Surrender to Dawn

by J. Kenner

  "Jarel," she said, peering through the glass. She flipped the locks and opened the door. "We're not open right now."

  A scraggly red-haired man in a silver-studded biker jacket and filthy black jeans stepped closer. "Since when you stop opening at ten, Rachel?"

  "Sorry, Jarel," she said. "We're short-staffed."

  He leaned forward, peering at me, then into the bar and at Rose. "Looks like you got enough folks in here to serve me a pint."

  "Closed," Rachel said firmly, then started to push the door. His foot went into the space, blocking the door from closing all the way. I stepped forward, wondering if I was going to need to intervene between Rachel and the obnoxious customer.

  But Rachel had it under control. "Give it up, Jarel. We're closed. But if you come back at five, the Guinness is on the house."

  "Yeah?"

  "Absolutely."

  "That's something."

  He retreated, and she locked up, then pulled the velvet curtains over the windows to block any further interruptions.

  "Loyal clientele," I said.

  "Demon," she said. "Pretty nasty one, too. But he always pays his bills on time."

  I glanced back at the door and sighed. Unless he'd come at me with a knife, I wouldn't have picked him out of a lineup as a demon. Apparently Rachel really did know what she was doing. About spotting demons, anyway. About this Deacon-finding thing, I was still dubious.

  "He's one of the ones I was going to point out to you later today," she added.

  "What?"

  “To kill," she said easily. “To make you stronger." She glanced back toward the door. "He's the kind who'd rip your head off if he thought you had a chance of closing the gate. Kill him. Get stronger. And make the world a better place."

  "Maybe," I said, temptation welling within me. On the one hand, the mere thought of a demon kill got me all jazzed up. On the other hand, did I really need to be running around risking my hide for a hit? Even if I might be making the demon-ridden streets that much safer.

  "Just saying," Rachel said.

  "Let's just focus on Deacon," I said as I once again took my seat. "What exactly are you going to do?"

  "Scry," she said, and I nodded sagely because I didn't want to admit that I had no idea what she was talking about.

  Rose, thank goodness, wasn't so prideful. "Huh?"

  "Scrying is a way of seeing things psychically. It's not a common ability, but it is one of my gifts. All the women in my family have been able to scry." She looked at me. "Except for Alice. Her visions took a different form."

  I nodded wryly. At first, I'd assumed the sight was part of my new Prophecy Girl persona, but I learned soon enough that not only had it come from Alice, but my demonic handlers had no knowledge that I had the gift. And even before I'd realized they'd duped me, I'd kept the sight secret. What can I say? I'd always been a bit of a rebel, and even though I thought I was working for heaven, I couldn't just leave my old personality on the doorstep, could I?

  At any rate, it was because of Alice's sight that I'd been able to peek into Rachel's head, and I trusted her (more or less) despite her past ventures into the dark arts. And it was because of the sight that I knew that Deacon—though once confined to the darkest pits of hell—craved redemption with a passion intense enough to consume both of us.

  And it was because of the sight that I'd been able to see the future through Gabriel's eyes—a future in which all of the demons in the world bowed down before me.

  A future that could come to pass, I knew. But one that I told myself I didn't want, despite the dark bits inside me rising to challenge that assessment. Or, rather, because of those dark bits.

  I shivered and prayed for both strength and the lost key. Because if I could get that damn gate closed and locked with Deacon's supposedly missing key, then the temptation to use the Oris Clef would vanish.

  At least, I hoped it would.

  "So what do you do?" Rose asked.

  "You've seen it done in movies and things, I'm sure," Rachel said. "Crystal gazing."

  "Yeah?" Rose leaned in to peer over the bar into the work area where Rachel now stood. "You have a crystal ball back there?"

  Rachel shook her head. "I take a slightly different approach."

  As we watched, she pulled down five different brands of vodka, followed by three different brands of gin. She put the bottles on the bar in two rows, then turned her attention to me. "Run and dim the lights, would you?"

  I did, then returned through the velvety black, which was broken only by the single brass lamp that sat behind the bar, its low-wattage light casting a dim orange glow.

