Surrender the Dark

by L. A. Banks

  “I’m sorry that I got those women killed,” she said quietly.

  “You didn’t, and there was no way for you to know.” His voice was soothing, low, and tender, and he leaned down so that their conversation remained private. “Signals can bounce off a satellite and we can watch cable all day. That’s anonymous communication, just like plucking around on the Internet can be masked...but they are always listening for our voices. All of us know each other’s voices—there’s a frequency that never leaves it, even when fallen . . . just like we are all attuned to the voice of the Source. It was designed into us so that we can always find each other. Now that some of us have fallen, it’s both a blessing and a curse.”

  He brought her into his arms and kissed the crown of her head. “Let it go, Celeste. You didn’t cause that. You did what was normal. You called home to someone you had every right to be worried about. If Isda hadn’t been playing games, I probably wouldn’t have left you and would have instructed you not to make the call.” He held her tighter. “But really, if anyone’s to blame, it’s me, like he said. The thing that hurts my soul is that I was inattentive for reasons I’m not proud of.”

  “No,” she whispered, and stared up at him. “Do not take that into your spirit. Don’t.”

  He sighed and released her. “We have to go.”

  “One question,” she said, again staying his leave. “If something happens to me, will you go home?”

  “If all goes well, we won’t have to think about that for maybe another seventy years,” he said, handing her a helmet. “My prayer is that you live well past a hundred. Climb on.”

  She gave him a skeptical look and reluctantly took the helmet. “Do you know how to ride?”

  “No,” he said with a wide smile. “But I know how to bend energy.”

  “What are you saying?” Nathaniel roared. “We lost scores of demons, our Sentinels actually saw them, and we pulled back? Now you’re blind to them!”

  Rahab looked up from the glistening, bloody puddle in the center of the black pentagram she’d drawn on the floor, then made the vision disappear with a wave of her hand. She pushed a long swath of raven hair behind her ear and placed a graceful hand on her slender hip.

  “They’re protected from our scrying, Nathaniel. Complaining about it won’t change the facts. They’ve gone to ground after the battle. We laid siege to Isda’s safe house—his stronghold was weak, and from there we acquired information on the location of a sensitive whom they frequent for minor healings. When that proved fruitless, as she was well protected, we pressed on to the location of Bath Kol’s club, but as expected, we couldn’t enter. You know he is well fortified there and we’ve never been able to find his primary roost. So we waited and ambushed them while they were en route to his stronghold—hoping to learn the location of that once and for all, but your stupid demons saw the girl, got excited thinking she was an easy target, and rushed the ambush . . . and that’s when we encountered a much improved Azrael.”

  “Bitch, your condescending tone will get you—”

  “Remember, Nathaniel . . . my name means violence. But at the moment we cannot afford to have our troops decimated by infighting.” She walked away from him unafraid and left the argument to the others.

  “Appollyon, take three brothers with you and bomb that old woman’s house. Period. I want Celeste Jackson to have a reason to return to the city. Open a gas line or something.”

  “Sometimes force only works against you, but I do not expect the brothers who you’ve just sent to bomb that old woman’s house to grasp the details of finesse. Maybe one day you’ll choose me as your second-in-command, after Appollyon fails you again.” Pharzuph studied his nails as Appollyon lunged, but Malpas and Forcas caught him.

  “One day I will feed you to Cerberus,” Appollyon growled.

  Pharzuph ignored him with a sly half smile and turned his attention back to Nathaniel. “Have you tried a subtler approach, milord? I do recall we dropped a bomb on that very same neighborhood in ’85, and the results did not yield the fruit we’d expected . . . isn’t that right, Appollyon?” Pharzuph cooed in a sensual murmur. He glanced at the tall, beautiful blonde who lounged on the sofa. “Onoskelis rules perversion now,” Pharzuph said with a smile, then nodded toward a voluptuous redhead who was noshing on sushi. “Or you can put in a petition to Lucifer to have Lilith mine one of their weaker brokers for information . . . after all she is in charge of prostitution. Perhaps we could send in Dantanian, our man with many faces, to sound like her dear aunt and take on the fat woman’s form. If we cannot get to the old hag, then we can lure Celeste Jackson out with a fake.”

