Surrender to Dawn

by J. Kenner

  But his vision had come before the prophecy kicked in. A cryptic bunch of nonsense words, the prophecy basically said that Prophecy Girl—me—would have the power to open or close the gate. To cause or prevent Armageddon.

  Not that anyone had bothered to tell me that. Instead, the demons tipped the scale. They manipulated the prophecy. They made me. They tricked me. And when I killed Father Carlton, I made the choice described in the prophecy. I'd chosen my allegiance. And now, I feared, I was screwed.

  More than that, I feared that any vision that Deacon had seen was all shot to hell. After all, visions weren't set in stone. They were a preview of the future, sure. But they could change on a dime.

  Deacon was watching me, his expression thoughtful. "Shall we call Gabriel now? Have you go away with him to await the convergence?"

  I winced. "Not top of my list, no."

  "Then there's no harm in trusting my vision, is there? We have four days. We find the key during that time, and you're safe. We both are."

  I nodded, and we simply stood for a moment, him holding me tight and me pressed up close, listening to the beating of his heart. It was the sound of humanity, and somehow, hearing it in the chest of this demon, gave me hope.

  "Do they know what's happening?" I asked. “The regular humans, I mean. Like those people on the bridge. The people here, visiting this church. Do they understand?"

  "Some," Deacon said. "The rest probably think what they saw was a publicity stunt."

  "Not just the ones who saw our fight. I was talking about the world. All the humans."

  "Some see the signs and believe," he said. "Some refuse to open their eyes."

  "And when they see something like Penemue?"

  His mouth curled up in a half grin, "That might convince them. Maybe."

  What I didn't understand was why I wasn't seeing Gabriel and Penemue or even Kokbiel around every corner. The demons trying to cut off my head for what was around my neck, the angel trying to take me away, intent on sacrificing me for the greater good.

  "Gabriel can no longer take you by force," Deacon said after I voiced the question, his eyes dipping to the Oris Clef. "You are protected now by its power. That's how you were able to get away after he had captured you in the chamber. Once you had the Oris Clef, his hold on you weakened and broke."

  "Oh." That was a bit of good news. And certainly explained a lot.

  "He can still try to persuade you to go with him willingly," Deacon added. "Frankly, I'm surprised he has not."

  I didn't tell him about the strange illusion of Gabriel's face floating over Madame Parrish. "What about the demons?"

  "They're not like me," Deacon said. "Penemue and Kokbiel are massive, cross-dimensional beings that have only become more massive during the time they've spent cast out. They're not so much beings as they are forces of nature, and for them to create a portal to this dimension and manifest takes an act of great power, and always with a counterbalancing effect upon the world."

  "Counterbalance?"

  "Earthquake, fire, tornadoes. Like I said, forces of nature."

  “The earth trembled," I murmured, thinking of the newspaper article and the comment that the Shanghai earthquake was only one of several that had been sweeping the globe. "They're coming," I said.

  Deacon nodded. "They are. And I'd guess that Lucas Johnson is, too. We defeated him, and now that you have what he and his master so desired, he'll be back, Lily."

  "I know," I said. "And soon."

  11

  The October sun hung low in the sky as I entered the church, its rays bursting through the stained-glass windows and giving the interior an ethereal quality, as if this place existed in some rainbow dimension, where nothing could harm a thing of such beauty. There was no formal service, yet the pews were full, the faithful on their knees, hands clasped in front of them, heads bent in prayer.

  Many held rosary beads, and I could hear the low murmur of their Hail Mary's. Some, though, were there only to soak in the comfort of the room, and rather than pray the rosary or cast their eyes upon the crucifix that hung at the front of the room, they were looking around at their fellow worshippers. And, of course, at me.

  Me, in my battered red duster, with my black boots, mussed-up hair, and bloodstained tank top. It's a wonder they all didn't run screaming from the room.

