Surrender to Dawn

by J. Kenner

  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 they 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 I 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?"<
br />
  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, allowing 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.

  Faith, Lily.

  I'd reached the door just in time to catch it as it slammed shut. I slid, like a runner going into home, jamming my foot into the space so that the door couldn't latch.

  I'd done it and I stood carefully, not letting the door close, fearful I'd fall. That something would swoop down and attack. That the floor would drop out from under me.

  None of that happened.

  This was my chance. And as my hand closed around the knob—as my muscles tightened to push the door open—I heard that small voice again. Faith.

  This time, I recognized it. The voice, I realized, was me.

  I hesitated. And then I took a single step back. I let the door fall shut and I heard the lock click into place.

  He didn't want me there, not really. Not yet. When he was ready, he'd tell me everything. Until then, I was with this man. And I held fast to my faith that I was doing the right thing.

  About the end of the world and my ability to stop it, I was still woefully unconvinced. But this flower of faith that was truly blossoming within me? Well, I figured it was a start.

  10

  "I can't go in."

  "What?" We were standing in front of St. Jerome's Cathedral, a Boston church that predates the Revolutionary War. According to Deacon, this was Father Carlton's parish, and if there were people who knew the details of the father's work, they would be here.

  Tourists swarmed around us, cameras clicking as they moved en masse into the building, all oblivious to who and what we were. Understandable, I supposed, as we now looked more or less like your average citizens. We'd taken the more traditionally accepted route off the building, opening the door for roof access, finding the elevator, and taking that noble invention all the way down to the lobby. Actually, we'd taken one small detour before that, popping into the reception area of one of the office suites. I'd distracted the receptionist with claims that her boss, Big Charlie, had ripped me off. And while she'd repeatedly denied knowing anyone named Big Charlie, Deacon had slipped into the coat closet and stolen a suit coat to cover the wings that wouldn't, despite all his concentration, disappear.

  After that, we'd been able to move more comfortably through the world, though Deacon did garner a few lustful stares from women admiring his bare chest under the Armani jacket.

  "The church," he repeated. "I can't go in. I'm not even sure I can go closer. Goddammit," he shouted, with such sudden fury that a nearby couple with a baby scurried away, the child tucked protectively next to the woman's chest.

  "I'll go in," I said, though his inability worried me, suggesting that the demon was far more prevalent than the man.

  “That's not the point," he said, rage and self-loathing clinging to him like grime. "I try so hard—so fucking hard—and nothing is goddamned good enough."

  "Everything is good enough," I said, stepping close and pressing my hands onto his shoulders. "Don't you see why you can't go in? Because of me, Deacon. Because of me and Rose. You let yourself fall back into a world you hated because you knew that there was no other way to keep us safe—to keep the Oris Clef and the whole damn world safe."

  I drew in a deep breath because, honestly, I was pissed off. "If that means that you don't get an engraved invitation to heaven, well, then you know what? I'm thinking that heaven's got its damn priorities screwed up."

  He cast a sideways l
ook toward me. "Do you know why I came to the bridge?"

  I shook my head.

  “To hear them. To hear them and remind myself what I fight against and what I want."

  "Who?"

  "The demons. The horde. The allegorical horsemen."

  My mind twisted, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "Wait. Are you saying it's there? The portal? It's on the freaking bridge?"

  "Above," he said. "Where the spires hit the sky. That's where I was sitting, listening to their call. It's tempting," he said, his voice soft, almost melancholy. “It's so damn tempting to do nothing except slide back into what I am, to let myself be absorbed by my nature."

  My chest constricted. "I know."

  He drew me close, then pressed my back against his chest, his arms tight around me. "I fear I will have to draw upon the dark again to keep you safe. That without the power of the dark, we won't be able to finish what needs to be done."

  I feared the same thing. That every step I took toward saving the world was a step toward destroying myself. Each time I fought for good, I became a little bit more bad.

  "What if we can't do it?" I whispered. "What if we can't save the world before our nature gets the better of us?"

  I expected words of comfort—promises that all would be well. Instead, he simply pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head, and I understood. There were no guarantees. Not then. Not ever again.

  I nodded toward the church. "This may not help. They may know nothing about the rumored key."

  "It's a risk,'' he agreed.

  "There's something else," I said. "Something else you need to consider."

  His brow furrowed. "What?"

  "What if the rumors you heard were right? There was another key, but it's already been found?" I took a step back and pointed to myself. "Me. What if I was the key you'd heard about?"

  He shook his head. "No."

  "You have to at least consider the possibility," I said. "You can't cling to a vision you saw before I killed Father Carlton." Deacon's vision that he and I would seal the Ninth Gate together had been brutally clear. Moreover, it had meant the promise of redemption for him. Seal the gate, stop the Apocalypse, and gain entry into heaven. A decent trade-off, and one that he'd been striving for, fighting his dark nature as he searched for the woman of his vision, at first believing her to be Alice, then, later, realizing it was me, thrust into the body he'd seen.