  “If we had time,” Nathaniel said, narrowing his gaze. “But we do not own that luxury based upon Malpas’s report.”

  “He has regained his wings,” Malpas said on a low booming voice. “That means that the Remnant he found now has her twelve strands repaired.”

  “And that could have only happened after a joining!” Nathaniel shouted. “He had to bond to her, give her his Light—and that means she can heal them all if we do not get to her in time.”

  The news van pulled up in front of Denise Jackson’s home. Neighbors came out on their porches, craning their necks to see what had happened. Nosy Thelma down the street called and told her to go to the window, saying that live news crews were coming up her steps. Denise Jackson peered out the window with the phone in her hand. Sure as rain, the familiar newscaster she always watched at noon climbed out and a pretty blond woman was driving the van. A black man, who seemed oddly familiar, but that she couldn’t exactly place, followed her favorite reporter with a huge camera on his shoulder.

  They didn’t even have to ring the bell. She opened the door, straightening her wig and snapping her housecoat closed.

  “Ms. Jackson,” the reporter said, seeming concerned as he pushed a microphone near her face.

  “Yes,” she said, hesitating. “What’s all this about?”

  “We know that your family has been recently hit hard by a spate of ill fortune . . . first your niece’s boyfriend was tragically killed by an alleged drug deal gone bad, and then your niece fled the city—”

  “Aw, hell, I’m going back in my house. I thought you was one of the good ones, but you—”

  “Your grandson Jamal,” the reporter said quickly. “We need to ask you some questions about his tragedy.”

  “What about my baby?” she said, turning back to the reporter slowly with her hand over her heart. She could see neighbors on the adjoining porches straining to hear.

  “He was shot during recess at school—and we wanted to know if you thought it was in any way related to the troubles your niece and her late boyfriend had with area drug dealers?”

  “Oh, Father God,” she said, falling back against her door, holding her heart. “Tell me, is my baby alive?”

  “Barely, ma’am,” the reporter said. “They rushed him to Temple University Hospital.”

  “And my own daughter never called me?” Frantic, she turned away to go back into the house, but the reporter laid a kind hand on her shoulder.

  “We can give you a ride,” he said.

  “Me and Pearl can drive you, honey,” Thelma yelled out from the crowd. “Lawd have mercy, they done shot that poor boy!”

  “But we can get through traffic better with our news van,” the reporter offered. “It’s the least we can do. We didn’t realize you hadn’t been contacted, or we would have never come here like this—we aren’t monsters.”

  “Thank you so much,” Denise Jackson murmured as fat tears rolled down her face. “Jus’ lemme go put on some shoes and get my purse.”

  “You’ll give her a heart attack,” Forcas said, walking around the chair that held Denise Jackson captive. “She passed out once when she saw Dantanian’s face change and realized we weren’t reporters and saw what we really are.”

  “Keep the duct tape on her mouth,” Rahab warned. “Her prayers are stronger now that one of the Warri
ors of Light has healed her, prayed over her, and entered her home. We have to be careful of even the silent ones she says—so it will be best to make the trade soon.”

  “Yes,” Onoskelis said, glaring at Ms. Jackson. “She prayed and prayed for that boy’s miserable life, calling on the names we never say until I almost ripped her fucking throat out in the van.”

  “Duct tape was a better option,” Nathaniel said, laughing, “because then I would have had to rip out yours. She may be old and troublesome, but she’s worth her weight in gold now.” Nathaniel nodded toward Pharzuph. “Subtle was just the plan we needed, old friend.”

  Pharzuph glanced at Nathaniel. “Since Azrael called out the etheric messengers, we could not directly come at her. Oh, and did I mention he actually got through to Raphael—so we can’t override his healings on this old bat now?” Pharzuph sat in a chair facing Ms. Jackson and smiled. “Anything we did would have been deflected, unless she came to us of her own free will. Even her grandchildren and her children are protected. Our troublesome Angel of Death appears to now be in the human-life-saving profession ever since he found his chosen. But, we still own the airwaves, and she sits glued to the television watching her favorite, trusted news shows. The rest was simple. We just appeared to her as her favorite news anchor and she was out of the house with no fuss, no muss.”

