Surrender the Dark

by L. A. Banks

  “I know,” he said in a gentle tone, touching her cheek, but she shrugged away. “You were only twelve.”

  “Right. I was only twelve, so if you’re gonna run game on me—”

  “This is not a game, Celeste. It is deadly serious. You are one of the chosen. The Remnant. Your mother is in spirit and still watches over you. Demons attacked her. She didn’t have a stroke from natural causes, nor was she mentally ill. And you are not mentally ill, either . . . what you have seen is real.”

  Fighting back a sob, Celeste stared at this strange man. “Then what do you want from me? First I thought you were a dealer, then a cop, then some gay dude wanting me to buy women’s clothes for him—”

  “I want us to get out of the danger of the streets. Can you lead us to a temple, a mosque, a church, somewhere there is protective Light for the night?”

  “Look around,” she said in a sad, far-off tone. “Every two to three blocks there’s a church or a mosque, but things are so bad the doors are locked.”

  “I have the keys,” he said, his voice a gentle balm. “No door can be locked against me, especially not where humans come together to pray to the Source of All That Is.”

  She released a sad, sarcastic chuckle as she wiped at her face with the backs of her wrists, still holding fast to the water he’d given her. “Take your pick around here. We’re short on temples, synagogues, or Catholic cathedrals in this end of town, but you can probably find a Pentecostal church, Seven-Day Adventist, Baptist, AME, Jehovah’s Witness, or pick any masjid or mosque.”

  “The one closest would be best.”

  With her shoulders slumped in resignation she trudged ahead of the strange man who was even crazier than she was, but who had nonetheless struck a nerve. Might as well take him where he wanted to go.

  “Tell me, Celeste, why is it so easy for you to believe demons exist but not a being like me? You even saw a demon take a man’s life . . . the trauma is still in your aura. I can read that as if it is an open book. Thus, would it not stand to reason that, if there is extreme darkness, there must also be extreme light? Yet when I tell you I am an angel, you doubt.”

  She stopped on the steps of a large Baptist church, the nearest sanctuary she could find.

  “Because, for one, if you haven’t noticed, miracles aren’t an everyday occurrence around here. And, two, I thought angels had wings. And because people just don’t walk up and say, ‘Hey, I’m your angel and I’m gonna make all your troubles fade away.’”

  His expression became sad. “Miracles are an everyday occurrence down here . . . but humans do not understand what a miracle is any longer.” He reached up and rubbed his shoulders. “Angels do have wings in the upper realms of Light. Here . . . they don’t.” He turned toward the door and rested both palms against it. “And we cannot make all your troubles fade away because of the free-choice rule . . . we can only offer a defense against the darkness. Sometimes we can save a life, heal a body, turn around a bad situation, or reveal the truth—but we must be called upon by you in order to act. We are your servants. That is what the war was about in the beginning. Some of us disagreed with our role in relationship to humankind.”

  Celeste jumped back as his palms began to glow with blue-white light against the door. Within seconds the lock clicked and then the door gently creaked open.

  “Come,” he said. “Do not be afraid. We will refresh ourselves with food and water here, and if you will allow me to tend your wound, I will.”

  Chapter 4

  Celeste stood just inside the door of the sanctuary, coaxed in by the fear of demons and the human authorities that were no doubt searching for her, but now terrified to be trapped inside with the strange man or entity that was before her.

  “How did you do that thing with your hands?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Intent,” he said. “All intention is energy; energy moves the atoms of the material world. This is why thought is so important. What we believe can be made manifest. What we speak is a vibration. Thought and sound are a harmonic convergence.” “

  “‘First there was the word and the word was God . . . ,’ ” Celeste murmured, staying close to the door.

  “Yes.”

  The being didn’t elaborate as he walked deeper into the building. He just stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and released a soft sigh. “You said there may be food here . . . and possibly other resources.”