  "Perfect," Rachel said.

  "So you can find Deacon?" Rose asked. "How about the key? Can you find that, too?" She shifted in her seat to face me. "I mean, if he's all ookey-demoney, then maybe we should skip Deacon altogether and just shoot for the big prize."

  A damn good plan, actually. Too bad Rachel shot it down. "Only people." She lifted a shoulder. "Well, only living energy, which means humans and demons who have taken on a living form within this dimension."

  "Oh." I clasped my hands together and tried not to think about the thought that was pounding inside my head: If Deacon had gone over into some other dimension, then this all might end without my ever seeing him again.

  From somewhere behind the bar, Rachel pulled out a small black candle. She placed it in front of the collection of bottles, lit it, then turned behind her to switch off the brass lamp. The single flame danced in the dark, the light reflecting on the glass bottles and the clear liquid within. Rachel closed her eyes, then drew her hand over the flame, so close I knew that her palm must be burning, but no pain reflected on her face. Instead, she tilted her head back, then leaned forward and opened her eyes.

  When she did, they appeared to burn, as if the flame she had touched had traveled through her to her eyes. She spread her hands so that her fingers seemed to call to the bottles, and her entire being was focused solely on the liquid within.

  Rose and I might as well have not existed, and I reached blindly for Rose's hand, then squeezed tight, wondering if I should stop the ritual. I was afraid Rachel was sliding back into the dark arts from which she had broken away. And if she did that, I feared that she, like Deacon, would get sucked back into her past.

  I leaned forward, prepared to reach out and shake her and try to break the trance, but I couldn't do it. I wanted too desperately to see Deacon. And as much as I hated myself for letting Rachel put her toe back into the dark to satisfy my own needs, I wasn't willing to make her stop. Not when I knew that I stood on the precipice of sacrificing so much more of myself than a toe.

  I squeezed Rose's hand, hating myself, and wondering how a person as selfish as me could be expected to save the whole goddamned world.

  "He is alone," Rachel said, in a voice not her own. "He is alone. And he is waiting."

  "What for?" I whispered, not even certain she could hear me.

  Apparently, she could. Her head turned slowly toward me, as the rest of her body stayed utterly still. "For you," she said. And then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell to the floor.

  "Holy crap!" Rose called.

  I silently seconded that assessment, even as I vaulted over the bar, almost knocking down her little arrangement of vodka and gin bottles as I did. "Rachel!" I scooped my arms under her shoulders and forced her upright. "Rachel, dammit, answer me."

  Her body shook as if she were coming off a really bad high, her teeth chattering as I hugged her close, trying to get her warm. "Blanket," I said to Rose, who was halfway across the pub before the word was even out of my mouth.

  "Rach! Rachel! Are you okay? Dammit, you shouldn't have done that!"

  "F-fine," she said. "W-will be f-fine."

  "It's black magic," I hissed, "and you gave that shit up. I should never have let you—"

  Her hand closed tight around my wrist. "My choice," she said, and this time, her voice and her eyes were clear.
"My choice." She drew in a noisy breath, her lungs rattling as if they were filled with gunk. "And it's only black if you use it for black." She reached up to cup my face. "I was using it for you. I was using it for good."

  Her eyes closed, and her shoulders slumped again in exhaustion.

  I held her close, hoping like hell that she was right.

  7

  “Where is he? Where is he?" Rose called, as she raced back with a blanket. “Does she know where he is?"

  "Bridge," Rachel said, her voice soft and breathy.

  "Quiet," I said, pressing a damp bar towel to her forehead. "Just sit for a minute."

  "Holy crap," Rose said, skidding to a stop near the bar. "Holy crap, holy crap. Is she okay?"

  "I think so," I said.

  "I'm fine," Rachel said, struggling to get up.

  I held her down. "Forget it. You're going to sit right here on the floor and drink a brandy. You look like shit."

  "Thanks a lot." She pressed her fingers to her temple and winced. "But I will take a brandy."

