Dark Before Dawn Read online

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

  Published by River Grove Books

  Austin, TX

  www.rivergrovebooks.com

  Copyright ©2016 Monica McGurk

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by River Grove Books

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group and Kim Lance

  Cover images: [girl] ©Thinkstock/disqis; [oil rig] ©Thinkstock/DanielAzocar;

  [fire wing] ©Thinkstock/-M-I-S-H-A-; [hair] ©Thinkstock/whiteisthecolor;

  Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63299-085-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63299-086-0

  First Edition

  To those who fought but did not survive—

  may you be remembered.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Though this book is written in the fantasy genre, many of the topics it discusses are serious and real. While I have made every attempt to depict them in a way that is respectful and age appropriate, I would strongly advise discussing the contents of this book with your teen and having a meaningful conversation about ways to keep oneself and one’s community safe from Domestic Minor Sex Trafficking (DMST).

  If you are a teacher and wish to take the fight against DMST into your middle school or high school classroom, please visit my website, monicamcgurk.com, to access free curricular resources to integrate The Archangel Prophecies, DMST, and modern-day slavery into your language arts, social studies, or other curricular plans.

  PROLOGUE

  They’d left the window open. The gauzy, Swiss-dotted curtain billowed and danced on the spring breeze that filtered through the screen.

  It was twilight, the fireflies just starting to flash and flicker in the deepening navy of the Atlanta sky. The baby—still on the seemingly endless cycle of sleeping and eating that cut up the day into three-hour increments—had been put down for her evening nap, giving her mother a precious few hours in which to nap herself. Her mother was just down the hall, the baby monitor transmitting each rustle of blanket and each little coo.

  The curtains billowed again. But this time, a wisp of shimmering smoke rode in with the breeze. Another, then another. They buffeted the delicate fabric of the curtain, writhing and twisting together, as a fourth delicate filament ghosted in to join them. Then the four danced together, merging in a flash of brilliant light that for a split second illuminated the darkness that was seeping into the room with the setting of the sun.

  The pulsating mass floated over to the head of the crib, a slight electric tang filling the air as it settled and began to flicker.

  And then, one by one, the smoky shapes separated out and took up their forms. Bone. Flesh. Wings.

  Muscle-bound and armor-plated, the four angels stood before the crib and peered in. They had hard-planed faces chiseled by worry and war, but as they gazed on the sleeping babe, their soft eyes melted.

  One, an older man, shook out his wings, releasing a soft rush of wind. The blond angel at the head of the crib shot him a dirty look, then looked pointedly at the baby monitor. The offending angel— Arthur—rolled his eyes and extended his wings again, unfurling them just to make his point before turning the knob on the monitor to “off.”

  “Really, Michael. Mona’s not going to notice a thing,” Arthur argued. “She’s exhausted. She’s so afraid of missing something; keeps saying she wants to take advantage of every moment. I just sent her and Hope both to catch some sleep. Rocked Rorie to sleep myself.”

  The archangel Michael ignored him, turning back to the crib.

  “Aurora,” he breathed, leaning over the railing to get a better look at the child. “Our Rorie.”

  As Arthur—Mona’s confidant, now more than ever—had explained to the other angels, Mona had gone through agonies in choosing her baby’s name. She had wanted something to honor her late husband, Don, but hadn’t wanted it to be obvious. The play on words she’d come up with—Aurora, meaning dawn—was clever, just like Mona. Michael wondered if the allusion to the goddess who renewed herself daily, a symbol of hope and of life’s eternal wheel, was deliberate, too.

  Aurora was tiny, and apparently feisty, having wriggled out of her swaddling to splay herself out across the mattress, defying Arthur’s plans for her nap. Her skin was so delicate that it was nearly transparent. Michael reached out a finger to follow the tiny trail of veins that stretched like lace across her open palm.

  In her sleep, she grasped his finger, refusing to give it up.

  “She’s got a kung fu grip.” Michael chuckled, wiggling his finger.

  The lone female angel, Gabrielle, moved to Michael’s side and tucked her arm into his.

  “She’s beautiful, Michael. Truly beautiful.” Her brows knit together as she looked at the baby, as if she was puzzling over something.

  “I just wish Mona would have changed her mind and allowed for a real christening,” Raph, the last angel in the group, added gruffly. “Then we wouldn’t have to waste our time and abandon our posts like this.”

  “She’d see it as giving in to Don’s old religious whims,” Michael said, the vein in his forehead pulsing slightly at Raph’s reproach. “Besides, there’s no need. We’re here now. We’ll be her witnesses. Heaven can spare us for the few minutes it will take.”

  “Real-life fairy godmothers,” Arthur chimed in, grinning as he tried to lighten the mood.

  Michael smiled despite himself. “Something like that.”

  He gently pulled his finger from Rorie’s fist. “Everyone, it’s time.”

  They took their places around the girl, each warrior angel taking one side of the crib, Michael, their captain, retaining his place at the head. Arthur shifted on his feet.

  “It doesn’t seem right, doing this without Enoch. Or Hope.” He looked pointedly at Michael.