  Naturally, the moment that thought entered my head, that was exactly what happened. A grizzled old man stood up, his coat hanging scarecrow-like on his bony shoulders. "That's her," he said. "The girl from television. She cavorts with demons, she does!"

  Heads snapped up. Women clutched their children and scooted backward. Men stood, their faces full of false bravado, hands clenched tight into fists, as if they had even the slightest chance of winning in a fight against me.

  "You want a piece of me?" I snapped, a raw fury rising in me. I was risking my sister, my life, my soul for these people, and they stepped up to accuse me without even understanding? What the fuck was that about?

  The darkness inside me writhed and twisted, urging me to lash out at these fools. These people who didn't understand who I was or what I did and only wanted to wallow in their fear and condemn those who were trying so desperately to save them. "Do you really want a piece of me?"

  A tall, skinny man stepped forward. "I saw you, too," he said. "But I don't think you were cavorting. I think you were fighting."

  I drew in a breath, then released it slowly. Finally, someone who had been paying attention. "I was. I am." I lifted my chin. "That's what I do."

  He looked me up and down, his face soft and pudgy, but his eyes sharp and quick. "Hell of a fight," he said. "What are the stakes?"

  "Do you really want to know?” I don't know why I stood there, engaged in such an inane conversation. But something inside me told me to stay. To see it through. Not so hard to obey that urge, frankly. At the moment no one was trying to kill me. And that, at least, was a good thing.

  Behind him, a few others had gathered, their faces full of curiosity. Many still stood back, clearly not trusting anyone who was fighting on a bridge with two furry wolflike beasts and one Pterodactyl-winged human.

  The man looked behind him at the small group, then held out his hand to a petite woman with a baby on her hip. She took a step forward and grasped his hand. "Yes," she said. "We really want to know."

  "Armageddon," I said, which set off a riot of voices behind me.

  The man clutched his wife's hand tighter, but his eyes never left me. "You lose, and it's all over for us." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Yes."

  He nodded slowly, as if taking that in, and when he lifted his head once more to look at me, I gasped. Because the pudge I'd seen earlier had vanished, replaced by a warrior's countenance. Gabriel.

  I gasped, and took a hurried step back, but the man didn't seem to notice.

  "Are you going to lose?" he asked, though he spoke in the voice of the angel, his words seeming to come not from him but from the very air that surrounded us.

  I shook my head, then lifted my chin. Firm. Certain. "No," I said. “I’m not."

  The illusion faded, and the man in front of me was once again only a man. I blinked, wondering if what I'd seen had been real or simply my mind playing tricks on me. In the end, I supposed it didn't matter. Because I'd meant what I said: I wasn't going to lose.

  To meet that rather ambitious goal, however, I needed help. "Did Father Carlton have an assistant?" I asked. "Another priest, maybe? Someone he shared information with?"

  The man's pudgy brow furrowed. "I don't know. I don't think so."

  "He was close to the monsignor," his wife said.

  "Is he here?"

  The two exchanged glances. "He's . . . He's not well."

  "Don't make me spell out how important this is."

  The man looked back at his wife, who nodded. "Take her," she said, as a low rumble of protest broke out behind her. To their credit, they both ignored the gripes, and no one e
lse stepped up. They might believe I was a demon out to murder the monsignor, but nobody seemed inclined to do anything about it.

  A dark finger snaked through me, contempt for those who came here and sat on their rears and prayed, then didn't lift a finger when they believed that something bad was about to happen. If it was their faith that stilled them, then perhaps my lack of faith wasn't such a handicap after all. I, at least was taking action.

  The man who might have been Gabriel led me into the back of the cathedral, down average-looking hallways that could have been in any office building. I kept expecting us to stop at one of the doors and enter an office, but we kept moving through the building until we finally exited and entered a landscaped courtyard. "Where are we—"

  “Through here," he said, pointing to a gravel path. I looked around, suddenly wary. Maybe this guy wasn't on my side so much after all. Maybe he was leading me to the slaughter.