  I nodded to Rose to pour one, which was a mistake because she proceeded to stare at the bottles, her mouth slightly open as she perused each of the labels.

  "There," Rachel finally said, pointing helpfully toward the far side of the bar.

  "Oh. Right." A few moments later, Rose handed Rachel the glass. And not long after that I rocked back on my heels, examined her face, and pronounced the woman healthy enough to tell us what the fuck had just happened.

  "It drains me," she said, then shrugged as if she were embarrassed. "It never drained my mother. She used to gaze into the dishwater every morning. Some days it would show her what would happen to us that day. Some days she'd see years into the future." She pointed at me. "She never told us, but I think she knew that Alice was going to die."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Nothing specific. Just a feeling I had. She used to treat Alice like she wasn't entirely permanent." She shook her head, as if she was trying to sort her thoughts. "Probably my imagination. But I do know for sure that she saw something mysterious about Alice at least once."

  "How do you know that?" I'd been living in Alice for a while, but she'd died before I moved in, so I still didn't feel like I knew the girl. Everything I'd learned had been through her friends, her mail, or her medicine cabinet.

  "Mom's the reason Alice got that," Rachel said, pointing her finger at my left breast.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Not the boob," Rachel said. "The tattoo."

  "Really?" Alice had a tiny dagger tattoo on her breast that I'd wondered about since day one. "Why? What did she see?"

  "No idea," Rachel said. "But Alice would have been about thirteen. Mom and I were doing dishes, and she saw something. And Mom left the dishes in the sink and stormed up to Alice's bedroom and took her to a tattoo parlor right then.”

  “Wow," Rose said.

  "Yeah, no kidding," Rachel agreed. "I didn't even like tattoos, but I remember begging to get one, too. I guess I thought it was cool or something, but Mom said no."

  "Did Alice ever tell you what your mom saw?"

  "I don't think Mom even told Alice," Rachel said.

  "And she saw whatever it was in the dishwater?" Rose said, her lip curling. "You have so got to be kidding me."

  Rachel laughed, then reached for Rose's hand. "I promise you, I'm not. Mother could scry with any shiny surface, though. I think she just liked to show off with the bubbles."

  "And you?"

  "Bottles only." She exhaled, then climbed to her feet, and I got the distinct feeling that the discussion about Alice's breasts was over. My curiosity, however, had been mightily piqued.

  I turned my attention back to Rachel, ready to steady her if she toppled over. "I'm okay," she said, then slid out from behind the bar and moved to a nearby table. "But it does take a lot out of me."

  "So back to Rose's original question," I said. "Where is he?"

  "The bridge," Rachel said dully. "The Zakim Bridge." She turned her face toward me. "But don't go, Lily. He's not . . . He's not himself."

  Her words twisted in my heart. He'd taken back his demonic form so that he could save me. But that wasn't who he was anymore, and it sure as hell wasn't who he wanted to be. And if there was even the slightest chance that his nature hadn't consumed him, I had to go to him. I had to tell him what I was going to do.

  And, yeah, I had to offer him the chance to help me. And to help himself.

  "He'll hurt you," Rose said. "You saw the way he looked at us."

  I had, but I also saw the fight within him. "He needs me," I said, simply. I didn't completely understand it, and for a while I'd even tried to fight it, but Deacon and I were bound. Our destinies were entwined as our bodies had been. He was in my heart, and if there was even the slightest chance to save him, I knew that I had to try.

  "There's not even a guarantee he's still there," Rachel said. "I didn't find him at home—I didn't even see where home is. And I doubt he's going to hang around on a bridge forever."

  "That's why I need to go now," I said. "You'll stay with Rose?"

  "Hello? I should go with you." She drew her blade. "You need someone to watch your back."

  "I've got my own back," I said. "And I want Rachel watching yours."

  "You said I stayed with you!"

  "I did," I admitted. "But that was before Rachel told me about the protections on the pub."

  "But I'm not family."

  "They'd have to go through me to get to you," Rachel said. "And they can't do that."

  "Screw this," Rose said sulkily.

