by Julie Kenner
I could feel the heat from his bare chest, along with the desire. I wanted his touch—wanted nothing more than to lose myself with him, to let him claim me, to have him drive home the truth of the words he’d so often uttered. You’re mine, Lily. You’re mine.
As if understanding my need, he moved closer, his hand going to my hip. He stroked up, his thumb grazing my waist, the swell of my breast, my neck. When he reached my mouth and brought in the tip of his thumb for me to suckle, I was already limp with desire.
“Deacon,” I murmured. I knew there were things to do. Things to discover. To plan and investigate. But I needed recharging. I needed humanity.
I needed, dammit, to remember why I cared so much about fighting and what exactly it was I hoped to win. I slipped my arms around his neck and moved in close, my skin humming with anticipation. I wanted to take, to demand, and the dark curls that swirled within me urged me on, begging me to grab and consume. To slam and rip and thrust and hurt—to draw the midnight black heat of this man—this demon—inside of me.
Lust swirled around us, coloring the air, our desire. His hand cupped my cheek softly, one slight, almost hesitant touch; then it was gone, his hand curling hard around my upper arm, pulling me in, claiming me with his body and his mouth. “There is a way,” he said, his voice slow and overly deliberate, as if he was fighting everything within himself, including the urge to speak.
My blood pounded in my ears, my senses primed and full of desire. I didn’t want to talk; I wanted him, and I jerked sideways, frustrated at the distraction.
He pulled me roughly back, his eyes burning into mine, then looking quick away before the snap that would draw me deep inside him.
“What is your nature, Lily?” he asked in a whisper as rough as sandpaper. At his back, his wings stretched and spread, filling the small corner of the room and blocking us in as effectively as if he’d built a concrete wall.
I understood. The demon inside him—it was fighting to get out. And while I knew I should help him fight back, I didn’t. Because the dark within me wanted the same damn thing.
“At heart, Lily, are you good or are you bad?”
My head snapped up in surprise, because that was a question to which I really no longer knew the answer.
He tilted his head, looking at me, his eyes cunning and devious, yet inviting. As if everything would be all right if I simply trusted him.
Faith, Lily.
Slowly, his hand reached out, and he stroked my jaw, the touch sending electric tingles racing through me. The finger traced down, finding the chain of the Oris Clef, and he brushed the tip of the digit along the woven metal, then pressed his palm over the gemstone and the ornate cage that held it.
“I can make a Heaven of Hell,” he said, so softly I had to strain to hear him. “What matter where, if I still be the same? Milton was right, Lily. You would be the same. At your heart, at your core. Bring them. Lead them. You have the key. It’s destiny, Lily, and you’re the one who can save us all.”
I shook my head, not quite able to process what he was saying. This was Deacon. A demon, yes, but my anchor, and the words he spoke . . . He couldn’t mean them. Could he?
“Lily, you know it’s true. You feel it. I know, because I feel it, too.”
I drew in a breath and realized as I did so that I was trembling, my head moving slowly back and forth, the faith I’d had in Deacon faltering, shaking the entire foundation of what I’d built. But at the same time . . .
At the same time I had to wonder if he was right. If maybe this was my destiny. Reign, and change the future. Reign, and make a heaven of a world that would change in less than two days.
It was tempting. To rule with Deacon at my side. To know that I was in charge. That I could keep those I loved close to me.
“I don’t know,” I whispered, my head a muddle, the darkness within me curling slowly, sensuously. Filling and warming me, and it felt nice. Good. It felt safe. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Then let me help you.”
“You really want me to rule?” I looked up at him and felt tears well in my eyes. “What about finding the blade? Finding redemption?”
He turned away, his expression hard. “There is no redemption. Not for me. But I always said that we would see this through together.” He turned back, and I saw the determination in his expression, along with the lust. Only not for me—for power. “Reign, and you can keep them safe. Rachel. Rose. Do this, Lily, and—”
Faith, Lily . . .
But this wasn’t Deacon. This wasn’t the Deacon I desired. The Deacon I could cling to. This was someone else. This was the Deacon who’d deserved the fires of hell. The Deacon who scared me, and I feared that the Deacon I wanted—the Deacon I loved—had been lost. Buried beneath the force of this man who’d burst free when the demon had come out.
Faith, Lily . . .
But how could I rely on faith when the one thing I’d clung to rose wrongfully in front of me. When the small kernel of faith I’d placed in the man had been shattered?
“Lily,” he whispered. “You know I’m right.”
“No.” I shoved him, hard, but not hard enough to move him. He stood before me like stone, and I could do nothing but beat my fists uselessly against his chest, wanting my Deacon back, and cursing him for not fighting harder. For not battling back the darkness that was rising in him.
Because he had to fight it back. If he didn’t—if he couldn’t—then the faith I’d managed to dredge up, despite this totally fucked-up world, had been wholly and utterly misplaced.
“No,” I repeated, battling down my own temptation, the curls of darkness that longed to take what Deacon said and make it my own. “No.”
I stepped closer, pressing against him. “Fight, dammit. This isn’t you.”
He tilted his head to look down at me, his eyes as black as midnight. “It’s me, Lily.”
