Surrender to Dawn
Page 15
That was one second too long.
I slashed out with the blade. I connected. And I cut off the smug son of a bitch's head.
After that, things got crazy. Well, crazier.
Rachel was on the ground, and the demons were on me, and I was kicking and thrusting and hacking for all I was worth, landing some sweet, solid blows, but no kill shots. Nothing that got me nice and juiced up, and dammit, I needed the hit, the strength.
Needed, and wanted.
Beside me, Deacon was lost in the battle as well, wild, his demonic nature, I feared, taking over.
But at least it was killing. It might not be on my side—might only be looking out for itself—but so long as he was in the fray and killing the bad guys, I could deal. For now—until we got Rachel safe—I had no choice but to deal.
What I couldn't deal with was what I saw on the far side of the mob. Morwain, fighting side by side with Rose.
"What the fuck?" I yelled, diving under a demon who was going for Rachel and slicing his belly as I slid neatly beneath him. Entrails poured out over both of us, and Rachel gagged and screamed as I pressed my switchblade into her hand. "Get back," I said. "Get back inside the pub."
Even as I said it, though, I knew she'd never make it alone.
"Come on," I said, grabbing her arm and jerking her upright. Behind us, the demon with the spilled entrails drew a last, gasping breath. Immediately, the power, the horror, the bone-deep vitriol that made up the creature's life began to swirl through me, coloring my movements, giving me confidence and, yes, strength.
"More," I said, as Deacon rushed up beside me. I left him with Rachel, then hurried back into the fray in full attack mode, cutting the demons down like so much underbrush.
Some fought back, but most fled, with Deacon on their heels, determined not to let them leave the place. A few even bowed away, muttering about forgiveness and the Oris Clef and how they swore full allegiance.
A small cadre a few yards away still fought, engaging both Rose and Morwain in an intense battle. I sprinted in that direction, shouting at Rose to get the hell out of there, although I had to grudgingly admit that she was doing damned good. Balance, coordination, and she wasn't even cringing when she thrust her blade into tough demon flesh.
"Get in the pub!" I shouted. "Now!"
"A little preoccupied," she retorted.
"Get out of there," I repeated, sliding into her battle and engaging the burly demon she'd been toying with. "I don't want you getting hurt."
"You made me," she said. "You didn't want me to fight, you shouldn't have put me in a fighter's body."
I didn't point out that I hadn't exactly planned it that way. Right then, I just wanted to make her stop. But at the same time, I had to admit that it made me feel better knowing that she could hold her own.
"Lily!" Rachel called, and I turned to see Deacon battling his way to the door.
It was six against one—well, technically two, but Rachel wasn't much use—and the fury and power that was Deacon made the fight seem unfairly skewed in his direction. He thrummed and thrust and lashed and cut, his body rippling with power, the dark rolling off of him like waves to engulf his prey.
Calling for me had been an utterly superfluous act, because by the time I reached them, Deacon had laid all the attacking demons flat, and Rachel was beyond pale and breathing hard.
"Inside," Deacon said, moving for the door as I called for Morwain and Rose to hurry. Rose did, but Morwain just looked at me.
"Come on," I said. "You did good." I wasn't keen on the admission, but he had helped us. Between him and Deacon, that brought my tally of known decent demons up to two. But you had to start somewhere.
He shook his head. "Go ahead, mistress," he called, then bent over an injured demon and slammed his blade home. "Morwain will stay behind."
Couldn't argue with that. I turned back to the group, about to step into the pub. Rachel took one step, her foot almost crossing the threshold, then her body snapped tight, and I saw with horror the shaft of a crossbow arrow emerging from her back, so deep and so well placed that I was certain it must have at least nicked her heart.
She fell, her mouth open, a bubble of blood forming as she tried to speak.
I was on my knees immediately, my cry of protest so loud and anguished it ripped my throat apart. Deacon, I saw, had moved in front of us, shielding us from the attacker, and I looked up and saw where the shot had come from—the roof of the opposite building, where a man in white stood looking down at us.
