesterday you told me that Alice’s blood was on your hands. I’m a little curious about that, too. So tell.”
“I think not,” he said. “I seem to be doing all the talking, which I find ironic under the circumstances. I think it’s time to hear your story.”
“Circumstances?” I countered. “I’m not a demon. And I’m sure as hell not a demon from the darkest depths of hell.”
“But you are the one who ensured that the gate stays open, for which all the demons say a hearty thank-you.”
I scowled, because he had me there, but my mind was still on what I’d said, and my eyes were on the man. This normal-looking, albeit gorgeous, man. I’d seen the temper in him, the tight control. And in his mind, I’d seen darker things still. And yet I’d seen nothing feral. Nothing wild. Nothing that had been broken down by evil and left to rot. Zane had said most Tri-Jals lost their minds and never got them back. Deacon, I realized, was even stronger than he looked.
It made him more dangerous. And it made him one hell of a strong ally.
“I died,” I said, making a decision even without realizing I’d made one. “I went out to kill a son of a bitch named Lucas Johnson, and I died.”