Surrender the Dark

by L. A. Banks

  “Then the fallen?” she asked in a tight, frightened voice. “Are they dead?”

  “They are dead to the Light. Their spirits consumed by the darkness they’ve surrendered to, even though their physical forms remain . . . which means they are dead to love, compassion, healing, or joy.”

  “Then don’t die, Azrael,” she murmured, brushing the crown of his head with another soft kiss. “There are places so much worse than here . . . children and adults all over the world experiencing famine and horrors that I can’t even imagine, and yet, beyond my ability to even understand how, they have hope.”

  “In the library I learned this,” he said, nodding as he looked up at her again. “India, Africa, Central America, the Middle East, Asia...Russia...the children, Celeste...”

  She nodded and tightened her grip on his hands. “Yes. The children. Here, too.”

  “It is all over the world,” he whispered, sounding horrified. “And what has happed to the waters—blackened with oil, just as the air is blackened with smoke. The animals and the fishes and the birds...”

  “You pulled from the recent newspapers and videos,” she said, as tears spilled over his lashes.

  “How do you maintain hope? You have no understanding of how to bend energy or how to manifest change within the laws of nature . . . humans are so small against the perils so large, yet you hope.”

  “Because most of us know, somewhere way down deep inside us—without being able to explain why—we know that there’s something bigger than us, something stronger than us, something that doesn’t want this horrible thing that is happening to us to happen.”

  “But you are mortal,” he said in a quiet rush. “Your time here is finite to the human senses, and there is such fear among you of crossing over into the unknown.”

  “Even though we argue about the path and whose way is the so-called right way, and every religion swears theirs is the only answer, we know inside us that even if we die, there’s someplace we can go to be at peace, and that we can see our loved ones again, or we can come back to help right the wrongs . . . we know, Azrael, no matter what logic dictates. No matter what evil men and women do, we know that truth and right will prevail in the end . . . even if we don’t live to see it. Even if it will take generations to make it right. That is the only way I know of to survive as a human being, a weak and small thing in a very hostile world.”

  “They never could kill all the Light...” Azrael stared up at her.

  “If by ‘they’ you mean the dark side or demons, then no,” she said in a strong voice. “They couldn’t.”

  “For millennia they’ve tried, Celeste. That is why I am a warrior for the Light and against the darkness. They’ve used every evil means they could employ . . . from famine, to pestilence, war, and oppression. They’ve razed whole villages, done unspeakable crimes against humanity and the earth. But they couldn’t turn off all the human Light...And they couldn’t find all the Remnant, like you.”

  “Why?” she murmured, clasping his hands tightly and needing to understand.

  “Divine intervention,” he said in a firm but quiet tone.

  Celeste nodded. “I believe that. My aunt Niecey will tell you that the devil is a liar. They couldn’t make people stop praying during the Holocaust, they couldn’t make people stop praying while they were in the hulls of ships being carried away in slave chains. They couldn’t make people stop praying when they marched them across the country on the Trail of Tears, and like many a vet will tell you, there are no atheists in foxholes. As long as one person does the right thing, keeps praying, keeps believing...”

  “Yes,” he said, squeezing her hands. “That is why you are so important. But the trials and the tribulations that have come against humanity, that is not God’s doing. The Source loves you and would never just toy with humans for capricious, egocentric reasons. That is the big lie.”

  She leaned in closer, bringing his hands within her fists against her heart. “Don’t you see, Az, the more they do against innocent people in the material world, the more we hold on tighter to what we can’t see . . . because when everything around us in the natural world is totally without hope, the only place to go is somewhere out there to a Higher Source and to ask for supernatural help. And time and time again, history proves that, something nobody can really explain happens to make things right.”

  Chapter 9

  As Forcas approached, beautiful, drug-limp women pulled away from Nathaniel. He tossed back the remains of his Bowmore single-malt Scotch and surveyed his lush surroundings, bemused by Forcas’s worried expression. Life was good and the human world was well on its way to going to hell in a handbasket. Comfort and wealth surrounded him. Lucifer had placed unlimited resources at his disposal; what was there to worry about?

