by Julie Kenner
I didn’t waste any time. I lunged forward, sliding the blade between the Tri-Jal’s shoulder blades. It didn’t die immediately, and I assumed I’d missed its heart.
That simply wouldn’t do.
Behind me, I heard the confused, horrified gasps from the crowd. I also heard the sirens and the voice of the police over the car’s PA telling people to move along.
I thought that sounded like damn fine advice.
Then, of course, the voice shifted its attention from the crowd to me. “Drop the sword and step away, hands on your head.”
I’ve never been one for following orders, and I wasn’t inclined to start just then. At the same time, I wasn’t keen on getting shot.
As I was a pedestrian on a bridge hundreds of feet over the Charles River, my options were limited. Plus, I wasn’t keen on leaving the demon writhing on the end of my blade alive.
I told myself I didn’t want him to hurt all those nice people. But that wasn’t my sole motivation. It was that hit. The first Tri-Jal had freaked me, I’ll admit. But having tasted it, I wanted it.
I wanted the demon to die, so I could have a taste of what was inside him.
And how fucked-up was that?
“Now!” the cop’s voice boomed behind me.
But since “now” didn’t work with my schedule, I did the next-best thing. I screamed for Deacon. A dangerous option with him balancing on the precipice between man and demon, but right then, I didn’t think I had a choice.
For a moment, I feared he wouldn’t come. Then he swooped down, his arms out, his body listing precariously to one side to favor the injured wing as he grabbed me and lifted, the movement pulling the sword free. I shouted in protest, urging Deacon back toward the demon. A risky move, since the eager officer had a better shot with us moving forward instead of up. Apparently the cop knew it, too, and he began firing off rounds. One grazed my hip, and from Deacon’s sharp curse, I guessed that he’d been hit, too. But for the most part, the shots went wild, a result that I supposed was to be expected under the circumstances. After all, the officer probably wasn’t trained to fight pre-Apocalyptic demons. Considering the pudge around his waist, I think catching speeders was more his thing.
“Faster!” I shouted to Deacon, and soon we were going so fast that the world was a blur. I had only my instincts to go on, and so acted rather than analyzed, thrusting my blade out with the hope that this time it would land true, stabbing the beast through the heart. The kind of kill shot from which a demon doesn’t recover.
I felt a quick jerk of resistance as the tip of the blade encountered the hard demon flesh. But after that, it slid in like butter. And, yeah, I got the bastard through the heart.
I knew, because I could see the black demonic goo.
More than that, though, I knew because I felt it. That jolt. That delicious, welcome, horrific sense of power that welled within me. That was what I was. Power and strength, torment and fury. I was a goddamned force of nature and right then—when I had the power surging within me—that was exactly what I wanted to be.
Do you, Lily? Do you really?
I frowned, ignoring the voice in my head as Deacon carried me and my fast-dissolving cargo up, high enough so that we rose over the bridge’s retaining wall and hovered over the Charles. I let the sword tilt downward then, and as a shocked gasp rose from the humans still freaked-out and watching, the body slid from my sword and fell into the choppy water.
I’d expected that would be the end of it.
I should have realized I was wrong.
Where the demon landed, the water seemed to bubble over. Deacon circled back, apparently as interested in the phenomenon as I was. And the folks on the bridge were pretty interested, too. I glanced in that direction and saw a whole crowd gathered against the concrete barrier, their heads bent over, their hands holding tight to cameras and video phones.
And far beneath us, a sight that I was certain would make the nightly news: bloodred water. All of the water.
I wasn’t the only one who saw it; the confused murmur on the bridge made that clear enough, especially when a few choice words managed to break free of the din: Armageddon, the seven seals, portents, and though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no . . .
The last particularly caught my attention, not because of the words, but the tone. Strong and confident and not the least bit scared. I looked over and saw the priest’s collar, and a knot of jealousy tightened in my stomach. He had faith, this man. He had faith that everything was going to turn out all right. That no matter what happened, in the end, he would be okay.
I wished I could share that belief. But I was on the front lines, and I knew there was no such clear-cut answer for me.
I wanted his faith. I truly did.
But I’d seen enough to know better.
Deacon swept us away through the Boston sky, finally tumbling to a halt on the roof of one of the bank buildings, his whole wing tucked closed at his back while the injured one remained open and lopsided. He stood looking at me, tall and stiff, muscles tight with barely controlled energy, his dark eyes flashing with fire.
I eyed him warily, my weapon out and ready. Deacon might have just saved me, but we’d been through that routine before, and the last time, he’d gone from savior to scary in about 3.7 seconds.
I watched as he breathed in slowly, clenching and unclenching his right hand, the muscles in his left arm contracting as well, as he fought to bring himself under control, that fabulous jawline tightening and his strong brow furrowed with effort.
I wanted to move forward, to pull him close and help him find his way back. This was the man who compelled me—who’d gotten under my skin, fired my senses, and made me believe that I had a solid chance to survive the nightmare into which I’d been thrust. The man who had faith that, together, he and I could save the world.
