Ignite (20 page)

“Look at me,” I say, and he raises his bright blue eyes to meet mine. I take a step towards him, closing the distance between us where the rain continues to fall, drenching us both. “If you are engaged in a fight, you do not hesitate. You do not consider your morals. War is not the time to waver. You save yourself. You
fight
for your life. Do you understand?”

He pauses. “War?”

I raise my voice. “You protect yourself at all costs. Promise me.”

“I understand,” he says quietly. I look at him harder. “I promise.”

I slip my dagger back into my belt. “Good.”

I turn from him and walk back under the canopy of branches, hiding from the rain as I pull my fingers through my knotted hair.

“Why do you care?” His voice stops my fidgeting.

I swivel around and stare at him. He is standing in the center of the clearing, rain pouring down on him and sticking his hair to his face. His sword is lowered to the ground, no longer held at attention.

“What?”

“Why do you care? If I fight for my life?”

I lean back against the tree and shove my hands deep into my pockets. He’s my assignment, mine to protect. It’s my job to make sure that he is safe and ready for battle, should the time come.
When
the time comes. Isn’t that why I want him to fight for his life?

Yes. That has to be why.
But a small part of me, a part that I am trying to keep quiet, says that there’s another reason. It’s screaming at me, but I tune it out.
Don’t think about it.

I shake my head, ignoring the uncertainty that cycles through my mind. “No one should fight halfheartedly. It isn’t admirable.”

“Demons care about what is admirable?”

“Some,” I say quickly. “Not all of us fight dirty.”

He squints his eyes, watching me through the rain. “Is that all?” he asks.

I stay silent.

He holsters his sword and walks over to me, coming so close that I have to crane my head back to look up at him. The smell of honey clings to him, bright and sweet in the rain. “Is that the only reason I had to promise you? You want me to fight for my life because it is the
admirable
thing to do?”

“Yes.” My voice sounds strained in my ears. “That’s all.” I lower my chin and look away from him, clearing my throat.

“If you say so,” he says. He steps back from me and I look up to see that he is staring towards the top of the trees. “These really are great for climbing.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Care to join me?” In a quick motion, he slides his sword out of its holster and leans it against the tree.

Before I can answer, he jumps high into the air and grabs on to the lowest branch, pulling himself up so he can stand on it. He reaches above his head again, grabbing on to two more branches, and continues to climb up the tree through the large yellow leaves.

I stand, watching him climb gracefully up the narrow branches for a moment before I join him.

Chapter 17

I shimmy up through the thin branches of the tree, following Michael as he ducks behind golden leaves, nearly the same color of his hair. My own hair swings around my arms, a dark, wet black against the white trunk. My clothes are heavy with rainwater, but luckily the rain can’t reach us through the leaves.

“Pen?” he calls down to me.

“Michael?” I imitate him.

“You decided to join me after all?”

I look up and see him sitting between two forked branches. He smiles at me and I look away, feeling awkward under his stare. “Well, I’ve heard that these are great to climb. And you know what they say about trees. They’re nature’s stairways to Heaven. And with an angel sitting so high on one, well it must be true.”

“People say that?” he asks, curious.

“Hell if I know. But I just said it. Isn’t that what counts?”

He laughs. “So if this is the stairway to Heaven…”

“Why is there a demon climbing up it so quickly?” I finish for him, huffing as I pull myself through two intersecting branches. His feet dangle a few branches above me, so I continue to climb, my hands tearing on the rough bark.

“Not what I was going to ask,” he says, watching me, amused. One corner of his mouth is lifted in a lopsided grin. “What I was going to ask was, if this is the stairway to Heaven, where is the gate?”

I grip another branch and, with one last effort, pull myself up so I am sitting on a thick, round limb, facing Michael. “You’re going to have to tell me, angel boy.”

He smiles again, his teeth a pearly white against his peach lips. “I don’t see it. We must’ve taken the wrong set of stairs.”

“Oh rats, I guess we’ll just have to try one of the other million trees in this huge forest. One of them is bound to be the correct steps!”

He laughs and looks over to me. I pull my sleeves down over my hands, covering the scrapes across my palm. I press the wet fabric of my shirt on the cuts and they sting mildly. I suck air through my teeth in a hiss.

“Are you hurt?” He leans towards me, trying to inspect my hands, which I have folded in my lap.

“It’s fine. I’ll heal in a second.”

“Let me see,” he says. He reaches his arm out and opens one of his large hands.

“I’ll heal. It’s not a big deal.”

“Please, let me see,” he repeats, moving his hand closer to me in insistence.

Silently, I push my sleeves up from my hands and rest them in his, my palms open to the sky. Small, red cuts are scratched across both of my palms like dozens of tiny paper cuts.

“See?” I say, pulling back my hands slowly. “Just a few cuts. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ve had a lot worse.”

He holds on to my wrists, trapping my hands in his. He brings his other hand and lays it gently on top of mine. A warmth spreads from his palm to mine, and when he removes his hand again, the cuts are gone, the skin smooth and perfect.