  “Enoch isn’t a soldier,” Michael responded, his eyes never moving from where they watched the slight rise and fall of Rorie’s breathing, “and the time may come when we will have to fight for her. It wouldn’t do to make pledges we cannot keep. And as for Hope—” His voice broke with emotion as he spoke her name. “It’s too soon. She cannot know of us. Not yet.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t tell her, Michael,” Arthur argued softly. “About the choice God offered to her. You say nothing, letting her wonder if you have risen or not, letting her believe you have left her alone. Why?”

  Michael’s jaw stiffened. “We’ll not speak of it.”

  “But why?” Arthur asked. “You know she still spends all of her spare time looking for you. Her bedroom walls are covered with things she’s printed off from her Internet searches, dribs and drabs that she’s hoping add up to proof that you are resurrected. She’s suffering, and you let her.”

  “Do you think it’s fair, Michael, to keep her choice from her?” Gabrielle added, carefully appraising Michael’s reaction. She did not wish to goad him, and in all honesty, she thought the idea of the girl and Michael being joined together absurd. But the sooner the ridiculous offer was seen and rejected for what it was—an impossibility—the better.

  The muscle in Michael’s jaw tensed. He stood up, stretching his wings wide. Even in the half-light of dusk, they glinted and sparkled, majestic.

  “It’s
too soon to thrust such a choice upon her. I will tell her when the time is right. For now, it is just us four. Now.” He wrapped the crib rail in his massive hand, the scarred and bruised flesh a contrast against the bright, carefully turned pine. “Let us begin.”

  A sense of gravity came upon them as they considered what they were about to do.

  “I’ll start,” Arthur said.

  The angels closed their eyes as if by silent agreement, and Arthur reached a gigantic hand over the baby’s head in blessing.

  “Daughter of God, we gather here as witnesses and to pledge you to Him. In His name, I offer you the gift of laughter to sustain you on your journey.”

  He withdrew his hand from the baby, and Gabrielle’s took its place.

  “I offer you the gift of insight,” she intoned, the corners of her mouth drawing down as she voiced the words. “May it guide you to wisdom in His path.”

  “I offer you the gift of strength, to sustain you in times of physical and emotional duress,” Raph mumbled under his breath, the words rushed as if he were anxious to get it over with. “Don’t think I’m going to like Hope, or any humans now, just because of a baby,” he hastened to add, his hand hesitating before reaching down to caress the crown of Rorie’s head.

  Michael arched a brow, silencing Raph. “Heaven forbid,” he answered.

  Raph snatched his hand back, chastened.

  It was Michael’s turn. He let the uncomfortable silence settle around him as the angels shuffled anxiously, waiting for him to say his part. Then, slowly, he stretched his muscular, scarred arm above the baby.

  “I offer you bravery. May you have no need for it.”

  He raised he eyes and looked sternly at each of his comrades in turn. “Together, we pledge to come to your aid, to protect you in your need, to be your sword and your shield. In the name of Heaven, I swear it.”

  “I swear it,” Gabrielle breathed, her shoulders sagging with resignation as the promise was drawn from her.

  “I swear it,” Arthur added, his normally twinkling eyes suddenly grave.

  There was a long pause. Michael looked at Raph, barely containing his impatience.

  “I swear it,” Raph muttered, and the tension in Michael’s face finally dissipated.

  “Now it is done. We are bound to her.” Michael turned to the other angels. “I know you do this for me, and for no other reason. I thank you.”

  “Look, she’s awake,” Gabrielle whispered.

  Everyone turned back to the crib. Rorie’s eyes were wide open, a startling blue that was nearly violet. Her tiny arms flailed as she stretched, unable to control the movements of her body. Arthur leaned over to draw the baby up in his arms.

  “Hello, baby girl. You’re safe here, with us.” He held Rorie against his massive chest, the baby’s wee chin propped against his armored shoulder. “She’s such a good baby,” he explained to nobody in particular. “She barely ever cries.”

  Michael watched, his eyes glued intently on the tiny bundle.

  Gabrielle winced. She had seen that longing look on his face before as he’d hidden in the shadows, watching Hope holding her baby sister in much the same way. She knew that he was imagining a future—a future with Hope. She shook her head. Why he was torturing himself with the unseemly idea of becoming human? There was so much else at stake in the world.

  “We should leave,” Gabrielle insisted, moving across the room to remove the baby from Arthur’s arms. “You should be back at the Gates to oversee the changing of the guard,” she said pointedly to Michael. “And we should be there to review the troops.”

  “The Fallen have been quiet for some time,” Michael protested, his eyes lingering on Rorie. He looked up to see the stony faces staring at him, resentful. Only Arthur’s face held a sheepish trace of understanding. “But yes, of course, you are right,” Michael whispered, clearing his throat.

  Gabrielle buried her nose in Rorie’s fine, wispy hair, breathing in her sweet baby smell and avoiding Michael’s gaze. Her scent was intoxicating, Gabrielle had to admit. But they had better things to do than moon over a helpless human. She laid the baby down, turning away from the crib without another look.