I trembled, fearing that he was right. But if so, that meant that I’d lost the Deacon I knew. The Deacon I loved.
“Dammit, Deacon—” I grabbed his head and pulled it down to me, kissing him hard. Wanting to get through to him and not knowing how. I pulled away, fast and quick, then met his eyes. And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek.
He jerked back, releasing a breath so low it sounded like a hiss. His eyes flared, and I tensed, ready for a fight—wanting the fight. But it didn’t come. Instead, he stood there, wary, and I saw awareness in those eyes. I saw the fight, hiding there, ready to burst free. But it wasn’t popping, and so I reached out and slapped him again.
“Fight, dammit! That’s what you are! You’re a fighter. So fight, already.” I felt the wetness on my cheeks and knew that I was crying, and when he reached out to grab my wrist as I lashed out yet again, I choked out a wet, tearful sob.
He jerked me roughly to him. “You play a dangerous game, Lily.”
“Not a game,” I said. “You’ve survived this shit once already. You can do it. Come back to me.” And with that, I pressed close once again and captured his mouth in mine. The kiss was hard, violent, yet filled with a desperate intensity. You’re mine, I wanted to say. You’re mine, dammit. Come back to me.
He moaned, the sound so full of soft desire I wanted to cry again. And then he pushed me back, so roughly I slammed against the window ledge. He backed up, his hands to his head, his body hunched over as the battle raged within him.
He lashed out, breaking the coffee table, overturning the couch, slamming his hand through the wall. His body was a war zone, and I could see his flesh moving as the demon within fought for control.
The battle was bitter and long and utterly destructive, and I stood helplessly, able only to watch and to hope.
And then I saw him go still. Saw him tilt his head back and howl, his arms thrust out at his sides. He stayed like that, the echo of his voice reverberating off the walls, and when the room was in silence again, he looked at me, his face flush wi
th victory, his wings now gone.
He’d won.
He’d beaten back the demons, and a swell of both relief and hope coursed through me. Relief that he was back, and hope that—when such a bitter battle faced me—I could find in me the same strength that Deacon found within himself.
He held out his hand to me, and I came, closing my hand over his as he drew me in closer. I stroked his body, finding his back perfectly smooth, the wings having been completely reabsorbed, subjugated to the force of Deacon’s will.
“You’re back,” I whispered, falling into his arms.
“I am,” he said, but what I heard was, “Thank you.”
A sharp sound on the far side of the room had us pulling apart quickly, and I whipped around to see Rose standing there, her expression wary as she eyed the war zone that the room had become. “I—I heard—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re fine.”
She shook her head. “No, not you.” She frowned at the mess as if considering amending that statement. “I heard sirens. Outside, you know? And I decided to turn on the television in the bedroom, and—” Her voice broke, and I rushed toward her.
“Rose?”
She pointed to the television and I turned it on. Total coverage of disasters around the world. Earthquakes, fires, dormant volcanoes suddenly spewing forth molten rock from the bowels of the earth. Some of the stations had scientific commentators trying to expound a science-based reason for all of this. Others had brought on religious gurus, who either professed gloom and doom or concentrated on getting the audience to repent.
I knew the real explanation, of course. Penemue. Kokbiel. And the horrific tug of the convergence coming closer and closer.
Not our usual television-watching fare, but considering Rose already knew all that was happening, I wasn’t entirely sure what the problem was.
“Wait,” she said, grabbing the remote and switching to a local news channel. “See?”
I saw—and my mouth went dry.
Riots at St. Jerome’s. Fifteen dead, including responding police officers. Forty-seven injured. And in the background, the battle raged on, and damned if I didn’t recognize some of the faces brandishing weapons and cutting down humans. Damned if I hadn’t served them pints and let them sit in my pub.
“That’s where he lives, right? That priest you talked to?”
I nodded, my eyes glued to the television. “But the demons can’t go there,” I said, glancing quickly at Deacon.
He frowned. “The convergence. As it gets closer, things break down, and even holy places become the most desperate of battlefields. Especially holy places.”
And wasn’t that special?
“Is that—?” Rose’s finger was extended toward the screen, and I saw the monsignor amidst a crush of demons, his lips moving in silent prayer.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. I wanted to go to him, to help him, but I didn’t know if I should. My battle was coming—could I risk the world for the sake of one man?
“Him,” Deacon said. “The demon right there.” He tapped the screen, indicating a demon with white hair standing just behind the one who held the priest. “He’s a Caller.”
I said a silent thank-you, because since we didn’t have the knife, we still needed the Caller. Get the Caller, save the priest. It was practically a two-for-one special.
“I have to go.” I was halfway to the door before the words were out of my mouth.
“Not alone,” Deacon said, immediately at my side.
I looked at him, then at the television screen. Then I shook my head. “It’s too soon,” I said. “And you’re too exhausted from the fight.”
“The hell I am.”
But I knew I was right. “Stay,” I said. “I need you to protect Rachel, anyway. I have a feeling that once she decided to mess with the demons, the protections on this place started melting away. The demons may not realize it yet, but—”
“They will,” he said. “And yeah, I think you’re right.”
