by Julie Kenner
He wasn’t letting me out. He was forcing me to watch.
And so I did the only thing I could—I screamed and I screamed and I screamed.
I don’t know how long I was out of the vision before I stopped screaming. All I knew was that my skin felt raw, as did my throat. My eyes ached, and the scent of burning flesh clung to me. I curled up on the asphalt, my knees up against my chest, my body shaking as I tried to catch my breath. As I tried to tell myself that I could handle that. That if I had to, I could step up to the plate and endure that suffering forever.
Oh dear God in heaven, I was such a freaking liar.
“I deserved that, Lily,” Deacon said, the self-loathing in his voice as thick as oil. “For the things I did, I deserved it for one hell of a lot longer than I suffered it. But you don’t,” he said firmly. “You don’t deserve it at all.”
FIFTEEN
Ilay there, trembling, trying to fight back the fear—the horrible knowledge that the thing that I should do—that I needed to do—this thing that could save the world—absolutely scared me to death. I’d felt it. I’d been it. And I didn’t see how I could possibly endure it.
I hadn’t even been in Deacon’s head for five minutes, and I felt destroyed, as if my body had been ripped apart. As if I’d never be whole again.
How could I do anything but fight against that possibility? How could I do anything but run?
I hugged my knees and rocked, hating my own cowardice but unable to deny the sharp teeth of my fear. I’d faced killers and rapists. I’d faced demons. I’d thought that I knew fear.
I’d been wrong. Fear hides until you become complacent, then it jumps out at you. It sinks its teeth into you. And it takes away even the tiniest hope that maybe, possibly, you’d been working your way up to doing the right thing.
I couldn’t. God help me, I couldn’t.
“Dammit, Lily,” Deacon said, his tone as hard as his eyes. “You don’t have to.” He reached a hand down for me. “We just have to find the knife.”
But as that tiny kernel of courage had left me, so had my belief in miracles. And I knew that it would take a miracle to find that knife. Or, at least, to find it in time. Night was already starting to fall, and soon we would have only two days left. Two days until the end of the world.
Two days until I capped off my rather spectacular array of failures with the biggest one of all.
At least I was consistent, right?
“Take my hand, Lily,” Deacon said, holding his right hand out for me.
I hesitated, but honestly, the time for self-pity was over. I either needed to go all out with the demon-queen plan (not), put on a white nightie for my sacrificial debut (big, fat, scary not), or get off my ass and look for the one thing in the whole universe that could save me. We had two full days still, right? And that’s two entire lifetimes for some insects, right? Surely I could find one stupid knife with two lifetimes at my disposal.
I took his hand, feeling a little slaphappy. And apparently a little shaky still, because as I stood, the earth seemed to rumble and shake under my feet.
“Earthquake,” Deacon said, and I realized it wasn’t me after all. He held me close, then moved us into the doorframe.
“Penemue?”
He nodded. “That’s my best guess.”
“Is he out?”
Deacon hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It would take a massive quake to free him.”
I licked my lips. “Then that’s probably coming.”
“I think we can count on it.”
I drew in a breath, then nodded firmly, gathering my resolve. “Okay, then. Positive thinking. We find the knife. We lock the gate. And then I’m buying the whole damn world a round of Guinness.” I cocked my head and frowned. “Where do we look that we haven’t already?”
He was about to say he didn’t know—I was absolutely certain of it—when Rose burst through the back door, gesturing frantically. “It’s Rachel,” she said, shoving a sword into my hand. “Hurry! Lily, please hurry!”
We raced through the pub, Rose leading the way, breathlessly telling us about how Rachel had stepped outside to clean up some trash that someone had left on the sidewalk right in front of the pub.
I could guess the rest. The pub itself was empty, not a demon in sight. And yet I could see a maelstrom of motion through the leaded-glass windows. She was out there, with the demons. And the demons were pissed.
“They learned,” I said, sprinting toward the door and pulling it open. “Didn’t they? They realized what she was doing. That she was pointing them out to me.”