“Lily,” he said, his voice as rough as the hand that reached for me, that pulled me close and pressed me hard up against him. “Lily,” he repeated, and there were a thousand questions in that one simple name. Questions, and demands, and promises, and I answered them all, taking his face in my hands and crushing my mouth to his.
This was no sweet embrace, no polite lovers’ reunion. This was need. This was sex. This was heat and lust and sin and claiming—Mine, he’d once said to me, and I wanted everything that simple word implied. I wanted to be had. I wanted to claim, and I wanted to be claimed.
We tumbled backward, landing hard on the rough gravel that covered the roof of the building. My shirt rode up, the rocks pressing into my back, but I didn’t care. I wanted it as much as Deacon did—needed it, too, for all the same reasons that he did. A connection. Humanity. A sharing of simple, human pleasures. A way to drown out the demons and remember what the hell it was we were fighting for. Humanity. Love. Life.
He fumbled at the button on my jeans, and I reached down, unfastening them, then shimmying a bit until they were down around my ankles. I kicked one foot free but didn’t bother with the other. I didn’t care. I couldn’t wait, and my hands were on his fly, then urging him closer to me as he murmured my name, “Lily, Lily, Lily.”
We didn’t need the illusion of foreplay—our desire was more than sufficient, but as I urged him toward me—as he thrust inside and split me in two—I felt something warm and gentle flowing through us, counterbalancing our frenetic coupling. I felt it, and I cherished it.
We moved together, a sensual, powerful dance even more ancient than Deacon himself, and when we came, I swear I was amazed that the building beneath us didn’t shake with the force of our orgasms.
I pulled him close, finding his mouth, then pressing soft kisses there as I stroked his back, just below his wings.
“Lily,” he murmured. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know if I could find my way back.”
“You did,” I said, stroking his face. Tears were trickling down my cheeks, and I realized that the demons that writhed within me had calmed, as if t
hey knew that good or bad, they stood no chance against the pull of this man, no chance at all against the two of us together.
“Lily,” he repeated, and this time he rolled off me, breaking the contact between us before looking at me. His eyes were as black as always, but I saw a spark in them that I recognized. Life, humanity, a soul.
The wings might still be there, but Deacon was well and truly back.
His shifted, then sat up and tilted his head so that he was gazing up at the vivid blue sky in which dozens of fluffy clouds floated, picture-perfect. Above, it was a gorgeous day, full of hope and light, and I allowed myself a moment of self-satisfaction. Even though it was getting dark and scary down here, Deacon and I had managed to snag at least a little bit of that light.
After a moment, he stood, then refastened his jeans. They hung low on his hips, making him look damn sexy even with the wings, one of which still hung limp from his injury.
He turned away from me, suddenly awkward, and with a start, I realized why—we’d taken each other, claimed each other, and yet never once had he looked into my eyes.
A cold chill ran through me, and I tried to tamp it down. I couldn’t, though. Because as much as I wanted to trust in what I felt, it was one hell of a lot easier to trust in what I saw.
And so far, Deacon was showing me nothing.
Again and again, he had pulled away, refusing to let me see the worst of him. Refusing to let me truly understand who he was and what he did, the crimes for which he so desperately sought redemption.
I reminded myself that I trusted him. That I’d been through this mental exercise before.
I told myself not to push. Not when I’d just gotten him back.
I told myself those things, and yet it was hard. Damn hard.
I sucked in a breath, then stepped toward him, my heart breaking a little when he took a wary step back. I slowed, then let him watch as I ran my blade along my fingertip, drawing blood. “Your wing. Let me help.”
He nodded slowly, then extended the injured wing, turning his face from me as he did, as if having me tend the demonic part of him shamed him. I moved forward slowly, then held the wing steady. Though fragile in appearance, the membrane was strong, and I traced a bloody line over the rent in the thin skin, then stepped back to watch as the power of my blood did the trick, the injured area knitting together until it appeared as though the wing had never been wounded.
“Thank you,” he said.
I took a step back. It was time for answers. He might not want to tell me what was in his head, but he was damn sure going to tell me what was going on. “What happened?” I demanded. “And start at the beginning. With Penemue. What the fuck happened when we were down in Zane’s basement?”
“I saved you,” he said, his voice harsh. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
I swallowed. “I noticed. And thank you,” I added softly. I drew in a shaky breath, remembering that horrible moment when he’d fallen into the pit. “I’d thought you were dead.”
He dropped his gaze to my thigh and the blade sheathed there. “You forget what I am, Lily. And falling into hell won’t kill a demon.”
“Tell me,” I said, because I needed to hear it. No matter how much I didn’t want to, I needed to hear out loud what Deacon had become—and why.
“I fell,” he said. “I fell for what seemed like days, but must have only been seconds. I’d crossed into hell, Lily. Not the darkest pits. Not where Penemue himself had once entrapped me to punish me for my treachery, but still hell. Still dark. And vile. And full of power and possibility.”
I pressed my lips together, understanding. I’d felt the darkness within me, too. The lure of power and the promise of possibility. But I didn’t want it. The price was too high, the pleasure an illusion. But tempting. So very, very tempting.