  “Don’t forget where your real duties lie, Michael. The Fallen may have been beaten back for the moment, but they could storm the Gates again at any time. Whatever promises we make here, our first responsibility lies in Heaven. And with God’s chosen ones— not yours.”

  Michael’s eyes flashed, the cerulean deepening to near-black.

  “I am aware of my obligations—as well as my debts,” he snapped, fixing Gabrielle with a cold stare. He let his eyes drift to Raph, who stood scowling in defiance, hands curled. “They are mine to bear. Not yours. And I will choose when and how I fulfill them.” He turned back to the babe, his face softening. “Goodbye, Rorie,” he whispered, backing away from the crib. “You’ll keep us posted, won’t you, Arthur?”

  Arthur nodded. “Of course. Just like always. It will be easier now that Mona has decided to move into a more secure home. It will be strange for Hope, I’m sure, being behind a fence and gate, but with me living in their carriage house, I’ll be sure they’re kept safe, whether it’s from traffickers or the Fallen. I’ll be there to watch over them.”

  Michael turned to face him, his face somber. “Thank you,” he said simply, his voice cracking with emotion.

  Arthur clasped Michael’s shoulder, warrior to warrior, brother to brother, the understanding between them so deep that there was no need for words. With a shimmer, Arthur put away his wings, turning back into his human guise before slipping out of the room.

  Wordlessly, the other angels began their own metamorphoses. From flesh and bone to shadow and air they shifted, swirling about the crib for a final look at the special little girl they had promised to watch over; the special little girl whose father had been sacrificed for the fulfillment of an angelic prophecy not even a year ago. As they took their leave, they swallowed their resentment out of respect for Michael’s role as commander of the heavenly army, and out of respect for Hope, for whom, they knew, Michael had done this. The battle against the Fallen had not yet been won, Michael knew, and if he couldn’t yet be with Hope, he could at least be sure to protect her and those she loved.

  Each angel had his own thoughts as they left the baby. That it was unfair being pressed into service in this way. That it would never come to pass that they would need to defend her, anyway, making it an empty promise, a gesture. That the babe seemed so sweet and helpless, yet strangely wise with her big, serious eyes.

  And the wistful thought that Gabrielle kept brooding upon: that Hope, herself, looked so natural with a child in her arms; that she would be so beautiful with a child of her own. Something that might not ever happen if Michael continued to let her cling to his memory. It wasn’t suitable for an angel of his stature; as much as Gabrielle admired Hope’s grit, she was, at the end of it all, just a human. Perhaps it was best for Michael to harden himself to his feelings for her. Perhaps she should remind him of that, one day.

  They kept these feelings and thoughts to themselves as they floated away from the crib and out the window.

  And so they were too preoccupied to notice that there was another presence hovering in the shadowy corner of the nursery.

  The presence waited for them to be gone before moving from the dark corners of the room and faintly materializing itself beside the crib. It was an angel, too, but of a different kind.

  “They brought you gifts,” the angel sneered, “but they didn’t invite me to their party. God has claimed you, now, and I suppose they think that will keep you safe. But I have brought you my own gift. I will bestow upon you the gift of endurance.”

  His lips twisted into a strange smile as he held his hand over the child, his image flickering, too weak to remain substantial.

  “May you have endurance to bear your suffering well. For suffer you shall. May you be able to bear the pain of doubt. Of rejection. Of loneliness. Of f
ear. Of pain so excruciating, it makes you grind and crack your teeth and cry out for the release of death.”

  He paused, closing his eyes to imagine all the pain he could inflict upon this babe, so innocent.

  He knew pain. After millennia of rejecting the One on High, he was crazed by it, hollowed out in his very soul from enduring the constancy of it.

  Yes, he smiled to himself. He knew pain.

  “May you endure all these things and yet not pass unto your death. May you be forced to carry on in the grip of loss so profound it would break the hearts of other mortals and send them early to their graves.”

  He let his eyes flutter open and rest upon the tiny girl, who stared up at him, wide-eyed, unmoved by his speech. He reached down and touched her cheek with his rough hand, which was so translucent it seemed to be absorbed into her very skin.

  “You will be the instrument of my vengeance upon Michael and Hope,” he whispered, eyes glittering in the dark. “Eventually, I will have my way.”

  The doorknob turned.

  In a flash, the angel vanished.

  Mona, the baby’s mother, walked into the room. She paused just inside the doorway, tilting her head and sniffing the air. The curtain fluttered, the chill of the evening air seeping into the room. Mona pulled her fuzzy, worn bathrobe closer about her before striding over and firmly closing the window sash, shutting out the cold. She sniffed the air again, alert to any danger, real or imagined.

  “I’ll have to check the gas,” she said to herself before walking to the crib and swooping her baby daughter up in her arms. “For an instant, I thought it smelled like sulfur.”

  one

  HOPE

  Even though we’d moved to the mansion in Buckhead in time for my junior year of high school, I’d never really felt at home in it. I could rationalize why we’d made the move—for safety, Mom had reasoned, after the mysterious murder of my father. His death may have been part of the general mayhem of rioting that had swept the world only a few years ago, or it may have been a targeted killing in retaliation for my disruption of a human trafficking ring.