"Johnson," Rose breathed.
For the first time, I didn't care. All I wanted was Rachel, and I held her hand, telling her she was going to be okay. That I'd fix it. And I was going to. Absolutely. That was one of the perks of being me, after all. I couldn't bring back the dead, but I could heal a wound.
Tears streamed down my face as I sliced my palm. And after we dragged her back inside the pub, I pulled the arrow out, terrified as I did that the damage I caused would be irreparable even for my unique skill.
I kept my hand above the wound, flexing my wrist, making fists, doing whatever it took to keep the blood flowing.
She was fading, though, and I was terrified that the injury was too severe even for me. I pressed my wrist to her lips, hoping she could just drink a few drops of my blood, but nothing seemed to be happening.
A last gasp of life racked her body, and I mourned the loss of this sister I couldn't save. This friend I'd lost, just as I'd feared I would.
But then . . .
Then she twitched. And moaned. And her tongue reached out to flick my wrist and taste my blood. My heart was tight in my chest, and I clutched her, murmuring all the stupid, useless things people say when they're sad and scared and relieved.
"He's gone," Deacon said. Through it all, he'd stood at the window, watching that roof. "One minute he was there; the next he was gone."
"Should we be worried?" I asked.
"About Lucas Johnson? Always. But I don't think we have to worry right now."
"Whatever you say," I said, turning my attention back to Rachel. I helped her sit up, then held her tight. "You're okay now," I said. "You're going to be all right."
She turned and looked at me, her eyes glassy and her expression dim. Then she smiled, but the expression didn't last. Listlessly, she squeezed my hand. "Yes," she said. "I absolutely am."
16
“She'll be okay," I said, but whether I was comforting Rose or myself, I wasn't sure. We'd locked the pub up tight, then taken Rachel up to the apartment. She was in her bedroom, tucked in under the covers by two women who weren't really her sisters but had somehow become family. "She just needs sleep." I squeezed Rose's shoulder. "So do you."
She shook her head. “I'm not tired. I don't think Kiera needed to sleep."
"Just do it," I said. "I want you sharp. And I'd like you with her, too. In case she needs anything."
Rose's forehead furrowed as she glanced toward the bedroom door.
"Dammit, Rose," I said, more sharply than I'd intended. "Just go."
She scowled, but she went. And as soon as she did, I sagged onto the couch, my thoughts racing, the dark of the kills still bubbling inside me. The sensation no longer disturbed me. On the contrary, it felt like comfort. Cold, yes, but familiar, too.
I thought of Morwain. About how he'd come when I called. About how he'd bowed when I'd given him orders. About how he'd thrust himself into the thick of battle without question or argument, simply because I said that he must.
How easy that could be, to take on the role forever. I closed my fingers around the Oris Clef and felt the possibility bubble and pound through me. How warm and safe that would feel, knowing that I could gather allies around me at a moment's notice.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
Deacon had so far said nothing, instead standing in the dark and peering down at the street, where we had so deftly slaughtered a host of demons. Not bad for a day's work, and yet I feared . . .
I stood, then took a deep breath and walked toward him. The moon, almost full, hung heavy in the sky, its light pouring in through the window and casting long shadows. The hour wasn't that late, but in October, night came early, and it felt as though it were well past midnight. Soon, it would be, and we would officially be two days away from the convergence. Less, when you considered that the final day ended at noon rather than midnight.
The time was fast approaching, and in less than forty hours, for better or for worse, we would know the way the world was going to go.
At the window, Deacon turned to watch me as I came closer. He stood perfectly still, but the wings that had become so familiar to me twitched as I approached. They'd grown and stretched during the battle, almost as if they were preening, celebrating the return to the dark.
I reached out my hand and stroked the thick, smooth skin. Deacon flinched and turned away from me.
