Turned

by Julie Kenner

  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.

  TEN

  “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 look 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.

  But his vision had come before the prophecy kicked in. A cryptic bunch of nonsense words, the prophecy basically said that Prophecy Girl—me—would have the power to open or close the gate. To cause or prevent Armageddon.

  Not that anyone had bothered to tell me that. Instead, the demons tipped the scale. They manipulated the prophecy. They made me. They tricked me. And when I killed Father Carlton, I made the choice described in the prophecy. I’d chosen my allegiance. And now, I feared, I was screwed.

  More than that, I feared that any vision that Deacon had seen was all shot to hell. After all, visions weren’t set in stone. They were a preview of the future, sure. But they could change on a dime.

  Deacon was watching me, his expression thoughtful. “Shall we call Gabriel now? Have you go away with him to await the convergence?”

  I winced. “Not top of my list, no.”

  “Then there’s no harm in trusting my vision, is there? We have four days. We find the key during that time, and you’re safe. We both are.”

  I nodded, and we simply stood for a moment, him holding me tight and me pressed up close, listening to the beating of his heart. It was the sound of humanity, and somehow, hearing it in the chest of this demon, gave me hope.

  “Do they know what’s happening?” I asked. “The regular humans, I mean. Like those people on the bridge. The people here, visiting this church. Do they understand?”

  “Some,” Deacon said. “The rest probably think what they saw was a publicity stunt.”

  “Not just the ones who saw our fight. I was talking about the world. All the humans.”

  “Some see the signs and believe,” he said. “Some refuse to open their eyes.”

  “And when they see something like Penemue?”

  His mouth curled up in a half grin. “That might convince them. Maybe.”

  What I didn’t understand was why I wasn’t seeing Gabriel and Penemue or even Kokbiel around every corner. The demons trying to cut off my head for what was around my neck, the angel tryin
g to take me away, intent on sacrificing me for the greater good.

  “Gabriel can no longer take you by force,” Deacon said after I voiced the question, his eyes dipping to the Oris Clef. “You are protected now by its power. That’s how you were able to get away after he had captured you in the chamber. Once you had the Oris Clef, his hold on you weakened and broke.”

  “Oh.” That was a bit of good news. And certainly explained a lot.

  “He can still try to persuade you to go with him willingly,” Deacon added. “Frankly, I’m surprised he has not.”

  I didn’t tell him about the strange illusion of Gabriel’s face floating over Madame Parrish. “What about the demons?”

  “They’re not like me,” Deacon said. “Penemue and Kokbiel are massive, cross-dimensional beings that have only become more massive during the time they’ve spent cast out. They’re not so much beings as they are forces of nature, and for them to create a portal to this dimension and manifest takes an act of great power, and always with a counterbalancing effect upon the world.”

  “Counterbalance?”

  “Earthquake, fire, tornadoes. Like I said, forces of nature.”

  “The earth trembled,” I murmured, thinking of the newspaper article and the comment that the Shanghai earthquake was only one of several that had been sweeping the globe. “They’re coming,” I said.

  Deacon nodded. “They are. And I’d guess that Lucas Johnson is, too. We defeated him, and now that you have what he and his master so desired, he’ll be back, Lily.”

  “I know,” I said. “And soon.”

  ELEVEN

  The October sun hung low in the sky as I entered the church, its rays bursting through the stained-glass windows and giving the interior an ethereal quality, as if this place existed in some rainbow dimension, where nothing could harm a thing of such beauty. There was no formal service, yet the pews were full, the faithful on their knees, hands clasped in front of them, heads bent in prayer.

  Many held rosary beads, and I could hear the low murmur of their Hail Mary’s. Some, though, were there only to soak in the comfort of the room, and rather than pray the rosary or cast their eyes upon the crucifix that hung at the front of the room, they were looking around at their fellow worshippers. And, of course, at me.

  Me, in my battered red duster, with my black boots, mussed-up hair, and bloodstained tank top. It’s a wonder they all didn’t run screaming from the room.

  Naturally, the moment that thought entered my head, that was exactly what happened. A grizzled old man stood up, his coat hanging scarecrowlike on his bony shoulders. “That’s her,” he said. “The girl from television. She cavorts with demons, she does!”

  Heads snapped up. Women clutched their children and scooted backward. Men stood, their faces full of false bravado, hands clenched tight into fists, as if they had even the slightest chance of winning in a fight against me.

  “You want a piece of me?” I snapped, a raw fury rising in me. I was risking my sister, my life, my soul for these people, and they stepped up to accuse me without even understanding? What the fuck was that about?

  The darkness inside me writhed and twisted, urging me to lash out at these fools. These people who didn’t understand who I was or what I did and only wanted to wallow in their fear and condemn those who were trying so desperately to save them. “Do you really want a piece of me?”

  A tall, skinny man stepped forward. “I saw you, too,” he said. “But I don’t think you were cavorting. I think you were fighting.”

  I drew in a breath, then released it slowly. Finally, someone who had been paying attention. “I was. I am.” I lifted my chin. “That’s what I do.”

  He looked me up and down, his face soft and pudgy, but his eyes sharp and quick. “Hell of a fight,” he said. “What are the stakes?”

