Surrender the Dark

by L. A. Banks

  Perfect. Old-heads just wanted to get their drink and their swerve on. It was the young hip-hop crowd that always had beef in the streets about women and turf, or dumb shit like gang colors. Old-heads just wanted relief through life in a bottle.

  Celeste entered the dark, narrow establishment and felt the smooth crooning of Isaac Hayes enter her bones. Cigarette smoke stung her eyes. She relaxed a little. This was obviously a place where the city’s rules didn’t apply, which meant authority was nonexistent, except for whoever manned the pump shotgun on the other side of the bar.

  She quickly scanned the dimly lit surroundings. Black and red stools with some ripped seats showing pad innards; old Christmas-tree lights strung along the top of the walls added winking ambience. A blaring jukebox stood in the corner. Damn, she wanted a cigarette, and they had a machine. Good.

  A few scattered round tables lined a grimy wall with animals-painted-on-velvet hangings. No off-duty cops, just as she suspected. She could smell old cooking oil wafting from the back—probably wings and shrimp and fries were available. That was also good, even though her stomach was a wreck. A few open seats; it wasn’t crowded. If she put a twenty on the bar, they’d let her stay and drink and use the bathroom to clean up. Nobody here would see jack if the cops came looking for her. This place was safe. Celeste walked in deeper toward the bar.

  “Yo, sis. Hol’ up, hol’ up. You gotta buy to stay,” the hefty bartender said in a loud, no-nonsense tone, seeming more like a bouncer than a barkeep. “What you looking for we don’t sell. Not up in here.”

  “You don’t have vodka?” she replied with attitude, then pulled out a twenty and slapped it on the bar.

  “My bad, sis,” he said, taking up her cash and then running a marker over it to check it. “Smirnoff all right?”

  “Yeah,” Celeste muttered, and hoisted herself up on the stool. “And gimme some change for the cigarette machine.” She grudgingly accepted her drink, collected her change, and angrily pushed a dollar tip toward the bartender.

  “Like I said, my bad.” He offered her a sheepish grin that she didn’t return.

  “Can I use the bathroom or I gotta pay for that, too?”

  “No, pretty . . . you can use the restroom. I’ll watch your drink. And if your ole man is hitting on you...”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Celeste knocked back the drink, feeling it burn on the way down, then slid off the barstool to go get a pack of smokes. “Set me up with another when I get back.”

  The bartender nodded with a smile and began cleaning a glass with a filthy rag. “Cool. I’ll save you a seat.”

  She didn’t answer him, just collected her Newports and matches, then headed down the narrow aisle toward the ladies’ room, such as it was. Shoving her box of smokes in her pocket, she eased her way into the tight confines, hit the light, and locked the door behind her. What was supposed to be a mirror was a warped piece of metal whose sheen had long gone. God did answer some prayers.

  Celeste bent and splashed cold water on her face and washed her hands without the benefit of soap. She let out a weary sigh. Of course there were no soap and no towels or toilet paper, what had she expected?

  Using water, she smoothed her hair back from her face, adjusting her scrunchie with a wince as she tried to avoid the tender spot caused by the deep gash in the back of her head. At some point, she’d have it looked at, maybe . . . but not here, not in this city. She had to get as far away from Philly as possible. One more drink and she had to get a plan together. Buses ran to New York regularly for like eighteen bucks. From there she could figure out how to head north, maybe . . . or was it better to get lost in the dirty South?

  “North,” she murmured, wiping her hands down her jeans to dry them as she extracted a cigarette from the new pack, glad she no longer had to fight about something so simple.

  She struck a match, leaning the tip of the butt into the flame, and pulled hard. Smoke filled her lungs, creating an instant buzz that the drink hadn’t. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the smoke slowly filter out through her nose. Yeah . . . north was best. In the South you had to have a vehicle. If she headed to New York, she could get around on their public transit system and probably hop another bus that would take her somewhere like Buffalo or even out to Detroit—then she could cross over to Canada and be out . . . But not all on $80. “Shit!”