  Or, thank you, Miss Paranoid, maybe he was leading me to an elderly white-haired man with skin so thin I could see the blood pumping through his veins.

  I drew in a breath, steeling myself. There was no blood spilled, and I was not going to let my bloodlust kick in merely from the thought of what flowed within. Simply not happening.

  "Monsignor Church," my guide said, shaking the shoulder of the man sleeping in the garden chair. "Monsignor?"

  "Church?" I said.

  The man actually smiled. "He lived up to his name."

  “Is he okay?"

  "Old. Very old." He gave the shoulder another gentle shake. "He lives back here. A perk of the Diocese, I guess. He's a little fuzzy in the head, but Father Carlton watched over him." He looked at me, and I forced myself not to react, reminding myself that this man would have no idea who I was or what I did. "I guess now the new rector will step in and take care of the monsignor. Father," he said, bending down close to his ear and speaking loudly. "Father, wake up. You have a guest."

  The old man sputtered and jumped, rheumy eyes blinking open as he peered first at my guide, then at me. "Is it morning already?"

  "Not yet, sir. I've brought someone to talk to you."

  "Is it Missy? She was going to bring a new book today. She reads to me," he said, peering up at me. "My eyes went early. Hard to read. Missy does that for me."

  "Missy moved away, remember? Last year. But I think Beth is coming tomorrow to read you another chapter from The Count of Monte Cristo."

  "Good boy." He patted the man's hand. He turned to me. "Nice of you to come, but I've already been taken care of."

  "No, she's—"

  "I need you to answer a question," I said, hoping to shortcut this process. "About Father Carlton. About the Box of Shankara."

  His head tilted up, those damp eyes suddenly sharp with focus. His lips parted as he looked me up and down. Then he turned to the man who'd brought me this far, reached out, and took his hand. "Leave us, please."

  "But—"

  "Please, Jeffrey. Go."

  "It's okay," I said. "You have my word."

  From the look he gave me, I wasn't sure that he was impressed by my promise. But he did what the monsignor asked and left, casting one final look back at us before the path curved out of sight.

  "What do you know of the box?” he said.

  "I know that we need to find another. Or something that serves the same purpose." I scooted a metal garden chair over, then sat down in front of him. My coat shifted back as I did, revealing the knife strapped to my thigh.

  "It is you, then."

  "Me?"

  He nodded toward the knife. "From Antonio's description of Father Carlton's killer. I thought. And now, I am certain."

  "Antonio?" I asked, but I feared I knew. I'd killed Father Carlton, but not all of the men in that room had died. Antonio, I assumed, I'd merely injured.

  "He was there. Do you deny the things he said you did?"

  "I don't know Antonio. I don't know what he says I did. But I do not deny it."

  His face turned hard. "Go."

  I leaned closer. "I have to fix it. Don't you see? I have to make it right." I squeezed my eyes together, mortified to realize that I was on the verge of tears. "I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't understand the consequences."

  "Bad," he said, his voice starting to lose its focus again. "Bad consequences."

  "Yeah. You could say that. Can you help me? Will you help me?"

  His head tilted as he looked me up and down. I tried to look innocent and trustworthy, but I'm not really sure that I managed. "They play tricks, you know," he said.

  "Who?”

  "Demons."

  I leaned back, eyeing him warily. "Yeah," I said. "I know."

  "Make you walk through fire. Make you suffer. Gotta stand strong. Can't fail. Fail and you burn. Faith, child. Call upon the saints and angels when you have need, but in the end, it's faith that makes you strong."

  "I know," I admitted. "And I'm finding it little by little. But right now I need to find the key. Will you help me? Can you help me?"

  “Tricky they are, the devils. Come like a beautiful woman. Come like an innocent child. Tell you they need help, they will. Tell you they need to close the gate, when all they really want is to hide the key and keep it open forever."

  "That's not me," I said.

  He looked up, all confusion erased from his expression. "How do I know?"