  “Do you really want to know?” I don’t know why I stood there, engaged in such an inane conversation. But something inside me told me to stay. To see it through. Not so hard to obey that urge, frankly. At the moment no one was trying to kill me. And that, at least, was a good thing.

  Behind him, a few others had gathered, their faces full of curiosity. Many still stood back, clearly not trusting anyone who was fighting on a bridge with two furry wolflike beasts and one Pterodactyl-winged human.

  The man looked behind him at the small group, then held out his hand to a petite woman with a baby on her hip. She took a step forward and grasped his hand. “Yes,” she said. “We really want to know.”

  “Armageddon,” I said, which set off a riot of voices behind me.

  The man clutched his wife’s hand tighter, but his eyes never left me. “You lose, and it’s all over for us.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded slowly, as if taking that in, and when he lifted his head once more to look at me, I gasped. Because the pudge I’d seen earlier had vanished, replaced by a warrior’s countenance. Gabriel.

  I gasped, and took a hurried step back, but the man didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you going to lose?” he asked, though he spoke in the voice of the angel, his words seeming to come not from him but from the very air that surrounded us.

  I shook my head, then lifted my chin. Firm. Certain. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”

  The illusion faded, and the man in front of me was once again only a man. I blinked, wondering if what I’d seen had been real or simply my mind playing tricks on me. In the end, I supposed it didn’t matter. Because I’d meant what I said: I wasn’t going to lose.

  To meet that rather ambitious goal, however, I needed help. “Did Father Carlton have an assistant?” I asked. “Another priest, maybe? Someone he shared information with?”

  The man’s pudgy brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “He was close to the monsignor,” his wife said.

  “Is he here?”

  The two exchanged glances. “He’s . . . He’s not well.”

  “Don’t make me spell out how important this is.”

  The man looked back at his wife, who nodded. “Take her,” she said, as a low rumble of protest broke out behind her. To their credit, they both ignored the gripes, and no one else stepped up. They might believe I was a demon out to murder the monsignor, but nobody seemed inclined to step up and do anything about it.

  A dark finger snaked through me, contempt for those who came here and sat on their rears and prayed, then didn’t lift a finger when they believed that something bad was about to happen. If it was their faith that stilled them, then perhaps my lack of faith wasn’t such a handicap after all. I, at least, was taking action.

  The man who might have been Gabriel led me into the back of the cathedral, down average-looking hallways that could have been in any office building. I kept expecting us to stop at one of the doors and enter an office, but we kept moving through the building until we finally exited and entered a landscaped courtyard. “Where are we—”

  “Through here,” he said, pointing to a gravel path. I looked around, suddenly wary. Maybe this guy wasn’t on my side so much after all. Maybe he was leading me to the slaughter.

  Or, thank you, Miss Paranoid, maybe he was leading me to an elderly white-haired man with skin so thin I could see the blood pumping through his veins.

  I drew in a breath, steeling myself. There was no blood spilled, and I was not going to let my bloodlust kick in merely from the thought of what flowed within. Simply not happening.

  “Monsignor Church,” my guide said, shaking the shoulder of the man sleeping in the garden chair. “Monsignor?”

  “Church?” I said.

  The man actually smiled. “He lived up to his name.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Old. Very old.” He gave the shoulder another gentle shake. “He lives back here. A perk of the Diocese, I guess. He’s a little fuzzy in the head, but Father Carlton watched over him.” He looked at me, and I forced myself not to react, reminding myse
lf that this man would have no idea who I was or what I did. “I guess now the new rector will step in and take care of the monsignor. Father,” he said, bending down close to his ear and speaking loudly. “Father, wake up. You have a guest.”

  The old man sputtered and jumped, rheumy eyes blinking open as he peered first at my guide, then at me. “Is it morning already?”

  “Not yet, sir. I’ve brought someone to talk to you.”

  “Is it Missy? She was going to bring a new book today. She reads to me,” he said, peering up at me. “My eyes went early. Hard to read. Missy does that for me.”

  “Missy moved away, remember? Last year. But I think Beth is coming tomorrow to read you another chapter from The Count of Monte Cristo.”

  “Good boy.” He patted the man’s hand. He turned to me. “Nice of you to come, but I’ve already been taken care of.”

  “No, she’s—”

  “I need you to answer a question,” I said, hoping to shortcut this process. “About Father Carlton. About the Box of Shankara.”

  His head tilted up, those damp eyes suddenly sharp with focus. His lips parted as he looked me up and down. Then he turned to the man who’d brought me this far, reached out, and took his hand. “Leave us, please.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Jeffrey. Go.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You have my word.”

  From the look he gave me, I wasn’t sure that he was impressed by my promise. But he did what the monsignor asked and left, casting one final look back at us before the path curved out of sight.

  “What do you know of the box?” he said.

  “I know that we need to find another. Or something that serves the same purpose.” I scooted a metal garden chair over, then sat down in front of him. My coat shifted back as I did, revealing the knife strapped to my thigh.

  “It is you, then.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded toward the knife. “From Antonio’s description of Father Carlton’s killer. I thought. And now, I am certain.”