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “I don’t. All I know is that they all got up after she went out.”
I was peering out on them, at the manifest horror of a demonic mob. And what I was seeing wasn’t about killing Rachel. It wasn’t about taking her out of the equation so she couldn’t point me at any more demons.
It was about payback. About making her suffer. Not a fast kill, but a slow, painful nosedive into oblivion. And only when she’d suffered enough would they end it for her.
At least a dozen demons made up the mob, and as the crowd shifted and turned, a living mass of writhing evil, I saw the demon in the middle reach down and draw her up. Her face was pale, and her eyes scared, but she was alert, and her expression was completely “fuck you”—and right at that moment I couldn’t have been prouder if she were my own sister.
As I started to race forward, the demon grabbed an arm, offering her other limbs to three cronies, and they yanked on her as if they were going to quarter her right there in the streets of Boarhurst. Honestly, I wouldn’t have put it past them.
Deacon’s hand closed tight on my shoulder, pulling me back. “Think,” he said. “That’s Cryonic,” he said, pointing to the tallest demon. “He’s the one I bought the paralytic from,” he said, referring to a rather unpleasant episode where my entire body had frozen up after being shot with the damn stuff. “I’d wager the damn gate key that if you rush in there to save her, he’ll jab you with the stuff. We can’t afford to have you out of commission, Lily. Not now.”
He nodded toward the screaming mob, jeering and cheering, urging the four attackers on. “One quick throw of my knife, and it’s over for her. She’s out of the fight, and you’re safe. She’d want that, Lily. She’d want you safe.”
I turned to him, appalled, wondering which Deacon I was speaking to, the man or the demon.
“No,” I said. “No way. She doesn’t die. Not on my watch. No way. No fucking way.”
He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said, his voice all calm control. “We fight.”
Darkness rippled across his features, and I welcomed it, even though I knew what it was. It was the same darkness that was welling in me—wanting the fight. Welcoming it despite the insane odds.
Deacon had said he feared we couldn’t save the world and keep our humanity, and right then I was afraid that he might be right. I might not even be able to save Alice’s sister and fight back the lure of the demons.
But I had to try. If I didn’t, the demons within had already won.
“Now,” I shouted, and as I raced forward, Deacon threw that blade, his aim true. But not for Rachel. No, he was aiming for Cryonic. And although the demon shifted left, the blade still sliced him, the force of that razor-sharp blade slicing off the demon’s elfin ear.
The beast howled, giving Rachel’s arm a hard jerk, but not so hard that it came off. The other three demons kept hold of her, and as Deacon rushed into the fray, fighting back the demons that had broken free of the mob and were lumbering forward to stop him, I bulleted forward, brandishing the sword and cutting down everything in my way that even freaking moved.
“Call Morwain,” I shouted to Rose. “He wants to prove his worth to me, he can damn well start now. And you,” I added, throwing the words over my shoulder as I raced forward. “You stay out of this fight.”
“Lily!” Rachel’s voice was pure ang
uish, and I saw that her three captors were positioned to rip her apart. I dove, leading with my blade, and cut one of them down at the ankles. He stumbled, dropping her, and throwing his compatriots off balance. The confusion gave me the opportunity to rush farther into the fray. I wasn’t concerned about fighting skills or my training or any of it. All I wanted was the kill, and I lunged forward, skewering the other demon who’d had Rachel by the arm. He dropped her, and she hit the asphalt hard. As she did, the demon glanced down, taking his eyes off me for just a split second.
That was one second too long.
I slashed out with the blade. I connected. And I cut off the smug son of a bitch’s head.
After that, things got crazy. Well, crazier.
Rachel was on the ground, and the demons were on me, and I was kicking and thrusting and hacking for all I was worth, landing some sweet, solid blows, but no kill shots. Nothing that got me nice and juiced up, and dammit, I needed the hit, the strength.
Needed, and wanted.
