Surrender the Dark Read online

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author

  L.A. BANKS

  and her “SPELLBINDING”* novels

  “Each book . . . gets harder and harder to put down...Amazing imagination and a story that is touching and packed with drama from beginning to end.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Superior vampire fiction.”

  —Booklist

  “Blade meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer...A pulsating blood-booster.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Fasten your seat belt and enjoy a ride littered with holy water, vamp ooze, and a layered web of political intrigue ingeniously woven from the mind of Banks.”

  —Philadelphia Sunday Sun

  “L.A. Banks writes a killer vamp series.”

  —Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “A terrifying roller-coaster ride of a book.”

  —Charlaine Harris

  “A spellbinding thrill ride.”

  —Zane*

  “Arguably superior to the Buffy franchise . . . Wildly creative and invents a totally new and refreshing milieu.”

  —Fangoria

  “Banks spins a head-bendingly complex tale of passion, mythology, war and love that lasts till the grave—and beyond.”

  —Publishers Weekly Online

  Pocket Books

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  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Leslie Banks

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Pocket Books paperback edition April 2011

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Designed by Leydiana Rodríguez-Ovalles

  Cover design by Lisa Litwack

  Cover illustration by Gene Mollica

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4516-0778-9

  ISBN 978-1-4516-0897-7 (ebook)

  As with all things, my first thank-you goes to The Creator, for allowing me to have the opportunity to craft a new series.

  But there are so many people who are in my corner too—a blessing in and of itself: my daughter; my wonderful Street Team of friends, who always urge me on; and of course the readers who keep hitting me on Facebook and email me, asking, “So what’s next, Ms. Banks?” (Big smile.)

  Thank you for all the love!

  Acknowledgments

  Without Sarah Crowe, my agent, who is a positive force of nature, this wouldn’t have been possible. I also want to give special thanks to Jennifer Heddle, my editor, and her wonderful staff and colleagues at Pocket Books, who made this project a joy. No book is a solo effort; it requires a solid team of people all pulling in the same direction to birth a novel, let alone a series (or at least twins, otherwise know as a sequel, LOL!). I might have been the one “carrying,” but I had a great book obstetrics team—thank you—and the baby even came out with a very pretty cover! Big hug!

  Prologue

  Azrael squeezed his eyes shut more tightly when the light around him dimmed behind his lids. As the Angel of Death, never had he imagined that he would fear the return to darkness as terribly as he did now.

  Yet he refused to lose sight of the fact that to be chosen was the highest honor imaginable. The sacrifice would be great, but that was what made being selected so deeply revered. It would be soon, he could feel the energy around him changing, could feel the anticipation of the others as he remained poised between the edge of one realm and the descent into the other.

  He was a being of pure light who would now be reconstructed into the heavy density of earthly flesh and matter . . . a process that hurt like hell. Most of his kind didn’t make that full transition into flesh, avoiding the pain and temptations wrought by that earthly condition.

  Instead they reached out to humanity through the veil between worlds, entering human space without actually becoming a part of it. In the world but not of it . . . a delicate balancing act to be sure.

  And while most of his fellow warriors hadn’t fully returned to the plane of sensation since the first big battle that had emptied the realms above, some of his brethren had actually been trapped in the earthly realm following their clash with the fallen. That war had been Azrael’s only time incarnate; fighting directly and valiantly for the primary heavenly cause—routing out evil—and his fearlessness in battle had earned him his title as the Angel of Death. The murmured rumor was that if the Most High was calling upon him now to actually manifest on earth, then things were worse than originally imagined.

  Visions, dreams, whispers, the quick rearrangement of matter, or other forms of intervention were how angels of the Light most often made their presence known to humans. But desperate times called for desperate measures. The cosmic clock was ticking, and this mission required forces on the ground. It also required an acute understanding and compassion for the human condition that could only be acquired through human experience. That was the directive he’d received from the inarguable Source.

  If the Remnant failed to shift the course of human history toward the Light, then the planet would plunge into darkness forever. The human project would be lost and the Source of All That Is would create it again somewhere else in the universe.

  Based on that premise, the order from On High to save humanity by experiencing humanity, the most revered creation of all, made his predecessors and mentors warn Azrael that this mission was particularly dangerous. If he failed, the dark side would win and the balance between the darkness and the Light would forever be tilted in the favor of demonic forces. Humanity would be swallowed up in that darkness; the Most High’s most cherished creation, humankind, would be lost. It was a battle no warrior of the Light could refuse.

  Still, he had to prepare himself for the requisite pain. He’d been told to expect the adjustment period to be awful; the memory blackout and loss of knowledge could last for interminable human days until his bio functions synced with the spheres of Light once more. Until that happened, he’d be vulnerable—and this time, they’d warned, the excessive human population, environmental damage, and the proliferation of electromagnetic interference would slow his reintegration.