"This is it," he said. “This is what we feared. We fight to bring order and light to the world and condemn ourselves to darkness."
He took my hand and pulled me in front of him, trapping me between his body and the window. My body cast a shadow over him, the moon's light catching him on the outside, making his body appear to glow like some sort of ethereal being. An angel. Or, at least, the way I used to believe angels appeared.
I could feel the heat from his bare chest, along with the desire. I wanted his touch—wanted nothing more than to lose myself with him, to let him claim me, to have him drive home the truth of the words he'd so often uttered. You're mine, Lily. You're mine.
As if understanding my need, he moved closer, his hand going to my hip. He stroked up, his thumb grazing my waist, the swell of my breast, my neck. When he reached my mouth and brought in the tip of his thumb for me to suckle, I was already limp with desire.
"Deacon," I murmured. I knew there were things to do. Things to discover. To plan and investigate. But I needed recharging. I needed humanity.
I needed, dammit, to remember why I cared so much about fighting and what exactly it was I hoped to win. I slipped my arms around his neck and moved in close, my skin humming with anticipation. I wanted to take, to demand, and the dark curls that swirled within me urged me on, begging me to grab and consume. To slam and rip and thrust and hurt—to draw the midnight black heat of this man—this demon—inside of me.
Lust swirled around us, coloring the air, our desire. His hand cupped my cheek softly, one slight, almost hesitant touch; then it was gone, his hand curling hard around my upper arm, pulling me in, claiming me with his body and his mouth. "There is a way," he said, his voice slow and overly deliberate, as if he was fighting everything within himself, including the urge to speak.
My blood pounded in my ears, my senses primed and full of desire. I didn't want to talk; I wanted him, and I jerked sideways, frustrated at the distraction.
He pulled me roughly back, his eyes burning into mine, then looking quick away before the snap that would draw me deep inside him.
"What is your nature, Lily?" he asked in a whisper as rough as sandpaper. At his back, his wings stretched and spread, filling the small corner of the room and blocking us in as effectively as if he'd built a concrete wall.
I understood. The demon inside him—it was fighting to get out. And while I knew I should help him fight back, I didn't. Because the dark within me wanted the same damn thing.
"At heart, Lily, are you good or are you bad?"
My head snapped up in surprise, because that was a question to which I really no longer knew the answer.
He tilted his head, looking at me, his eyes cunning and devious, yet inviting. As if everything would be all right if I simply trusted him.
Faith, Lily.
Slowly, his hand reached out, and he stroked my jaw, the touch sending electric tingles racing through me. The finger traced down, finding the chain of the Oris Clef, and he brushed the tip of the digit along the woven metal, then pressed his palm over the gemstone and the ornate cage that held it.
"I can make a Heaven of Hell," he said, so softly I had to strain to hear him. "What matter where, if I still be the same? Milton was right, Lily. You would be the same. At your heart, at your core. Bring them. Lead them. You have the key. It's destiny, Lily, and you're the one who can save us all."
I shook my head, not quite able to process what he was saying. This was Deacon. A demon, yes, but my anchor, and the words he spoke . . . He couldn't mean them. Could he?
"Lily, you know it's true. You feel it. I know, because I feel it, too."
I drew in a breath and realized as I did so that I was trembling, my head moving slowly back and forth, the faith I'd had in Deacon faltering, shaking the entire foundation of what I'd built. But at the same time . . .
At the same time I had to wonder if he was right. If maybe this was my destiny. Reign, and change the future. Reign, and make a heaven of a world that would change in less than two days.
It was tempting to rule with Deacon at my side. To know that I was in charge. That I could keep those I loved close to me.
"I don't know," I whispered, my head a muddle, the darkness within me curling slowly, sensuously. Filling and warming me, and it felt nice. Good. It felt safe. "I don't know what to do."
"Then let me help you."