Beside me, Deacon was lost in the battle as well, wild, his demonic nature, I feared, taking over.
But at least it was killing. It might not be on my side—might only be looking out for itself—but so long as he was in the fray and killing the bad guys, I could deal. For now—until we got Rachel safe—I had no choice but to deal.
What I couldn’t deal with was what I saw on the far side of the mob. Morwain, fighting side by side with Rose.
“What the fuck?” I yelled, diving under a demon who was going for Rachel and slicing his belly as I slid neatly beneath him. Entrails poured out over both of us, and Rachel gagged and screamed as I pressed my switchblade into her hand. “Get back,” I said. “Get back inside the pub.”
Even as I said it, though, I knew she’d never make it alone.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her arm and jerking her upright. Behind us, the demon with the spilled entrails drew a last, gasping breath. Immediately, the power, the horror, the bone-deep vitriol that made up the creature’s life began to swirl through me, coloring my movements, giving me confidence and, yes, strength.
“More,” I said, as Deacon rushed up beside me. I left him with Rachel, then hurried back into the fray in full attack mode, cutting the demons down like so much underbrush.
Some fought back, but most fled, with Deacon on their heels, determined not to let them leave the place. A few even bowed away, muttering about forgiveness and the Oris Clef and how they swore full allegiance.
A small cadre a few yards away still fought, engaging both Rose and Morwain in an intense battle. I sprinted in that direction, shouting at Rose to get the hell out of there, although I had to grudgingly admit that she was doing damned good. Balance, coordination, and she wasn’t even cringing when she thrust her blade into tough demon flesh.
“Get in the pub!” I shouted. “Now!”
“A little preoccupied,” she retorted.
“Get out of there,” I repeated, sliding into her battle and engaging the burly demon she’d been toying with. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“You made me,” she said. “You didn’t want me to fight, you shouldn’t have put me in a fighter’s body.”
I didn’t point out that I hadn’t exactly planned it that way. Right then, I just wanted to make her stop. But at the same time, I had to admit that it made me feel better knowing that she could hold her own.
“Lily!” Rachel called, and I turned to see Deacon battling his way to the door.
It was six against one—well, technically two, but Rachel wasn’t much use—and the fury and power that was Deacon made the fight seem unfairly skewed in his direction. He thrummed and thrust and lashed and cut, his body rippling with power, the dark rolling off of him like waves to engulf his prey.
Calling for me had been an utterly superfluous act, because by the time I reached them, Deacon had laid all the attacking demons flat, and Rachel was beyond pale and breathing hard.
“Inside,” Deacon said, moving for the door as I called for Morwain and Rose to hurry. Rose did, but Morwain just looked at me.
“Come on,” I said. “You did good.” I wasn’t keen on the admission, but he had helped us. Between him and Deacon, that brought my tally of known decent demons up to two. But you had to start somewhere.
He shook his head. “Go ahead, mistress,” he called, then bent over an injured demon and slammed his blade home. “Morwain will stay behind.”
Couldn’t argue with that. I turned back to the group, about to step into the pub. Rachel took one step, her foot almost crossing the threshold, then her body snapped tight, and I saw with horror the shaft of a crossbow arrow emerging from her back, so deep and so well placed that I was certain it must have at least nicked her heart.
She fell, her mouth open, a bubble of blood forming as she tried to speak.
I was on my knees immediately, my cry of protest so loud and anguished it ripped my throat apart. Deacon, I saw, had moved in front of us, shielding us from the attacker, and I looked up and saw where the shot had come from—the roof of the opposite building, where a man in white stood looking down at us.
“Johnson,” Rose breathed.
For the first time, I didn’t care. All I wanted was Rachel, and I held her hand, telling her she was going to be okay. That I’d fix it. And I was going to. Absolutely. That was one of the perks of being me, after all. I couldn’t bring back the dead, but I could heal a wound.
Tears streamed down my face as I sliced my palm. And after we dragged her back inside the pub, I pulled the arrow out, terrified as I did that the damage I caused would be irreparable even for my unique skill.