  The planet was struggling under the weight she was carrying, and the negative vibrations strangling the earth had actually thickened the density that his kind would now have to wade through. It wasn’t like the first war he’d fought, when the planet was still light and the density of it was in its infancy. Penetrating eons of darkness now defied comprehension, and he would feel that in his flesh so viscerally that the pain alone could weaken his resolve.

  He hated being vulnerable to the dark side.

  In that first raging battle between the Light and the fallen, angels tumbled from the heavens to fight without the loss of cognition or strength. That was when the earth was young and pure and the density between the realms was a gossamer energy.

  Azrael quieted his mind. It was time for his descent, his fall back to earth where he’d be propelled from the Light into the heavy de
nsity of the human world.

  Unnatural warmth crawled over his skin, rising like a tide of agony until he cried out. Then came the fall; a hellish plummet that ripped the breath from his lungs and felt almost as though his flesh was being shorn from his bones. Only faith sealed his sanity within him as tears stung his eyes and pain wracked his body. Mercy was all that he asked. That request became a bleating refrain inside his spirit as the pain intensified before his cells finally shattered into a million pieces of light. Then, just as suddenly, the pain was gone, but the terror had only begun.

  Sucked through a weightless vortex he was conscious of being, yet without form or substance, hurtling through the icy blackness, the blessed Light from the Source of All That Is so desperately far away. He wept without eyes or tears. He reached out with phantom arms, immediately regretting his mission. But it was too late. He had been chosen and it was time.

  Rebirth into the human world was no different from what he imagined a human birth to be; frightening pressure and the dawning realization that one is being torn away from the comforting source of all one has ever known.

  He hit the ground with a thud in a fetal position, naked, shivering . . . disoriented and cold. Earth stench and dank wetness stung his nose and forced him to lift his head. Something skittered by him in the dark. His body demanded breath, and he inhaled sharply, gagging and coughing at the abomination called air. What hell had he been born into? Wonder and disdain filled him. How could mere mortals survive such ruin?

  Steel tracks pressed into his skin; a dark tunnel loomed before him. Fragments of knowledge tried to take anchor in his embattled mind, coming in fits and starts. Languages, cultures, eternal wisdom, tried to savagely force themselves into his brain, the human-replica organ that held knowing within his skull. Information stabbed at his mind too quickly, dredging an agonized wail up from his body-trapped soul.

  A light barreling toward him made him scramble to his feet and smile. Anticipation and hope almost made him giddy. Hands on either side of his head, he slowly looked up. Tears streamed down his face. Please...

  His shoulders throbbed as though deep, bloody gashes crisscrossed his back; he realized his wings were gone. But when he reached over his shoulder with one hand to gently touch the burning area with his fingertips, amazingly his skin was whole. Only the pulsing ache and what felt like a thick, raised keloid scar remained where his missing appendages should have been. Every muscle in his limbs trembled to hold him upright. Nausea roiled within his stomach. My wings are gone. Amputated by the fall to earth?

  Azrael swallowed hard as his hand dropped away from the wreck at his back, for the first time realizing how much he’d taken for granted without even realizing he’d done so. Maybe this, too, was part of his lesson, his growth, and why he’d been chosen to search for one of the Remnant.

  But the light careening toward him made him focus.

  Was the Source taking him back? he wondered. Then knowledge whispered the horrible truth. No. Seek safety or be broken.

  Intuitive gifts of second sight and clairsentience told him he couldn’t outrun what was hurtling toward him. Sacred understanding made him aware that, although immortal, if he met this light, it would definitely hurt like hell.

  Azrael quickly flattened his body against a slight depression in the wall, and the train passed, whirring by him like a howling dragon.

  Panic sweat covered his body as he ventured out of his hiding space once the danger had passed. For a few moments he stared at the retreating metal nightmare. A train. The humans called this thing a train. Right. He had to align his understanding with modern terms and languages. That would be a part of his survival; it would also help determine the success of his mission. Comprehension of this world during this era was paramount. He had to remember, had to restore his knowledge. They’d told him to reach out to his brethren through prayer—the same way humans accessed angelic assistance. Hayyel, his brother who ruled the province of wisdom, would know what to do.

  “I call upon you, Hayyel, my angel brother in the Light, the guardian of true knowledge, please help me,” Azrael whispered, then began walking. “Can you hear me from down here in this cesspool?”

  He rubbed the nape of his neck and released a forlorn sigh. If he wondered whether his angelic brethren could hear him from earth, then how did fragile humans ever endure? No wonder the dark side was winning. But he refused to give in to despair so quickly. With strengthened resolve he lifted his chin and kept walking. Hayyel would eventually hear him. All prayers penetrated the veil between worlds and got to where they were supposed to be. Hayyel would send him the information he needed; he had to believe that.