  I felt the weight of the Oris Clef against my neck. And though my head told me not to reveal it, my heart pressed me onward. Faith. Just have faith.

  “This," I finally said, closing my hand around the necklace. "Do you know what this is?"

  He leaned forward, then pulled a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his robe. He put them on, squinted through the lenses, then gasped.

  "You know it?" I asked. “Tell me what it is."

  “Temptation," he breathed.

  "The Oris Clef?” I said, ignoring the fact that he'd spoken the utter truth. "Do you know what it does?"

  "I've only seen pictures. Sketches. The roughest of descriptions." He reached for it, and I eased backward. "How—"

  "It doesn't matter," I said. "The point is I can lock the gate open if I want to. And if I wanted to, I wouldn't care about the Box of Shankara or any other key." I pressed my hand over the necklace. "This is my trump card. Which means that if I'm looking for the Box of Shankara—if I'm looking for another way to lock the gate—it must be because I want to use it, not destroy it."

  "Perhaps," he said. "And perhaps it doesn't matter what you say."

  "Dammit!" My temper flared, and it was all I could do not to leap out of the chair and shake the old man until he told me what I needed to know. "Do you know what's going to happen if I don't find this key?" I clenched my fists, my jaw tight, trying to rein in my temper. "Just tell me this—is there another key? A physical key? Something I could pick up and hold in my hand?" Something, I wanted to ask, that wasn't me.

  "I do not know," he said, then cringed back as if expecting a blow. Dammit all, I'd gone and scared a priest. Which, I'm pretty sure, is way up there on the major-sin scale. Pretty much my only way into heaven was this saving-the-world gig, and so far I was busted flat on that one. Especially if what he was saying was true. Because if he didn't know, then I had no idea who would.

  "What about Antonio? The one who helped Father Carlton? Can we ask him?"

  "Dead," the monsignor said, then crossed himself. "Run down in the street. Hit-and-run, the police said, but I know that wasn't so. They wanted to make sure. Wanted to make sure no one could follow in Father Carlton's footsteps."

  I didn't have to ask who "they" were. Demons.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "A good man, he was. Man of God. Wouldn't have helped you, though. Didn't know a thing. Not about that. Not about the other key. About the way to lock the gate up tight." He blinked up at me. "It's coming, you know. Soon the gate will open, and—"

  "Yeah. I'm kind of hoping we never get to and." I scooted my chair
even closer. Any more, and I would be sitting in his lap. "Antonio didn't know, but you do. Don't you?"

  "Not much," he said. "I don't know much."

  "Will you tell me what you do know?"

  He blinked, his expression clouding again. "About what? What were we talking about?"

  “The gate," I said. "We need to lock the gate to hell. And I need your help."

  "That's what she had, I think. The key. The missing key."

  "She?"

  "Must have been destroyed when he killed her. That's why he killed her, after all."

  My head was spinning trying to follow his thoughts. "Who? What are you talking about?"

  "Beautiful, she was. Like you. And there was such a light in her. Light that not even the darkness around her could smother."

  I opened my mouth to ask once again what the bloody hell he was talking about, but then I snapped it shut. What he was saying . . . There was something so very familiar about his words. "What happened to her?"

  "She came to me. I was her confessor. Traveled all this way from Boarhurst. Said she liked us here at St. Jerome's, but I think she was afraid to go into church near where she lived."

  "Why?" I whispered. "Why would she be afraid?"

  "The things she saw in her life were bad enough, but she had visions. Horrible visions."

  "Of what?"

  "Of this," he said. "Of the gate. Of the demons rushing through. And she believed—oh, how she believed."

  "In what?"

  "In her blood," he said, looking up at me. "She said that her blood would seal the gate."

  I blanched. "Her blood? Was it blood—her daughter's blood—that would seal it?" Please, no. Please, please God, let there be another.

  "Daughter?" He shook his head, as if trying to process the meaning of the word. "No. No, it was an athame. A knife."