  “Take note, Appollyon, subtlety works miracles. Sometimes brute force is just that—brute.” Nathaniel leaned down and slowly, gently removed the tape from Denise Jackson’s mouth. “Bring her some water. We are not animals.”

  Appollyon walked away glaring as Onoskelis flipped a long blond tress over her shoulder, laughed, and brought Nathaniel a glass of water.

  Nathaniel grabbed a chair and set it down near Ms. Jackson as Pharzuph got up to pour himself a drink. Taking his time, Nathaniel turned the chair around backward to sit down and study her. “If you are calm, you may have some water.” He rolled the glass Onoskelis had given him between his palms while staring at his captive. “We will even let you stand up and get some circulation, and we have some fruit and PowerBars—as we understand that you are diabetic. We can even allow you to rest on the sofa and watch your favorite shows.”

  Ms. Jackson just looked from one individual to another, her eyes filled with terror and her bosom heaving like that of a frightened bird. “My grandson . . . did you kill him?”

  “No, unfortunately not. He is protected. He is not even shot and hasn’t a clue all of this is going on,” Nathaniel said with a deep sigh, and closed his eyes with a squint when she quickly gasped, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  He leaned into her, his gaze darkening. “We try not to say any names associated with the Light around here . . . it’s taxing.” Then as though they’d calmly been discussing the weather, he sat back. “Our goal isn’t to hurt you or your children, or even your grandchildren. We just want Celeste to give us what she owes us.”

  Denise Jackson closed her eyes. “I told that girl . . . I told that girl a hundred times, if not once, not to mess with Brandon or the people he was dealing with.”

  “Wise counsel, but we could give a fuck about Brandon. He was expendable.”

  “Then what does she owe you?” Denise Jackson looked from one face to another, trying to find one that had an inkling of mercy in it. “I don’t have much, but I can put my house up. I can, I can give you whatever I have, just don’t hurt that chile. If she stole from you, I’ll—”

  “Ma’am,” Nathaniel said calmly with a cruel smile, “you can’t give us what that girl owes us.”

  “I can raise the money.”

  He clucked his tongue and shook his head, gently peeling back more duct tape to release her left hand from the arm of the chair. He placed the glass of water in her hand. “Drink.”

  She stared at the glass. “What does my Celeste owe you?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “They told me you were a tough old broad. I told them that was impolite.” He released a long sigh. “We want her soul.”

  “You said my grandbabies and my children were safe.”

  “You want to strike a bargain?” Nathaniel leaned forward as she brought the glass up close to her mouth, but recoiled when she spit in the glass and then flung it at him.

  Spittle and water splashed his face.

  “Get back, demon!” she shouted.

  Nathaniel was up and out of his chair in the lightning-strike quickness of a serpent. He backhanded her with a loud crack and split her lip. “If I didn’t need you alive, your heart would be beating in my hand!”

  “See what I mean?” Rahab said coolly, sipping a vodka martini.

  “My life ain’t worth squat—done lived my life,” Denise Jackson said with an angry smile, dabbing her bloodied lip. “My people been through worse than this and still survived. Angels protect my babies, that’s all I care about. You can’t take what ain’t yours even if you beat me to death. I ain’t scairt of seeing demons. And I’ll be praying in my mind that Celeste runs as far away from here as her legs can carry her.”

  “Tape her mouth shut!” Nathaniel ordered, and began to pace. He looked up to the ceiling and his eyes turned black. “You of the Realms Above have etheric messengers of the Light looking out for the old woman! Then take this message to Azrael and Celeste that I am not the one to fuck with! I have messengers, too! Demons that can deliver a very clear message! How about if I send them instead?”

  He released a black charge that sent electrical arcs from his fingertips. A black funnel cloud appeared and swirled along the ceiling ductwork like living black smoke. Screeching demons moved within it, then suddenly it sucked itself into a vent and was gone.