  "You're staying," I said, but with not quite as much force. I was afraid. Afraid of making the wrong decision and losing her.

  Rachel reached out and squeezed my hand. "It's okay," she said. "We'll go into the apartment. I can add protections there."

  "Rachel—"

  Her smile flickered. "For good," she said. "Not for black. I'll be fine."

  "Go. You may not have much time."

  "It's no fair," Rose said.

  "Please," I said, moving to stand in front of my sister. "I can't deal if you argue. Just do this, okay? Stay. Stay and help Rachel find the priest."

  "Fine," she said, managing to make the one word sound much more like "fuck you."

  "Call me before you come back," Rachel said. "I'll see if I can find out where Jarel holes up."

  "Jarel?" I tried to shift my thoughts away from Rose and come up with a face to go with the name, but nothing popped.

  "The redhead," she reminded me. "The one you should—" She ended her sentence with a pantomimed knife slice across her throat.

  "Oh. Right. But I'm not sure I should be risking my neck going after him. I mean, he might leave me alone."

  She shrugged. "Or you might be giving him the time to gather a miniature army to take you out good and proper. Trust me when I say that I wouldn't put something like that past a guy like Jarel."

  Okay, she had a point. "I'll call," I said.

  "Good. In the meantime, Rose and I will dig in, right, Rose?"

  "Whatever."

  I bit back a laugh, because no matter how freaky our lives had become, that tone in her voice would forever mean home. And normalcy.

  "My bike's at my apartment," I said to Rachel. "Can I take your car?"

  She frowned, and I could practically see her saying a mental good-bye to her pristine Mercedes. "Good of mankind," I prodded. "Saving the world. All that stuff."

  "Driving to meet a ferocious demon who almost killed you . . ."

  "He didn't almost kill us," I said. "He just lunged at us in a really mean way."

  She cast her eyes up toward heaven. At least that was what I thought until she spoke. "Upstairs. Keys are on the hook next to the refrigerator. It's parked in the back."

  "I thought you guys were going to hole up in the apartment with protections?"

  She nodded toward the bar and the collection of bottles. "As soon as I put the place back together.
"

  I left Rose sulking with Rachel, snagged the keys, then checked myself in the mirror by the apartment door. I still wasn't used to Alice's face staring back at me—I'd always been plain, not pretty, and seeing those bright green eyes and that flawless skin always threw me for a bit of a loop. The body was more functional, too. More athletic and less burdened by the baggage left over from too many Kit Kat bars.

  I tugged down the collar of the tank I wore to display the dagger tattoo on my breast. Why on earth would a woman suddenly decide to tattoo her adolescent daughter? I'd marked Rose because I hadn't wanted her to forget who she was. Had Alice's mother had the same sort of motivation? Or was I seeing connections where none existed?

  I didn't know, but at the moment I was hardly inclined to think about it. I adjusted my thigh holster, shrugged into my red duster, then strapped the demon's scabbard onto my back and slid his sword inside. My blade, a sword, and a switchblade. Probably not enough, but unless I was going to carry a knife block and a set of steak knives, it was all I had at the moment.

  "Here goes nothing," I said to my reflection. I looked like what I was—a warrior. And while I normally wouldn't go out on the streets of Boston looking like that, with only four days left in my countdown, I wasn't much worried about appearances.

  I had a goal, and the sooner I got to the bridge, the better. I swept out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the back door of the pub—at which point I ran smack into Jarel.

  Apparently Rachel was right. He was one demon who needed killing.

  "I hear you got something special hanging from round that pretty little neck of yours," Jarel said, and I winced, forcing myself to keep my hand at my side and not raise it protectively to my throat. "Don't seem fair a little thing like you would have such a fancy necklace. Does it, fellas?"

  A low murmur of negatives filled the alley, and though I could see no one else, I knew they were there. Demons, hiding in the darkness. Demons, waiting to whale on my ass.

  "Just try and take it," I said, with more bravado than I felt. I might be immortal, but that didn't mean I was impervious. Lots of nasty things could happen to me. Like, for example, they could cut off my legs. My arms. My head.