“How did you get back?” I asked.
“I changed,” he said simply, though I saw on his face how much the admission cost him. “I took back my original form.” He closed his eyes, his body fairly rippling with the effort of control. “I let myself slide back into—into this.”
He nodded, indicating himself, and I moved closer, then pressed my hand on his chest. I felt it, that spark that always arced between us. “Whatever form,” I said, “you’re still the same man. You fought your way out once. And you’ve done it again now.”
He tilted his head down, and as he did, he extended his wings to their full span. “Have I?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “You have. My question is why. How?”
“I knew you were trapped,” he continued, then moved away so that I was no longer touching him. Only then did he lift his head and meet my eyes. I understood; he didn’t want me falling into his thoughts. Didn’t want me seeing everything dark within him and within his past. “And although Penemue is too massive to quickly cross dimensions,” Deacon continued, “I knew that sooner or later he would manage. He’d burst free and consume you. You’d be alive,” he said, “like Jonah in the belly of the beast. And Penemue would again have the Oris Clef. He’d use it, and he would rule.”
He met my eyes and saw something hard reflected there. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
I swallowed, hating the question but knowing I had to ask. “What did you want? To keep me safe? Or to get the Oris Clef for yourself?”
Something hateful flashed in his eyes, and I winced, knowing that I’d hit upon a kernel of truth.
“I want us, Lily. I want what I’ve always wanted.” He took a step toward me, and the air between us seemed to shimmer from the heat of desire. “I want to lock the gate. I want redemption. I want you.”
“But?”
He closed his eyes, silently acknowledging the legitimacy of the question. “But there is a part of me—the part I let back in, the part that freed us from Penemue—”
“Yes?” My question came out as a whisper, a breath laced with fear.
“And it wants power,” he said, his eyes dropping to my neck, to the Oris Clef. “Why do you think I told you to run?”
“Right.” I licked my lips, then tightened my hand around the hilt of my blade. Just in case. “And now?”
He turned from me and walked to the edge of the building, his wings folded neatly at his back. The gravel on the roof crunched under his feet, the sound like small explosions in the relative silence. “Now I fight that desire. I fight, Lily, every moment of every day.”
I could hear the torment in his voice, and I understood it. I fought too, after all. Every damn day.
We were the same, he and I. Even without a peek inside his head, I knew that. There was darkness in there—vile, horrible darkness—but it grew within me also. And we could do nothing more than cling to each other and hope that we each had the strength to help the other fight. Because our nature was trying to claw its way free. And if the beast got loose before we sealed the gates, we’d be well and truly fucked, and the world along with us.
That, I realized, was what I feared. That somehow the beast really was loose in Deacon, and he would manage to keep it hidden until it was too late for him or for me or for the whole damn world.
He crossed to me, his strides long and determined. “What do you need to trust me? To truly trust me? Must you really get in my head? Is it so necessary that you look upon the vile things that I have done and marvel at the horror wreaked by my hand?”
“No, I—”
But whatever protest I intended to foist was left unsaid, because he pressed a hand to my face, then met my eyes. I felt the hard tug of the vision, and as the darkness that lived in his mind drew me in, I saw him wince but hold steady.
Pain.
So much pain.
And blood.
Dripping down walls; staining tile floors.
And screams so loud and desperate I feared they’d echo in my thoughts forever.
I wanted to run. Wanted to turn my mind back from such horror, but I was compelled to go on. Terrified, but determined to see what he was, finally, all
owing me to see.
I was in a corridor, long and dark. A light burned at the end, eerie and yellow. That, I knew, was where I needed to go. If I wanted to see Deacon’s past, the things for which he had been denied absolution, I needed to walk through that door.
I hesitated, then moved a single step closer. The door, it seemed, moved farther away, the corridor appearing to elongate. Another step, and again the doorway moved.
Well, damn.
Deacon, I realized, wasn’t quite as open to letting me see what was there as he’d seemed. But now that I was in—now that he wasn’t breaking the connection—I was determined to know.
I kept moving. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, finally breaking into a run and hoping that I could outrun his hesitation. That I could make it to the end of the corridor before he managed to extend it so far that I would end up lost in his mind for an eternity.
Down I flew, and though my head knew that I wasn’t really running, still I gasped for breath.
I pushed on, even as the walls around me began to weep blood, and the ground beneath my feet became slick with it.
I stumbled, my body suddenly covered with the stuff, and the bloodlust came upon me. I slowed, wanting to sniff it, wanting to taste it. Wanting nothing more than to stay right there, lost in a river of blood.
No.
He was doing this. Maybe not on purpose, but to slow me down. He didn’t want me to see. Didn’t want me to know.
But I had to, and I raced forward, ignoring my own perverse craving. Because I couldn’t stop. No matter what, I had to see what lay beyond that door. Because how could I trust—how could I believe—unless I knew what he really was? What he’d done?
How, I wondered, could I love this man without fully understanding him?
And I did love him. He filled and finished me, and despite everything, in his arms was the only place I felt safe.
Faith.
The voice was small, almost unrecognizable. And I rushed on, brushing it away like a gnat.