  Nathaniel smiled and studied his manicure, waiting for the so-called distressing news from one of his sentries. The temporary waterfront-warehouse roost that he’d selected for his fallen angels had been transformed into a lush, ultramodern sanctuary filled with priceless originals from Salvador Dalí, Picasso, and Warhol stolen from the collections. Sumptuous art deco furnishings and red and black leather sofas and chaise longues were draped with heroin-dazed models while still others toked on pipes filled with rock cocaine. He watched one beauty snort her brains out along a kidney-shaped glass table, then lick the tiny coke crumbs left behind. She was as good as dead.

  He took a hit of coke and smirked as he stood, enjoying the freak show of naked bodies writhing on the floor before an open fireplace pit. He loved the body he now inhabited and thoroughly enjoyed the way it responded to the sensual earth environment. He had exquisite Roman features, lush dark hair, was tall, muscular, equipped for battle and for sexual prowess, with humans groveling at his feet—this world was good to him.

  Four strong, dark angels, each with the body of a gladiator, and representing tribes to the east, to the west, to the north, and to the south, guarded the cardinal points of the warehouse. They nodded at Forcas as he passed.

  Nathaniel lifted a decanter of the single-malt Scotch and tipped it in Forcas’s direction as Forcas dropped to one knee in front of him. “You look like you need a drink, brother.”

  “He was stronger than we expected.”

  “We?” Nathaniel said with a sinister smile. “I told you not to underestimate the Angel of Death. I battled him many times in the first war, and he is still in existence, as am I.” Nathaniel poured two short glasses of Scotch, slid one across the kidney-shaped glass table, and motioned with his hand for Forcas to rise and sit on one of the art deco, black leather chairs. “We cannot waste time bickering amongst ourselves, but next time do not be so arrogant. Take Appollyn with you . . . but tell me, where did you find him?”

  “In a library.”

  Nathaniel held his glass in midair and burst out laughing. “Oh, that is so rich and so like Azrael!”

  “He had eaten clean foods, too, milord. Not only is his will strong, but his human body energy is also very strong. He attacked without hesitation, and I could tell that he owned no fear.”

  “Of course he didn’t,” Nathaniel said in a low, ominous tone as his eyes turned pure black.

  Forcas looked down at the geometric-design rug, clasping his hands between his knees. “He found the girl.”

  “What!” Nathaniel was on his feet in an instant and hurled the glass at the far, exposed-brick warehouse wall. As it shattered, his long waves of brunet hair lifted from his shoulders on an unnatural wind.

  “She took him to the library. She must have been the one who fed him,” Forcas said quickly.

  The dark angels who guarded the four corners of the large, open space now turned their focus inward to stare at the dispute. Nathaniel reached back with both hands, spun hard, and flung a dark orb of black energy against the windows, shattering the floor-to-ceiling panes. Humans shrieked, and he waved his arm, rendering them unconscious. But instead of the glass exploding outward, it imploded to cover the floor w
ith glass that suddenly blackened.

  “Demon centurions!” he shouted. “Come forth!”

  Every shard of glass sprang to life, drawing together until they formed six writhing masses. Each squirming black essence soon transformed into a grotesque figure of human deformity, with gargoyle features and red, gleaming eyes. Each demon’s mouth was twisted and distended by jagged teeth, hands contorted into bone-crushing claws. Gray-green flesh the pallor of death pulled away from their semi-exposed muscles. Naked and sexless, they looked up at Nathaniel, gazes narrowed.

  When they stood, Nathaniel’s stature grew taller and he ripped off his black biker jacket. As his rage escalated, a pair of enormous, glistening black wings tore through his back. Blood splattered the table and across Forcas’s face from the violent ejection. Nathaniel pointed at the demons, which had begun to back away from him.

  “How in Lucifer’s name could this happen? The last report I received she was broken, on the verge of suicide, and had been driven mad! How in so short a time can this be?”