  Azrael moved toward the subway platform with purpose. He would learn this world quickly, and his mind would soon absorb all he needed to know; the more human contact he had, the more he would blend into this world in this era.

  Yet he had to remember to simply be in this world and not of it. That was what the ancients had said. That was also what Hayyel now began whispering into his mind. He could hear a faint voice inside his head trying to help him make sense of where he was and to help him gather his wits. Then just as suddenly as he’d been given that small comfort, the knowing voice ebbed. It was as though the messenger was too far away to be heard distinctly or the density was too much to allow the message to get through clearly. Maybe the limitation imposed by his human brain could also have made the message from Hayyel so fleeting? he wondered. However, he’d also felt Hayyel’s message of encouragement within his spirit, and that bolstered him.

  The platform just ahead stole Azrael’s attention again. Hayyel was right; he had to reach it before the next howling light came. Abnormal heat emanating from one of the rails made Azrael stop. He stared at it for a moment, sensing deadly current running through it, and stayed clear of it, then took off jogging toward the diffused light illuminating the platform.

  With little effort he reached up and placed his hands on the edge of the cement and pulled himself to safety. He felt strong now, but he sat on the ground for a few seconds reviewing the whole concept of motion here on the earth plane. One couldn’t just think where one wanted to be; it required intent and then physical action? So inefficient.

  When he stood again, he frowned, studying his palms. They were dirty. He glanced down his body. His skin was dirty. Plus his feet hurt. He lifted a foot, staring down at his upturned sole. Here he bled like a mortal? The new experience was odd indeed. And filth could cling to an angel’s corporeal form?

  If the dross of existence could cling to an angel’s exterior down here, then what in Heaven’s name could cling to an angel’s spirit? Memory slowly returned as his body and mind adjusted to the new environment. The warnings were then true. Temptation, seduction, excess, decadence, were all things that could weaken him while he searched for the girl.

  Small stones and glass had lodged in the soft flesh of his foot, and as he picked them out, more blood rushed from the open cuts. Azrael stared, fascinated. A round, flat aluminum ring made him wince as he extracted it from the tender wound. Now he had to put down his injured right foot to examine his left.

  “Yo, would you look at this crazy, bare-assed mother-fucker down here! C’mon, son! I know you homeless and all, but at least put on some drawers! Damn!”

  Azrael snapped his attention up from his injured foot to look at the young men that had entered the station. He stared at them and they laughed at him. One had thick, woolly hair and even brown skin like Azrael’s—the hue of walnut bark. Azrael needed to understand what tribe, what ethnicity, this young male came from. It stood to reason that if their skin and hair were similar, then this would also be the tribe of the Remnant he sought. It had been this way since time immemorial; even though all angels were from all human tribes, his kind appeared to humans the way they could best comprehend and accept the manifestation of an angel before them. It would be less scary if the angel that manifested to deliver a message looked like them.

  �
�Bless you,” Azrael said quietly. The young man had given him a clue, despite his obvious insolence.

  “Bless me?” The young man came closer to Azrael, peering at him as though he were some strange creature. “Check it out; G.I. Joe here is also a preacher. Bless me—fuck you!”

  “Man, if I was you, I’d fall back. Homeboy is cut up like he’s been lifting weights for a decade and might could do some damage. Looks like he’s a crazy vet or somebody that snapped once they let him off the prison yard, feel me?” another, much darker, ebony-hued male said.

  “Ty is right, man,” a pale, slender youth with golden hair added in a nervous tone. “If I was you, I’d definitely fall back.”

  “What? Y’all scairt? Dude ain’t that crazy to try me,” the first male said, laughing. “I got something for ’im, if he wanna try a brother.”

  They were kids. Just boys. Azrael stared at the three-some, assessing if they were indeed humans and not demons, then relaxed. They were just misdirected humans filled with unspent rage. Young boys, maybe two decades old or perhaps a little less. Time here for him was still difficult to judge. They also spoke an odd language—English, but in a dialect impossible for him to immediately place. But he knew that their dialect would provide yet another clue, once he heard it again and matched it up to a source tribe.

  Azrael glanced down his body and slowly lowered his foot, suddenly realizing they were robed, and he was not. Emotions he had never experienced slammed into his spirit. Embarrassment, confusion, anger, all of it tinged by wariness and fear. Sensing danger, he covered his groin with his hands and backed away, then turned toward the wall, ashamed to be seen.

  “Man, leave the bum alone,” the darker youth said to the group leader. “Look at his back, bro—seems like somebody already knifed him up good . . . so if you ask me, he’s bat-shit crazy. Don’t go near him, is my advice.”