Dark Surrender

Father Antonelli said nothing.

“All you have to do is give me the names of the Keepers, and tell me where to find them,” the man lightened his tone, as if to sound hopeful. “And I will let you live.”

Father Antonelli knew he wasn’t getting out of this alive. The man’s eyes were those of a practiced killer.

“I told you, I don’t know what names you’re talking—”

The man struck him over the eye with the butt of the gun. Blinding pain cracked through his skull. A trickle of blood raced down over his eye, flooding his vision red.

“Don’t lie to me,” the man warned. “I know who you are, Priest.”

Father Antonelli had sworn a magical oath to protect the Keepers from dark forces. If he gave their names to this man, an Angel of Mercy would hunt him down and kill him for betraying that oath. If he kept his oath and didn’t give away their names, this evil man would kill him. Since it was evident he was going to die either way, he intended to keep his secret.

Father Antonelli swallowed his fear before he defiantly said, “If you know who I am, then you know you won’t get the names.”

The man’s stare turned harsh and chilling. “I think you’ll change your mind.”

He reached one of his gloved hands into his jacket and brought out a leather roll that he unfurled on top of the desk. A variety of sharp metallic instruments gleamed under the light of the desk lamp. They were carefully arranged on the black leather and held in place with elastic ties. The pointed tips, curved hooks and shiny spikes of the grotesque torture devices had Father Antonelli swallowing another dose of fear.

The man freed a short, silver spike and twirled it between his gloved fingers. “Who are the Keepers?”

Father Antonelli focused on the sharp spike, wondering how the man intended to use it.

“What are their names?” The man held the spike firmly between his fingers.

Father Antonelli remained mute, but only until the man spun the desk chair around, grabbed one of his hands still tied behind his back, and rammed the sharp tip of the spike under the nail of his middle finger. He released a scream of agony, unable to believe such a form of clear, precise pain existed.

“Must we play games?” The man rammed the spike under his next fingernail, and then under the nail of the little finger, eliciting an even greater amount of pain.

He paced the floor while the old priest dropped his head and whimpered with the aftershocks of his torture. Father Antonelli realized he hadn’t sufficiently prepared for this day because he never expected it would come.

What a fool.

He couldn’t fail the Keepers. Their safety depended on his silence. He whispered a prayer for God to grant him strength.

“You think praying will save you?” The man drove the spike under the thumbnail of his other hand, causing him to scream with renewed pain. “Only I can save you, old man. Now give me the names and all the pain will stop. I can make it worse, or I can make it all go away.”

Father Antonelli smiled through his agony. “Go to Hell.”

The rest of his fingers exploded into bright points of fire as the man mutilated his hand with the sharp tip of the spike. Still, he kept his secret.

The man began rifling through the books and papers on his desk. “Do you keep the names in your head? Or have you written them down through the years?”

Father Antonelli simply watched him through a haze of pained tears. The man went to work on the rest of his apartment, tossing books from shelves and emptying the contents of drawers. The old priest watched as all the pieces of his life settled on the floor around him in chaotic disarray.

“I want the names!” The man flew into a rage, tossing the furniture and toppling over lamps and chairs, completely tearing the room apart.

Then he came back to the desk and, after regaining his composure, took a shiny, hooked instrument from the case.

Pain consumed every inch of the old priest’s body, until he became the pain. Father Antonelli held onto his secret for as long as he was able, but the torture won out in the end, and he heard himself giving the man the names he wanted before that final shroud of darkness fell and he was no more.

Chapter 2 (#u1f090327-ebe3-5bd4-aff2-beb1072e2f49)

New York City

Four Months Later

“Would you take a look at that?”

Jillian Whitmore casually ignored Denise’s reference to the latest male victim walking through the museum café where they were finishing up their lunch break.

Was that all she could think about? Men?

Maybe that’s why Denise always had a boyfriend who looked like he’d walked straight out of a hunk-of-the-year calendar. Since the time they first met in college, Jillian had watched Denise date every breed of man from professional athletes to foreign dignitaries. Jillian wished she shared the same remarkable portfolio of past lovers, but it was her curse to remain perpetually single. An affliction her extravagant, outgoing friend seldom suffered.

Currently, Jillian had more important things on her mind than checking out guys or guessing whether they were the type to wear boxers or briefs. She was still busy trying to understand why her grandparents had left their only grandchild out of their Will.

Almost two months had passed since they’d been killed in a car accident, and she just couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that they’d left everything they owned—including the museum—to none other than Jonathon Crawford. She didn’t trust the dreadful man, and couldn’t believe her often sensible grandparents had fallen for his phony act.

Their previous museum Director, a man working for them for over thirty years, died of a sudden heart attack and the very next day Jonathon Crawford appeared out of nowhere, dressed in a flawless designer suit and enquiring about a job. Turns out not only did he happen to have all the right credentials and experience to fill the vacancy, he was nice and helpful as well.

Once he won over her grandparents and started taking over at the museum, Jillian got pushed to the back burner, and now Jonathon owned everything that should belong to her.

But she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. There was something unsettling and suspicious about Jonathon, and she intended to find out what.

“Are you looking?” Denise asked, her Jersey accent coming through.

“Looking at what?” Jillian feigned ignorance.

She didn’t want to get pulled into ogling some guy Denise thought she should simply walk up to and ask out on a date.

Jillian wasn’t that desperate.

Or that brave.

In college she and Denise had shared the same zest for life, nothing fazed them, they hadn’t been afraid to take chances, but somewhere along the way Jillian felt like she’d fallen behind while Denise was still going strong.

When had she become so afraid of life?

Where had she gotten lost?

In that moment, she realized how different the two of them had become. Jillian sat at the table in a gray pencil skirt and a conservative white blouse, her long blonde hair neatly pulled back into a chignon, hands folded in her lap. Across from her, Denise wore a short, black chiffon skirt and a lacy red tank top under her black leather jacket. With her high-heeled ankle boots, she looked ready to ride off into the sunset on the back of a Harley. Her shiny brown hair hung straight and long around her shoulders and she had perfectly manicured nails, painted red this week, and her toes were probably done in the same shade to match.

To outsiders the two appeared nothing alike, but on the inside they were kindred spirits, and Jillian knew they would always be friends. To the end.

Denise was the only family she had left.

Jillian pushed her empty salad container to the side of the table, then arranged the salt and pepper shakers at a perfect angle to the square sugar bowl. When she routinely started turning the sugar packets so all the labels were facing the same way, Denise swatted her on the arm.