  Frustration claimed her as she flung open the bathroom door with a cigarette between her lips. There was no way she could hang around Philly until her check came, and even when it did, the moment she and Aunt Niecey cashed it, the law would come down on both of them—which all got back to the point that she couldn’t involve her aunt, who would then be an accessory to a fugitive’s flight.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” Celeste muttered, and found her barstool.

  The bartender slid her vodka straight-up and an ashtray; in here, no one cared about the smoking ban in bars. She pushed a ten in his direction, this time without a tip.

  Azrael stood on the corner looking at the place that Gavreel had identified as a bar. It was suddenly difficult for him to breathe. Pain blossomed within his chest and spread through his limbs. It was a deep down soul cry that brought tears to his eyes. The urge to weep was so profound that he looked up toward the sky and blinked back the moisture and swallowed hard. He knew it was her; it was her soul signature that he felt. As the pain ebbed, knowing followed it. The things she’d been subjected to . . . the abuse. Demons had entered her father and pulled him into a vicious drug addiction; they had attacked her mother and finally killed the poor woman through a stroke. Hardship had plagued this young human female, giving her multiple guardian angels nearly more than they could handle—yet his side, the heavenly Light, was still covering her.

  He walked into the bar and watched her slowly selfdestructing on a barstool, adding toxins to her already overburdened body. Soon, her human liver and kidneys and lungs would fail. Her mind was already teetering on the brink of mental collapse. Men had used her body until it had been left a limp rag. Her pretty cocoa brown face was bruised, her once even lush mouth swollen and her lip was split. Her hair was thin and brittle from years of poor diet and stress, plus what was left of it was wild and matted with blood. From the haggard look of her dirty clothes, it was clear that she’d been in a physical struggle. She’d been beaten and attacked and practically held hostage in her own home. Azrael briefly closed his eyes. The forces of darkness were insidious and experts at torture. But they could no longer have this one. Not on his watch.

  Brooding over her drink, Celeste sipped it slowly between long drags on her cigarette. No one bothered her. Everyone here seemed to be in the same state of mind, working out problems too massive to handle. The only thing that changed was the music as a new song dropped, this time Marvin Gaye. A body slid into the open barstool beside her and she didn’t even look up until he ordered water.

  Celeste lifted her head and froze. The guy’s complexion was too clear and his jaw military-square. This was a cop if ever she saw one.

  “Water—that’s all?” the bartender said in a skeptical tone. “Bottled or outta the tap, man?”

  “The cleanest,” the man beside her said, staring at her now.

  Celeste took another drag off her cigarette and started to climb down off her stool.

  “Those will kill you, you know,” the stranger said.

  “So I’ve read on the warning label.” She was out of there.

  “Don’t leave. You have nowhere to go.”

  She froze. Damn...

  He picked up her glass and sniffed it. “This isn’t water.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” she muttered, and eased her way back onto the barstool. What was the use of running to get tased or shot? If she’d been made, then so be it. Resisting arrest wasn’t gonna do much good.

  “This doesn’t help you. Why do you do it?”

  She let out a hard breath. “Helps my nerves. And what?”

  The bartender set a cold bottl
e of water down in front of the stranger. “Couple things: One, this costs just as much as a regular drink. We in business to serve liquor. Two, can’t have you upsetting my paying customers, feel me? You making the lady nervous. So, if y’all got some domestic bullshit between you, take it outside—but while y’all up in here, know I got a peacekeeper for anything that might jump off. We clear?” The barkeep looked at Celeste. “You want another drink, baby?”

  “No. Thanks,” she said calmly. “I was just leaving, if that’s okay with him?”

  She watched the cop pull out a huge wad of bills and slide a C-note across the bar.

  “You ain’t got nothing smaller than that?” the bartender argued. “You ain’t gotta come up in here flashing.”