"You really want me to rule?" I looked up at him and felt tears well in my eyes. "What about finding the blade? Finding redemption?"
He turned away, his expression hard. "There is no redemption. Not for me. But I always said that we would see this through together." He turned back, and I saw the determination in his expression, along with the lust. Only not for me—for power. "Reign, and you can keep them safe. Rachel. Rose. Do this, Lily, and—"
Faith, Lily . . .
But this wasn't Deacon. This wasn't the Deacon I desired. The Deacon I could cling to. This was someone else. This was the Deacon who'd deserved the fires of hell. The Deacon who scared me, and I feared that the Deacon I wanted—the Deacon I loved—had been lost. Buried beneath the force of this man who'd burst free when the demon had come out.
Faith, Lily . . .
But how could I rely on faith when the one thing I'd clung to rose wrongfully in front of me? When the small kernel of faith I'd placed in the man had been shattered?
"Lily," he whispered. "You know I'm right."
"No." I shoved him, hard, but not hard enough to move him. He stood before me like stone, and I could do nothing but beat my fists uselessly against his chest, wanting my Deacon back, and cursing him for not fighting harder. For not battling back the darkness that was rising in him.
Because he had to fight it back. If he didn't—if he couldn't—then the faith I'd managed to dredge up, despite this totally fucked-up world, had been wholly and utterly misplaced.
"No," I repeated, battling down my own temptation, the curls of darkness that longed to take what Deacon said and make it my own. "No."
I stepped closer, pressing against him. "Fight, dammit. This isn't you."
He tilted his head to look down at me, his eyes as black as midnight. "It's me, Lily."
I trembled, fearing that he was right. But if so, that meant that I'd lost the Deacon I knew. The Deacon I loved.
"Dammit Deacon—" I grabbed his head and pulled it down to me, kissing him hard. Wanting to get through to him and not knowing how. I pulled away, fast and quick, then met his eyes. And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek.
He jerked back, releasing a breath so low it sounded like a hiss. His eyes flared, and I tensed, ready for a fight—wanting the fight. But it didn't come. Instead, he stood there, wary, and I saw awareness in those eyes. I saw the fight, hiding there, ready to burst free. But it wasn't popping, and so I reached out and
slapped him again.
"Fight, dammit! That's what you are! You're a fighter. So fight, already." I felt the wetness on my cheeks and knew that I was crying, and when he reached out to grab my wrist as I lashed out yet again, I choked out a wet, tearful sob.
He jerked me roughly to him. "You play a dangerous game, Lily."
"Not a game," I said. "You've survived this shit once already. You can do it. Come back to me." And with that, I pressed close once again and captured his mouth in mine. The kiss was hard, violent, yet filled with a desperate intensity. You're mine, I wanted to say. You're mine, dammit. Come back to me.
He moaned, the sound so full of soft desire I wanted to cry again. And then he pushed me back, so roughly I slammed against the window ledge. He backed up, his hands to his head, his body hunched over as the battle raged within him.
He lashed out, breaking the coffee table, overturning the couch, slamming his hand through the wall. His body was a war zone, and I could see his flesh moving as the demon within fought for control.
The battle was bitter and long and utterly destructive, and I stood helplessly, able only to watch and to hope.
And then I saw him go still. Saw him tilt his head back and howl, his arms thrust out at his sides. He stayed like that, the echo of his voice reverberating off the walls, and when the room was in silence again, he looked at me, his face flush with victory, his wings now gone.
He'd won.
He'd beaten back the demons, and a swell of both relief and hope coursed through me. Relief that he was back, and hope that—when such a bitter battle faced me—I could find in me the same strength that Deacon found within himself.
He held out his hand to me, and I came, closing my hand over his as he drew me in closer. I stroked his body, finding his back perfectly smooth, the wings having been completely reabsorbed, subjugated to the force of Deacon's will.
"You're back," I whispered, falling into his arms.
"I am," he said, but what I heard was, "Thank you."