by Anthology
“I don’t like to see you frown,” Deacon said, then kissed me so hard and so unexpectedly that my phone tumbled from my fingers in surprise. When he broke the kiss, his dark eyes smoldering, he gave me a small, knowing smile. Then he bent down to retrieve my phone, his dark hair shifting as it grazed the back of his neck.
I blinked, certain I couldn’t have seen what I’d thought. I dropped down onto my knees and pressed my hands over his, stopping him from standing again. He looked at my face, and the soft expression faded to hard lines and angles. “What?”
“Your neck,” I said. “What do you have on the back of your neck?”
I saw the truth in his eyes, even before I leaned sideways to look.
“No,” he said.
But fear and fury were on my side, as well as my newly acquired preternatural strength. I flipped him over and straddled him just long enough to push his hair aside. Then I leaped up, certain the fear and loathing would consume me.
“A Tri-Jal? You’re a fucking Tri-Jal?”
“Lily, calm down.”
But there was no calming down. Not from that. He had the mark. The serpent tattoo. Zane had warned me that I’d meet one again one day. The feral demons. The worst of the worst. Attack dogs for their master, only some of which managed to assimilate in our world.
Deacon, I’d say, had done a damn fine job assimilating.
“Let me explain,” he said as I lunged back down on him, the tip of my knife pressed to his heart.
“Just tell me the truth. Am I right. Are you a Tri-Jal?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened on the blade, and I told myself I needed to thrust it home. I couldn’t, though. I hesitated, my mind filled with doubts and questions.
He saw it and used it, tossing me over and pulling his own blade, pressing it hard against my neck. “I’ve told you only the truth, Lily. I haven’t betrayed you.”
The next thing I knew I was flying across the yard, tossed aside like he’d tossed Leon the first day I’d seen him.
I landed hard on my ass and scrambled to my feet, prepared to take off after him.
I didn’t, though, because my arm began to scream in agony. I doubled over, clutching it, and watched as Deacon disappeared in the red haze of my pain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The portal dumped me out at a little church a few miles from downtown Boston. The place was ancient, battered, and abandoned, with plywood across the stained glass and scaffolding barring the door. I drew in a breath, then looked up, catching a final glimpse of the portal closing above me, the way back to Clarence and Zane now blocked.
This time, at least, I was allowed to bring toys. A crossbow. A sword. And a shitload of knives. Color me a happy warrior.
I stood, then looked around to get my bearings. Yellow caution tape encircled the building, and I had to wonder if the place had been condemned, or if the demons were trying to discourage unwanted visitors.
I’m certain I qualified as the latter, but the plan hadn’t worked. I wasn’t discouraged at all. If anything, my toes were itching to kick demon butt.
As stealthily as possible, I eased toward the church. I found my first guard at the front doors. A bored-looking doughboy dressed in black. I lifted the crossbow, aimed, and fired, taking him out before he even knew what had happened.
The ease of it gave me a buzz, and I began to think that maybe this was possible after all.
I considered entering through those doors, but I decided to walk the perimeter and take out any other guards. I found four more, and dispatched them easily as well. So much for security. I had to presume that they believed the attack on me had succeeded. That the poison had killed me, and that heaven had no warrior who would fight to keep the gate closed.
I was feeling better and better about the mission as I edged along the side of the building next to one of the guards I’d dropped. The plywood barrier over one of the windows had come loose, and I raised myself up on my toes and peered in. A demon in the form of an ancient, weathered man stood in the center of a golden circle that had been drawn with chalk on the floor. He was dressed as a priest, and his blatant nose-thumbing of heaven and tradition hit me like a slap in the face.
Around him knelt five demons, each in black robes with hoods covering their faces.
I ran my fingers through my hair, considering my options. Six to one did not spectacular odds make. Even with me sporting some damn cool weapons and a shitload of attitude.
Fuck.
I took two deep breaths, reminding myself of why it was me standing there out outside that window. Because according to the heavenly forces watching over us, I was the anointed super soldier who could take these bastards out. Whose blood could destroy the Box that would otherwise open the gate to hell. Clearly, I had a little holy sumpin’ sumpin’ going on. A fact that should have bolstered my confidence to an insane degree, but instead had me waiting for the other shoe to drop. The shoe that would squash me like a tiny little bug.
How’s that for confidence?
Not great, I’ll admit, and I forced myself to shake off the fear and the hesitation and to own up to the fact that I could do this. I’d proven it over and over again already, and with each assignment, my strength grew. I might not be the most elegant fighter in town, but I’d already earned my street-fighting chops, I’d taken out their security team, and I’d been busting serious demon ass in Zane’s ring.
One on one, I wasn’t doubting myself.
Six to one, though . . .
That was going to take more than strength and cool weapons. If I was going to survive, I was going to have to get creative. I turned a circle in the courtyard, searching for things I could use to increase my arsenal.
An iron fence surrounded the property, and though I couldn’t pry the arrowlike fence toppers off, I did manage to loosen one entire post—an iron bar with a deadly pointed end that fit perfectly in my hand, its weight remarkably well-balanced for throwing.
With my makeshift javelin in my hand, I scoured the area, gathering stones from a small garden and shoving them in the pocket of my jeans. That would have to do. I dropped my coat at the foot of an angel statue, hefted the crossbow in one hand and the javelin in the other, and edged around the building toward the back entrance.
The doors were unlocked, and I pulled them open and eased inside, armed and very, very dangerous.
I found myself in an unoccupied reception hall filled with tables and chairs. At the far end of the room, I could see the doorway, through which the gate-opening ceremony was in full swing.
No time for planning—I needed to get moving.
Keeping to the walls, I circumnavigated the room until I was right by the doorway. I lifted my knife, using its polished surface as a mirror to see into the room without revealing myself.
The demon in priest garb moved within a circle, touching each of the five kneeling demons on the head with a silver stick as he mumbled some sort of incantation. I waited, knowing I needed to destroy the Box. I didn’t see it yet, and I held my breath, waiting for that key piece of the ceremony to be revealed.
I didn’t have long to wait.
The high priest held his hand over the middle of the circle and a finger of blue flame shot up from the ground, the golden Box suspended in the middle of it. And as the flame disappeared, the Box sank slowly to the ground.
Showtime. I sliced my palm to ready my blood, then rounded the corner. I let the iron post fly and then took my stance with the crossbow even as my makeshift javelin hit its mark, sliding through the back of one of the kneeling demons. He splayed forward as his brothers rose, and I took aim and fired, the crossbow shooting true and nailing a second son of a bitch right in the eye. He staggered, screamed, and fell to the ground as the three remaining vassals moved to cover the high priest, who now held the Box in his hand.
I could still hear him chanting behind them, and knew that not only was this not over, but I had to move faster. I reloaded the crossbow,
only to have it snatched out of my hands and tossed aside by the quick snap of a leather whip.
I gasped, my hand stinging, and looked out at the hardened face of one of the vassals. “You will not succeed,” he said. “Our quest is righteous.”
“The hell it is,” I countered, reaching into my pocket for a handful of rocks. I let them fly, scattering the vassals, and drew my sword from the scabbard. With it in my right hand and my blade in my bloody left, I rushed forward. I caught one across the middle, slicing him hard across the chest, my body immediately thrumming as the scent of his blood washed over me. It spurred me on, and I stabbed another through the heart with my blade. I owned that kill, and the strength of the act flooded through me like strong wine.
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
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 there’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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“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.”