  Something wasn’t right. She watched the guy with the bankroll look down at it, seeming confused as he pulled the rubber band off of it and laid it out on the bar.

  “Pick the denomination that is appropriate,” the stranger said in a pleasant tone.

  Celeste watched as the bartender sifted through what had to be several thousand dollars to find a five.

  “You ain’t have to be a comedian, man,” the bartender said with an attitude.

  She watched the cop’s brow furrow with what seemed like a combination of confusion and annoyance. But the transaction gave her assessment time.

  He was undercover, that was obvious, but badly so. His sneakers didn’t fit; his fatigue-jacket sleeves were way too short. His pants were high-waters . . . but his long dreadlocks were salon immaculate, just as his smooth, dark-walnut-hued skin was flawless. His face was so handsome it made her want to squint. Plus, he was G.I. Joe fit . . . had to be like six-five, 220, all muscle and zero body fat. Long cords of sinew ran up his forearm and she watched it move, mesmerized by it, as he handed off his cash.

  How they thought they could pass him off as some homeless dude in the hood was beyond her. His diction was too perfect, the whites of his eyes too clear, almost crystalline clear...and he smelled fresh, like a baby’s newborn scent. For a few moments it was so weird that she couldn’t stop staring at him. Regardless, she had to figure out a way to seem as if she were going along with him, then give him the slip.

  As though he’d read her mind, the cop suddenly looked at her. “We need many more of these containers of water. She is dehydrated.”

  “No problem,” the bartender said with a satisfied grin, and put five more bottles of water in front of the stranger, then took an obscene amount of cash for what could have been purchased for under ten bucks at a supermarket.

  Celeste narrowed her gaze but said nothing. It wasn’t even a name brand of water, some knockoff brand that was probably bottled tap. But what did she care? It wasn’t her cash.

  “Here,” the weird cop said, handing her a couple of bottles as he stashed the rest in his huge jacket pockets and folded away his money. “This is better for you than what you’ve been drinking.”

  Wary, she accepted the offering without comment, surveying him with skepticism. Who was this dude and what did he want? Maybe he wasn’t a cop. But he damned sure didn’t seem like any drug dealer she’d seen—not dressed like that.

  “You need to come with me. Let’s step outside.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Celeste cocked her head to the side in a challenge. “Because if so, you need to start reading me my rights and I definitely want an attorney.”

  Rather than a snappy comeback, he seemed puzzled for a moment. “Let us leave this place. Too many earthbounds are here, too much low-frequency energy that draws the darkness. I also understand that I have not properly identified myself and you are right to be skeptical.”

  “What?” Still clutching her water bottles, she rested her fists on her hips. Just her luck to have been picked up by a dealer or some undercover dude who was strung out on his own shit. But it was a relief to know she wasn’t going to be arrested. “You know the first rule is not to use your own product, right?”

  “What is she speaking of?” the odd stranger asked the bartender, who was chuckling as though watching a sideshow.

  “C’mon, son . . . my name is Bennett and I ain’t in it.” The rotund bartender just shook his head and wiped the bar off with the same rag he used to clean the glasses.

  “Thanks for the waters,” Celeste said, moving away from the bar. “You have a good night.”

  “Wait,” the stranger said. “It’s dangerous for you to be out there alone.”

  She hesitated and folded her arms over her chest, still holding on to the water he’d given her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  Just what she needed, some foreign drug dealer or wannabe rookie cop trying to mack her. She wasn’t sure which was worse, somebody looking for a green card or a cop.

  “I don’t need any money and I’m not no ho.”

  He frowned. “A what?”

  “Whore, prostitute, trick—”

  “Oh, no, no, you have misjudged my intentions in the most profound way. I am here to protect you. I am your angel.”

  “Okay . . . I’m out. That line is way too corny.” Celeste spun on her heels and headed toward the door as several men at the bar as well as the bartender burst out laughing.

  “But he’s fine as hell, girl!” an old female barfly called out behind Celeste.