  “Asmodeus, as you are aware, we are not allowed to kill her, so commanded the Dark Lord,” one bold demon hissed.

  “Nathaniel,” Asmodeus corrected in a lethal whisper between his lengthening fangs. “How many times have I instructed you to call me by the name of this culture’s translation, lest you slip in tongue before the wrong party?”

  “Milord,” the demon corrected with a sneer and a begrudging bow. “Fallen angels and demon principalities cannot trump angels from the higher realm of Powers, where warriors like Azrael are made. Only one from the angel legions of Light can take her life. Remember the edict: We are not allowed to outright murder a member of the Remnant, only drive them mad or make them want to kill themselves. Otherwise, if we kill the girl, upon her death the Light essence of her soul will go to strengthening our enemy’s side. She went beyond our sight—”

  “Because he took her onto consecrated ground! Where is she now?”

  “We do not know, milord. We are currently blind to her whereabouts...perhaps she is still on consecrated ground.”

  “Don’t you have a tether to her addiction? Haven’t you kept her tempted by drugs and alcohol enough to make her soul weak and to question her own judgment! Use the shadows to send dark spiritual attachments to leach her Light from her spirit, to drive her further into self-destruction—give her cancer, goddamn you! Something, anything, but she cannot pair with the Light’s fucking Angel of Death! Make her life even more of a living hell so she’ll commit suicide and be done with this folly!”

  “She is no longer addicted,” the demon said in a hiss, stepping forward to challenge Nathaniel with a narrowed gaze. “He cleaned her out; that much we know. He used a power that you no longer own, the power to heal, to break our bonds and to remove all spiritual attachments that ravaged her soul. Do not blame us. You were to keep your kind, your brothers in the Light, away from our work . . . and you did not. This is what we will report to the Dark Lord. How you fallen angels suddenly became our over-lords instead of Lucifer is something yet to be sorted out in Hell. But we did everything to make her—”

  “Silence!” Nathaniel shouted and hurled a black energy orb that splattered the demon that had spoken against the brick wall. Nathaniel then turned to the remaining demons, who hissed dissatisfaction over their midlevel commander’s extermination. “Because you did not do your jobs, my brother in darkness encountered a fully prepared Warrior of the Light! A Powers-level angel!” His booming voice shattered the crystal decanter of Scotch.

  “Forcas could have been made to cease to exist. Now he must take Appollyon with him, my Angel of Destruction, or perhaps Malpas, or even Lahash and Pharzuph—none of whom I want to risk this close to the date that the veil will be lifted between worlds. What about this do you not understand? December twenty-first, 2012, is but a few short months away. A few short months! The last time we fought this war, the dark side won only because legions of us took the fall! That will not happen again. Without us, original demons born of Lilith would have been crushed—are there any questions about this history?”

  Nathaniel walked a slow, threatening circle around the silent demons. “Get the girl away from Azrael. Drive a wedge between them, break her spirit, make her distrust him, do whatever it takes so that he may not claim her. Find this girl and bring her to me. If you cannot turn her dark or break her, I will do so myself!”

  Azrael sat very still in the dim, modest living room, contemplating the human female that disquieted him so deeply. Tonight a pair of soft, gentle hands had caressed his scars. Something he’d never felt before slowly lit inside his chest as she’d unexpectedly attempted to heal him with her touch.

  He’d felt her soul weep as she’d stared at his destroyed back. Then came her anger, the pure fire of her righteous indignation and readiness to protect him against whatever had caused his butchering. The warrior-defender in her spirit had risen in a snap call to arms as her mind wrestled with who could have abused him so.

  She cared so intensely, so deeply, yet didn’t even know him. But to her, that didn’t matter; in her mind, what had happened to him was wrong, and she didn’t care who he was or what the circumstances, it caused her pain to see another being harmed. Then her soft, soft cheek rested against his shoulder in the sanctuary of the church for a few moments while her hands stroked away his shame. This after the woman had been beaten, starved, traumatized, humiliated, chased by dogs and demons, and otherwise abused. But she still had room in her heart to see the pain of another, even used her own pain, her own tragic experiences, to identify with his.