  Pharzuph petted Ms. Jackson’s cheek and then held her jaw tight as she tried to flinch away. Rahab held her arm down on the chair’s armrest. Pharzuph duct-taped her mouth, then restrained her free hand again. Rahab stood back and laughed.

  “When this is all over,” Pharzuph cooed, “and you try to tell anyone about us, they’re just going to think you have dementia. How sad.”

  Celeste dismounted from the bike and Azrael was right behind her. Although they’d roared in on the expressway with an amazing show of chopper force, once they got to the ship, it seemed as though no one could see them. They’d passed traffic, but strangely no drivers turned to even contemplate the loud convoy of bikes. No one looked toward the dock, no one looked toward them. She noticed that a slight tinge of glowing white-blue light covered each motorcycle and its riders. Azrael gave her a subtle nod, and from his gaze knowing spread within her that they’d been angel-cloaked.

  She looked around as bikes were quickly concealed, and Azrael and Bath Kol greeted a brother they addressed as Nemamiah. He was just over six feet tall and broad-shouldered with thick brown hair that hung down his back in a wavy ponytail. His jaw was covered in a velvety wash of five-o’clock shadow, and his dark brown eyes were intense and kind. If he’d been a human and if she’d tried to place where he was from, she would have pegged him as an Israeli.

  “Protective lines are up; water in the harbor is blessed. I take it you had travel mercy?”

  Bath Kol went to grip Nemamiah’s hand and froze as Celeste dropped to her knees and screamed. Azrael got to her first.

  “Aunt Niecey! They have her!”

  Azrael looked up at Bath Kol, who nodded. The squad gathered around as Azrael helped Celeste up.

  “I have to go to her; I don’t care!” Celeste shouted.

  “No,” Azrael said. “You’re walking right into a trap—”

  “I don’t care—it’s just me, they only want me!”

  He grabbed her by the arms and looked her in the eyes. “It’s not just you. It’s the whole world.”

  Crying, she twisted out of his hold. “Didn’t you say we have to care about one person, about the individual, and screw the big grand picture?”

  Bath Kol rubbed his hands down his face, and Isda released a long breath.

  “A man will say a lot of shit when in
bed with a woman,” Isda muttered.

  “Tell me about it,” Bath Kol said under his breath.

  “Call them,” Azrael said quickly. “Find a phone—someone downtown here who has a New York cell phone number.”

  “Damn, where is Jamaerah when ya need him?” Bath Kol walked around in a circle. “Somebody jump on a Harley and get downtown, posthaste. Send out a request for help that a messenger knock a New York cell phone out of somebody’s hand as you’re passing by on the bike, dude.” Bath Kol looked at Azrael. “Then what? I take it you’re making it up as you go along?”

  Azrael held Celeste by the hand, talking to the group while holding her gaze. “You’re going to call your Aunt Niecey from the cell phone. You’re going to leave her a voice message on her home phone and sound concerned but not panicked, like you feel something is wrong but aren’t sure, okay?”

  She nodded. “I can do that.”

  “Then you’re going to say, ‘Since I haven’t been able to reach you and feel strange, Azrael and I are coming home.” Azrael stared at her and waited for her to nod. “You’ll tell her that because of rush hour and some errands, you have to run to pick up some of the food you know she’s now eating for her health. But you’ll be stopping by my place on the docks by six p.m., and then coming home to her house.”

  “Okay . . . I can do that.”

  “They won’t kill her or harm her, Celeste, as long as they think they can trade her for you. They want to keep her healthy to show you she’s all right . . . then they’re going to force a trade—but we want that to happen on our terms, down here, and away from all those homes filled with innocent people. Your aunt is strong. She will survive this.”

  “Promise me.”

  Azrael hesitated.

  “Yo, sis, don’t stress the man,” Isda argued, stepping forward in agitation. “If the Angel of Death says she’s gonna survive, that’s pretty much money in the bank.”

  “I can’t promise that, Celeste,” Azrael said quietly. “It is logic, it is my hope and my prayer . . . but I know that this way is best.”