  “You can be my angel with a bankroll and a body like that,” another shouted behind them. “The young be missing their blessings—but I got something for you, daddy!”

  Cool air pelted her face. Annoyance made it flush warm when she sensed him behind her. Of all the nights she couldn’t cope with a crazy, it was tonight.

  “I have no interest but ensuring your safety,” he said, rounding her and stopping her progress down the dark block.

  “I said to get out of my face. What part of I’m not interested didn’t you hear?” Celeste shot back.

  “But what about the demons? The one that choked you and hurt your head? I know what happened. I know it wasn’t your fault. You have never taken a life.”

  She stopped and stared up at him. Now he had her attention.

  “I am Azrael. You are Celeste. We must help each other.” He looked down at his clothing. “I am poorly dressed, and in order to help you, I need to look like I belong to your tribe. Will you help me?”

  “Why are you fucking with my head?” she asked in a lethal whisper. “If you heard or saw what happened at my apartment and think you can blackmail me, you’ve got more money in your pocket than I could ever dream of . . . and if you want a booty call, with the cash you’re carrying, you can hire a very enthusiastic pro. The gentlemen’s clubs are—”

  “I don’t want a prostitute, I want you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, no, no,” he said quickly, now gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “My use of the language is still imperfect. I am not trying to garner sex from you or lure you into an untoward proposition. You would never have to fear that from me.”

  Celeste closed her eyes for a second, then let out a weary sigh. A foreign gay man wanted a wardrobe consultation in the middle of the night, or else he’d go to the cops? Only in America.

  “Are you serious?” Celeste opened her eyes and considered the plaintive look on the handsome man’s face. Now some of his immaculate appearance made sense. “And, like, none of your, uh, brothers in the family would help you get fly?”

  Azrael shook his head no. “I can no longer fly and my brothers cannot help me do that.”

  She looked at him for a moment, wondering what country he was from. He didn’t get any slang.

  “Wow . . . that’s cold,” she said after a moment. “I thought all the kids—you know, gay guys—stuck together, just sayin’. But then again, what do I know? Sorry for stereotyping. My bad.” She let out another weary breath. “But it’s really not cool to try to use something against somebody to get them to help you.”

  “I would never do that to you, Celeste. And I am
not happy at all . . . why would I be gay about something as serious as this?”

  She shook her head and waved off his misunderstanding of what she’d meant. It didn’t matter anyway. She had more important questions. “How do you know my name? Were you a friend of Brandon’s?”

  “I was not his enemy, but I was certainly not his friend.” Azrael folded his arms over his stone-cut chest. “I did not approve of the way he treated you, and his use of inebriants opened him to the portals of darkness. A spirit attachment easily latched on . . . then it climbed inside him. There wasn’t enough Light within him to repel it. He is lost and that is always a sad thing . . . always a waste.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said quietly, backing away. “You really do believe in...”

  “Yes,” Azrael said without shame. “I told you, I am your angel. We all work for humankind—those of us who have not fallen. In this, the end of days, we must all surrender the darkness within to allow the Light to prevail. Even some of us have not made it.”

  Celeste turned and began running. This dude was crazier than she was! But he caught up to her, calmly jogging beside her as she ran as fast as she could.

  “We should find hallowed ground to rest,” he said.

  She darted down a desolate street and he was right on her flank.

  “Who do you think sent the dogs? It was not the darkness, but the Light.”

  She stopped running, winded, and simply stared at him.

  “The Light heard your cry. You wanted to end the glorious gift called life. Your guardian angels—and, yes, you are blessed to have more than one of them—sent two half-starved animals to save you. We must pray for the poor beast that gave his life. The male, sadly, got hit by a metal vehicle. And . . . you have two women who love you dearly—your mother and your aunt, and they pray—”

  “Stop with the bullshit!” Celeste shrieked, tears streaming down her face and not knowing why. “My mother is dead!”