  What was this glorious capacity of the human spirit? What was this capricious thing called free will, where some of them could commit the worst abominations against each other, while still others could reach out past their own agony, past their own best interest, to help someone they perceived more in need than themselves?

  Celeste had sensed disorientation and fear in him, while she was terrified herself. Azrael looked at the stairs, remembering watching her footfalls as she’d said good-night. He’d relaxed under her sweet touch, even while unable to sort out how she’d made him feel, just as it was impossible to grapple with the emotions that roiled within him as she fed him fresh mangoes and potato chips and ice cream, then wiped his sticky face. Some level of tenderness belonged to the nurturing angelic realms, but Celeste owned that same divinity here on earth.

  After being in her company and then being introduced to her aunt, and experiencing how a woman who’d lost so much still gave so much, he finally understood the lesson in the loss he’d experienced. Human beings could also heal. They were indeed Divine beings. Perhaps that was what he had to understand before he could ever go forward with his mission.

  He’d looked into a pair of weary but gentle brown eyes and had seen that through all the scars Celeste Jackson had endured her spirit still had innocence, hope, and a plea that fairness and justice prevail. He’d seen that goodness, her pristine core, and felt as if his heart would shatter as her voice broke and she bit her lip when he had to deliver the hard truth that her aunt’s days were numbered. His sworn code would only allow for the truth, and he didn’t know what to do to stop Celeste’s pain. And he so desperately wanted to stop her pain. But wisdom that profound was something he did not own.

  Part of him was compelled to hug her, while another part of him wanted to just lie and avoid her question altogether. Conflicted, he’d opted for the inadequate words and had told her what he now wished he hadn’t, all the while his arms strangely aching to embrace her.

  He released a long sigh and dragged his fingers through his hair. Even with the bitter truth, she didn’t blame him or lash out at him when she easily could have. Instead her eyes had glittered with unspent tears and the passion of conviction. Celeste’s gorgeous brown eyes were the eyes of a human woman who had endured much but still believed. She’d made his fingers tremble as he’d traced the lines of her tears and beheld her pretty face. She h
ad taught him something else tonight, something just as important as hope—faith when all hope is lost.

  And what he was feeling right now for her was so damned dangerous. She had the potential to become an addiction, something more than a passing bad habit. He knew the rules, but could also feel rational thought evaporating within him. It was imperative to wrest back control. When he’d seen Forcas, something fragile within him had snapped.

  Azrael rubbed his palms down his face. Yes, he was a warrior, but tonight he’d felt murderous intent. What he’d felt was about more than simply protecting a valued asset of the Light; listening to Forcas try to coax Celeste into the darkness had ignited a level of rage that he’d never known . . . just as she had, in her honest assessment of life, somehow ignited brand-new passion within him. It was terrifying.

  Azrael stood and walked away from the sofa into the dining room. He had to shake this feeling and do something constructive to occupy his mind.

  Left to his own devices within the new wonder of a twenty-first-century human home, sleep evaded him. That’s what he told himself. It was the newness of the environment; it was the threat of ever-present danger. He would not attribute his restlessness to persistent thoughts of her.

  Azrael looked down at the computer. It made him sad that by truthfully answering her question he’d brought her pain. He wondered if that was really the source of human lies—not wanting to cause pain, not wanting to experience pain from the other person’s reaction, or a mixture of both.

  Those kinds of human choices he was beginning to understand, just as he was becoming aware of just how much he didn’t really know. Every emotion had a trigger, had a price, and exacted some toll on his spirit and even his body. He’d felt emotional pain as though it were a heaviness in his chest. He’d felt rage zing through him so hotly and quickly that it had made his ears ring. He could now also identify tenderness and caring; it felt warm and soothing, just as laughter caused everything within him to instantly lighten.