  “This is deep,” Celeste replied under her breath. “A freakin’ angel stealing from a church. Go figure.”

  Azrael tilted his head. “Are not the houses of worship supposed to feed the hungry and clothe the poor? Isn’t all that they collect to be in the service of humankind?”

  “Yeah, so they say . . . but I guess you haven’t seen televangelists. That’s just my politics, what can I say.”

  Becoming convinced that the man before her meant her no harm, she pointed to the alarm box by the door. “That should have gone off. Could be a silent one calling the cops as we speak, so whatever you need from here you’d better hurry up and get it, then be out.”

  Azrael shrugged. “I am not here as a thief nor are you, therefore no alarm should sound.”

  “Yeah, well, if po-po shows up, I’m out, and I suggest you follow my lead. You’d better hope they haven’t paid their bill and that’s why bells aren’t ringing.” Edging away from the wall, she glanced around. “The sanctuary is that way, nothing there but books and the altar . . . usually all the ‘resources’ ” she added, making air quotes with her fingers, “are in the basement or in the office.”

  “Show me . . . please.”

  She stared at him for a moment, distrustful but considering. “I don’t think you’ll find your size in the clothing-donation bins they probably have. What are you . . . like six-four, six-five? What size shoe do you wear?”

  “I do not know.” His expression became pained. “When we come into the flesh, we come as a member of the tribe of the one we seek, but also are formed from the energy our essence emits.”

  “Wait, so you’re still trying to tell me that this is the first time you’ve been—”

  “Incarnate, yes . . . although I came to earth before to battle, but not hampered by human form. Why are my words so doubtful to you? I have done nothing to show myself as a liar.”

  Celeste shrugged and thrust a bottle of water under her arm, twisting off the cap of the other bottle. She took a deep sip, then screwed the top back on. “It isn’t you. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch. I’m just not sure that I haven’t had my final nervous breakdown and this isn’t all some psychotic-break trip. Like, who sees demons and angels? Just saying. Besides, I did bump my head—or rather had the living shit knocked out of it.”

  “In time I hope to earn your trust,” he said quietly. “Let us be hopeful and search the donations.”

  His forlorn tone almost made her feel sorry for him. Almost. But she kept him in front of her, pointing the way down the dark stairs, just in case he was a lunatic. However, the thing that made her timidly follow him was the low, resonant hum and blue-white light that seemed to frame his body as he walked into the complete darkness.

  “Whoa...” Her voice was a low rush of awe. With the streetlights on outside she hadn’t noticed the eerie illumination, nor had she seen it in the bar. She hadn’t even noticed it just inside the foyer, as the streetlights and moonlight made a pool of light where he stood—but now the light was coming from him.

  She rubbed her eyes and held on to the banister, staying several steps behind him as they reached the bottom landing. He crossed the floor, then with a wave of his hand the basement lights came on.

  “These donations, where would they be?”

  Celeste just stared at him, staying near the exit in case she had to bolt. “What are you?”

  “I have already told you who I am as well as what I am.” He frowned, folding his arms.

  “Okay . . . then if you really are an angel, have you ever m
et . . . you know,” she asked just above a whisper while pointing toward the ceiling. “Him?”

  “Him?”

  She relaxed and walked across the open rec-room floor. “Figured you were just messing with my head. If you don’t know who the big Him is, then stop playing. You ain’t no angel.” She went to a series of plastic bins stacked in the corner, trying to see if there was any rhyme or reason to the way they’d sorted the secondhand clothes.

  “Celeste, the Source of All That Is cannot be defined as male or female. The Source is both, is all . . . and, no, only the most evolved of us have ever been in that Ultimate Light.” He looked off into the distance, staring at nothing in particular, then closed his eyes. “The peace that fills you, even in the most remote reaches of that Light . . . the love that surrounds and bathes you, I cannot describe.”

  “Then what are you doing down here in this hell—by comparison,” she asked offhandedly, setting her water on the floor and hunting through the bins, discarding children’s gear and old-lady dresses until she found men’s clothes.