I kept my hand above the wound, flexing my wrist, making fists, doing whatever it took to keep the blood flowing.
She was fading, though, and I was terrified that the injury was too severe even for me. I pressed my wrist to her lips, hoping she could just drink a few drops of my blood, but nothing seemed to be happening.
A last gasp of life racked her body, and I mourned the loss of this sister I couldn’t save. This friend I’d lost, just as I’d feared I would.
But then . . .
Then she twitched. And moaned. And her tongue reached out to flick my wrist and taste my blood. My heart was tight in my chest, and I clutched her, murmuring all the stupid, useless things people say when they’re sad and scared and relieved.
“He’s gone,” Deacon said. Through it all, he’d stood at the window, watching that roof. “One minute he was there; the next he was gone.”
“Should we be worried?” I asked.
“About Lucas Johnson? Always. But I don’t think we have to worry right now.”
“Whatever you say,” I said, turning my attention back to Rachel. I helped her sit up, then held her tight. “You’re okay now,” I said. “You’re going to be all right.”
She turned and looked at me, her eyes glassy and her expression dim. Then she smiled, but the expression didn’t last. Listlessly, she squeezed my hand. “Yes,” she said. “I absolutely am.”
SIXTEEN
“She’ll be okay,” I said, but whether I was comforting Rose or myself, I wasn’t sure. We’d locked the pub up tight, then taken Rachel up to the apartment. She was in her bedroom, tucked in under the covers by two women who weren’t really her sisters but had somehow become family. “She just needs sleep.” I squeezed Rose’s shoulder. “So do you.”
She shook her head. “I’m not tired. I don’t think Kiera needed to sleep.”
“Just do it,” I said. “I want you sharp. And I’d like you with her, too. In case she needs anything.”
Rose’s forehead furrowed as she glanced toward the bedroom door.
“Dammit, Rose,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. “Just go.”
She scowled, but she went. And as soon as she did, I sagged onto the couch, my thoughts racing, the dark of the kills still bubbling inside me. The sensation no longer disturbed me. On the contrary, it felt like comfort. Cold, ye
s, but familiar, too.
I thought of Morwain. About how he’d come when I called. About how he’d bowed when I’d given him orders. About how he’d thrust himself into the thick of battle without question or argument, simply because I said that he must.
How easy that could be, to take on the role forever. I closed my fingers around the Oris Clef and felt the possibility bubble and pound through me. How warm and safe that would feel, knowing that I could gather allies around me at a moment’s notice.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”
Deacon had so far said nothing, instead standing in the dark and peering down at the street, where we had so deftly slaughtered a host of demons. Not bad for a day’s work, and yet I feared . . .
I ran my finger through my hair, my thoughts trailing off, not even willing to voice in my own mind what it was that scared me. And yet, as I looked at Deacon, I knew there was no choice but to put it into words.
I stood, then took a deep breath and walked toward him. The moon, almost full, hung heavy in the sky, its light pouring in through the window and casting long shadows. The hour wasn’t that late, but in October, night came early, and it felt as though it were well past midnight. Soon, it would be, and we would officially be two days away from the convergence. Less, when you considered that the final day ended at noon rather than midnight.
The time was fast approaching, and in less than forty hours, for better or for worse, we would know the way the world was going to go.
At the window, Deacon turned to watch me as I came closer. He stood perfectly still, but the wings that had become so familiar to me twitched as I approached. They’d grown and stretched during the battle, almost as if they were preening, celebrating the return to the dark.
I reached out my hand and stroked the thick, smooth skin. Deacon flinched and turned away from me.
“This is it,” he said. “This is what we feared. We fight to bring order and light to the world and condemn ourselves to darkness.”
He took my hand and pulled me in front of him, trapping me between his body and the window. My body cast a shadow over him, the moon’s light catching him on the outside, making his body appear to glow like some sort of ethereal being. An angel. Or, at least, the way I used to believe angels appeared.