“You mean we’re not safe here anymore?” Rose asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think anywhere is safe anymore.”
She licked her lips, looking worried, as I turned back to Deacon. “Please,” I said. “Don’t fight me on this. I need you here watching Rachel. And I don’t want you—”
I couldn’t finish, my words choking off instead.
“I don’t want you going alone,” he said.
I looked at Rose. I didn’t want to admit she had the fight in her—didn’t want to acknowledge that she was truly part of this world. But the time for wishful thinking was over. From there on out, it was all about action.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Deacon as I held out a hand to Rose. “I won’t be.”
SEVENTEEN
T hwack!
The demon caught me dead across the jaw, and I lashed back, pissed off and ready for the kill.
Rose got there first, thrusting her blade deep into my attacker’s chest. It collapsed into a pile of goo, and she shot me a look of triumph despite the fact that we were hardly done yet. Hell, we’d barely even started.
“Thanks,” I said, because it wasn’t the time to mourn the loss of the little sister I remembered or to remind her to be careful. We were in the thick of it, and the only truly useful thing to do was fight.
Which we were doing. Hard and fast and furious.
We’d arrived at the church in record speed, having taken the Tiger, which I’d brought back to the pub after we’d scoured Alice’s apartment. I’d feared that we’d have to do some song-and-dance routine to get past the police and emergency services responders, but we hadn’t, most likely because they were all dead, and I was terrified that the monsignor was as well.
That terror spurred me on, pushing us into the fray, killing and fighting and battling demon after demon as they surged backward, gathering their forces in the bowels of the building.
I’d called for Morwain when we’d arrived, and at first, he’d battled right beside us, his own blade out, his fingers elongated with razor-sharp talons. But now, as I watched in horror, he bent over the corpse of a teenage boy, peeled a strip of flesh, and ate it.
I turned away, gagging, my mind swimming with what he was, this creature that so willingly did my bidding.
“Mistress,” he said, bowing low, his mouth bloody.
“The demons,” I said, forcing my voice steady and aiming my gaze in the direction the throng had traveled. “Cut them down, cut through them, but don’t stop until you find the monsignor.” I cast a gaze at the body on the floor. “Don’t stop for anything.”
“Yes, mistress,” he said, then disappeared into the dark. I watched him go, imagining him swallowed up by the belly of the beast. Imagining that we all were. I drew in a shaky breath and pressed my hand against Rose’s shoulder. I told myself not to second-guess my decision to bring her, but I couldn’t help it. I knew it was a mistake. I only hoped that my mistake wouldn’t get my sister killed.
“Do you think he’s . . .” Rose asked, unable to give voice to the real question.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I hope not, but we’re not here just for him.”
“The Caller,” she said.
“Come on,” I said to Rose, then started stalking through the wreckage, following the path Morwain had taken. “Careful,” I added. “And alert.”
“I know,” she said, but there was no verbal eye roll, no hint of sarcasm. She was doing this right, and a tiny weight lifted from me. Maybe she’d get through unscathed.
Maybe we both would.
We found Morwain in the little garden area where I’d spoken with the priest. Although, to be perfectly accurate, we found him on the path, and on the flower bed, and in the trees.
“Oh God,” Rose said, clutching her stomach as she stepped back from the bloody remains of the demon that had pledged service to me.
“Didn’t much like the bloody bugger,” a broad-chested demon said, stepping forward from
a throng of dark, smelly demons of both the humanoid and the monstrous variety. He wore tattered pants, as if he’d been pumped up with the dark so much that the seams had burst. His chest was bare and covered with ancient symbols. His face was red and oozing, as though someone had pressed his head into a red-hot iron skillet. A thick dribble of puss oozed down his cheek before a lizardlike tongue whipped out and flicked it away. “Guess he was confused about where his allegiance should be placed.”
“He wasn’t confused. His allegiance lay with this.” I took a bold step forward, holding up the Oris Clef. “Pay it respect,” I said. “Pay me respect, or in two short days you’re going to find yourselves very, very miserable.” To my credit, my voice didn’t waver, and I kept my head held high. Behind the leader, a few beasties shifted, as if, maybe, they were questioning the wisdom of pissing me off. One of them, I saw with glee, was the Caller.
I raised my voice. “Go now, and I’ll forget I ever saw you. Stay,” I added, lowering my voice to a growl, “and you’ll soon learn how painful my displeasure can be.”
At first I feared that I’d gone too far. Then a cluster of demons broke off the pack, skulking out the back and avoiding the furious glares of the leader in front. I forced myself not to cheer, and instead stood tall and quiet, as if I’d expected nothing less.
“Fool,” I said. “You should have gone with your little friends.”
“And you,” he said, with a growl, “should remember that you are neither as clever nor as strong as we who live in the dark.” He stepped aside, revealing the demon behind him, the monsignor trapped in his arms, ready to be pulled apart limb by limb. “You can still save him, you know. All you have to do is give me that which you wear around your neck.”
“No.” I spoke firmly, trying to hide the horror in my voice. But I knew it came through anyway. I knew because of the way the demon smiled at me with smug satisfaction. He’d won a round, he knew. And I was certain that he expected he’d win another.