  “Searching for you—one who can sway the balance.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she muttered, rummaging through oldmen’s suits and ties. She stood and let out a huff of breath. “You gonna stand there or help, O cosmic one?”

  “Why do you mock me?”

  “Aw, don’t be so melodramatic. I’m not mocking you. If you say you’re an angel, then cool. You’re an angel. I’m supposed to be on meds, and when I’m not, I see a lot of weird shit. So I accept who I am. Embrace your inner nut job and see if there’s anything here that’ll fit.”

  He came closer, but then turned away with tears in his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Celeste shook her head. “For the love of Pete . . . Okay, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. You’re not crazy. All right?”

  “It is not your words. It is what has happened to the owners of these clothes. The donations of male clothing . . . these men have died. Old men . . . but they do not disturb me, nor do the donations from the elderly women. That is the cycle of life—the widows or widowers bring in the raiment of their husbands and wives so that others in need may have them. That is good. But the far bin. Do not open it. Young boys . . . adolescents. Murdered by other boys in the prime of their lives. I cannot understand.”

  Beyond freaked-out, Celeste slowly dropped the clothes she’d been holding and went to the far bins. She watched the stranger named Azrael walk away and place a palm against the wall and drop his head. Tears streamed down his handsome face as he squeezed his eyes shut. She popped the top on a bin and pulled out a basketball jersey, then a pair of jeans, then a FUBU jacket. Everything her hands landed on was an article of clothing that could have been worn by any young urban male.

  “Please, Celeste,” Azrael whispered. “Can we go from this place to somewhere not filled with so much heartbreak? Mother’s tears have stained each garment. I cannot wear any of it. All those boys shot by one another . . . and for what? Foolish disagreements, egos, for territory that they could never truly own.”

  “You’re an empath,” she said in amazement, closing the bin and staring at him as he wiped his face with broad palms. “I saw it on a show once . . . about people who have special extrasensory gifts.”

  “We’re all empaths where I was made.”

  She nodded. “Deep. All right. Maybe drink some water or something.”

  He let out a long, weary sigh and pushed away from the wall, then dug a water bottle out of his pocket and opened it, then downed it. “The angels wept in Heaven, and now I know why,” he murmured, opening the second water and downing it in a long guzzle.

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “Never,” he said calmly.

  She sighed again and picked up one of her water bottles from the floor, opened it, and took several sips. “They have a soup kitchen, a food mission, here. I could go find us some grub if you want?”

  “It must be clean, like the water.”

  “Oh . . . my God . . . a vegan.”

  “Don’t use any of the names of the Source of All That Is in vain,” Azrael said in a soft murmur. “Please. To call that much power should be for a good reason.”

  “My bad. I respect whatever your belief system is. My aunt always says that, too.” Celeste finished her water, then picked up the second bottle to save for later. “Look, this is a food mission and a round-the-way Baptist church. Dollars to doughnuts, they’ve collected a bunch of canned goods from folks who are poor themselves, have white flour, white refined sugar, low-grade cuts of meat in the freezer, if they have that. This is the kinda place where women like my aunt Niecey come and cook for the people who are poorer than the food donors out of love and duty, but it’s not gonna be politically correct vegan fare, feel me? Expect mac and cheese, collards, chicken, and nothing organic. This isn’t Whole Foods. There will be chemicals in it, plenty of processed goods loaded with sodium, preservatives, pesticides, and whatever else—but guaranteed those old dolls will make it taste so good you won’t care. So your choices are these: Either wait for the morning when we can go downtown or let me see what’s in the pantry that I can nuke.”

  “I must have clean food,” he said, lifting his chin. “So must you so that your light remains strong.”

  “Brother, I have never been a vegetarian or vegan and have more chemicals in my system than the law allows, literally. Which reminds me, I could really use a smoke, so can we go now?”

  “Will you let me heal you first?”

  “I need stitches, your hands are dirty, and I’m really not feeling going into a bathroom with a guy I don’t know, especially if there’s mirrors. Don’t ask; it’s a long story.”

  “I will cleanse my hands thoroughly and promise you no harm.”

  “Bathroom’s over there, judging from the sign above that doorway. I’m going outside for a smoke. If you’re not out by the time I finish my Newport, then it’s been nice meeting you. With everything going wrong in my life, I cannot take care of a disoriented foreign dude and risk getting blamed for breaking into a church on top of everything else—I ain’t hating, I’m just being real. You seem like a really nice guy . . . one with a lot of problems, but who am I to talk?”

  “I will not be long.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Celeste fled up the steps without looking back, crossed the wide foyer, and slipped outside into the cool night air. She tucked a bottle of water under her arm and dug out her pack of smokes, pulled one out, and lit it.

  What the hell was she doing? This guy wasn’t a cop and definitely had a screw loose. Fine as all get out, too—which made it all the more of a shame. But he wasn’t her problem. She had major issues of her own, yet she was wasting time hanging out in a church, listening to a story that was so bizarre it made her condition almost seem normal. Then again, the brief stint she’d spent in a psych ward had already shown her there were worse cases than hers.

  Celeste took another long drag on her cigarette and began walking. Her life was so jacked up. “Good-bye, Mr. Fine Crazy Angel,” she muttered as she crossed the street. “I wonder how many tours of duty you did in Iraq to wind up like this?”

  “Only one,” a now familiar deep voice said next to her. “But that was a long time ago and the region was called by a different name.”

  Celeste jumped and began violently coughing. “Oh, shit! Don’t do that! I didn’t even hear you roll up on me!”

  “The water helped,” Azrael said calmly. My body needed it to start to adjust. Can we find the place that sells clean food without poisons?”

  “Whole Foods is closed, dude,” Celeste said, still coughing, then flung her cigarette butt down. “They definitely have an alarm and paid their bill and keep their lights on all night.”

  “I can get us in and have money to pay for what we eat. We will not abuse the hospitality of that way station.”

  “Dude,” Celeste said, growing annoyed. She opened her water and took a lon
g sip to help her stop coughing. “That’s all the way downtown on like Twenty-second and the Parkway.”

  “Can we take the train . . . or those large carriages that stop at the corners?”

  “A bus. Yeah. But—”

  He held out a yellow blouse and a Windbreaker to her. “Let me heal your wound,” he said in a gentle tone. “Come back into the church, bathe so you feel better. There are clean clothes there that will fit you. In the pastor’s office is a well that runs water. My word as my bond, I will never harm you.”

  She just looked at his outstretched hand for a moment and slowly took the clothes offering, but still kept her distance. This had the ring of a really cheesy horror movie to it, and it was definitely how serial killers operated. No way was she going to be the stupid chick that trusted the handsome stranger.

  “If you can heal my head out here without hurting me, then I’ll see about going back in there for a shower. Deal?”

  He nodded. “You are right to test me in this, the end of days. I accept your shrewd discernment.”

  She finished her water and tossed the bottle into a pile of trash, noting his slight frown. “What?” She put both hands on her hips. “They don’t have recycle cans anywhere nearby, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “They do inside the church. Respect this planet. It is one of the greatest gifts that—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” She picked the bottle up off the ground. “You green people so get on my nerves. I don’t see what my one little bottle could hurt.”

  He stared at the trash-strewn street and held out his hand until she gave him the bottle, which he quickly shoved into one of his deep pockets. “It would appear that no one here thought their one little bit of refuse would hurt either. Just as so many do not realize how the actions of one person can make a difference.” He looked at her with his intense gaze. “Celeste, you can make a difference.”

  Celeste rolled her eyes, then shook her head. “You are really working my last nerve, brother. So, what’s this healing thing you can do?”