“You shouldn’t have to wait,” he says, releasing my hands.

I bring them into my lap again, fidgeting with my sleeves. “Guess I won’t have to.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Sure you did.” He smiles again, broad and sincere. “In your own way.”

I stare at him in annoyance. “You are truly vexing.”

“Vexing?”

“Bothersome, irritating,” I wave my hand in the air. “Vexing.”

“Am I really that bad? I brought you breakfast. And I healed your hands—”

“Which would have healed in a few minutes anyway,” I interrupt.

“I thought you were starting to like me,” he says, watching me intently.

I change the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Didn’t you just ask me one?” His smile broadens, teasing me the same way I teased him the other day.

“I’ll take that as a yes, if you don’t mind,” I continue. “I was wondering why Heaven keeps you on such a short leash? I know how important you are to them and all, but why the curfew? What’s the point?”

“You think I’m important,” he says, ignoring my questions.

“To Heaven,” I clarify, blushing lightly. “But I don’t understand the curfew.”

“The curfew is to protect me. That’s what they’ve said, at least. My defenses, as you’ve seen, are not what they apparently used to be. And that’s during the day. At night, when more demons walk the Earth freely… Well, I’d imagine my skills would be even weaker.”

“Night isn’t suddenly a free-for-all,” I tell him, leaning my shoulder against the trunk of the tree. “Demons can walk during the daylight now. We’re not confined to the dark.”

“But some still prefer the darkness, right? I mean, there are substantially more monsters at night than during the day.”

I sit up straighter, perched rigidly on my gnarled branch. “Monsters?” My voice slides up an octave unintentionally. Is that what he sees me as?

“Not you, obviously,” he says in a rush. “I don’t think—you’re not a monster, Pen.”

“Aren’t I, though?”

“No, you’re not. You are kind. You just taught me how to protect myself, how to fight with a sword. A monster wouldn’t be helping me. They’d be hurting me.”

I pause, closing my eyes to him. “The only reason I know how to fight is because of all of the practice I’ve had, all of the people I’ve killed. You know what I am and what I do.” I open my eyes again and look at him seriously. “I am a demon. There is nothing deeper to me than that. You think that somewhere, buried deep inside of me, there is goodness. I’m telling you there isn’t. You’ve felt that I don’t have a heart, and I’ve told you I have no soul.”

“And I’ve said that I don’t believe you.”

“Stop, Michael. Listen to what I’m saying.” I take a deep breath. “I kill people, and I enjoy killing people. I love the power I have.”

“Because it’s the only thing you’ve known how to do for hundreds of centuries!” He looks at me pleadingly.

“Exactly!” I yell back. “
Hundreds
of centuries. Do you think everything I’ve done during that time can just be forgotten or forgiven?”

“You were betrayed by Heaven. They hurt you, not just physically. There was nowhere for you to go, except into the waiting arms of Lucifer, who was more than willing to adopt lost souls and train them to carry out
his
plans.” He stops suddenly, his eyes sad and serious. “But this isn’t you. I don’t believe you enjoy it as much as you say you do.”

I look away from him.

“I think,” he continues, “that it’s all an act to protect yourself. What would happen if they knew you didn’t belong?” He waits, and when I don’t answer he nods. “That’s what I thought. So you pretend to revel in the spilled blood, you do what you’re told, you complete your assignments with enthusiasm. Because they’re watching you closely, and if, even just for a moment, they think you’re different, that’d be it. If they knew you didn’t belong, they’d kill you, right?”

I’m silent again. They’d do something much worse than kill me.

“You want to fit in, stay with Azael. But what he does, and what you’ve done, isn’t who you are inside. You don’t belong in Hell.”

“You don’t know me,” I groan.

“Imagine the life you want to live.”

I give him a look, and he backtracks.

“Sorry, poor choice of words.” He pauses and tries again. “Imagine your future. Centuries from now, do you still see yourself in Hell? Is that where you really belong, or is it somewhere else?”

“Somewhere like Heaven?” I ask sarcastically.

He shrugs.

“You don’t know me,” I repeat again. “Michael, you’ve met me before. You don’t remember, but it wouldn’t matter even if you did because you didn’t know me back then either. Not really. Since you’ve been back, you’ve seen me, what? Three different times? And suddenly you have this complete understanding of who I am? Of
what
I am and where I belong?”

“I am an angel, and so are you.” I make another face at him, and he shakes his head, insisting that it’s true. “You’ve fallen, sure, but you are still an angel. I can feel who you are, your true spirit. I can see the soul you believe you’ve lost. It’s still there inside of you.” He shifts forward so he is inches from me. Slowly, he reaches out and places his hand on my ribs, right at the spot he keeps staring at. Is this where he thinks my soul is buried? When he speaks, his breath tickles my ear. “When you’re far enough away from Hell, you’ll see that you have light in you. I can
feel
it.”

But I can’t. I grab his wrist and remove his hand from me. Reluctantly, he sits back down. My eyes meet his and we hold each other’s gaze, neither of us able to look away.

“I can’t go back to Heaven.” My voice sounds as dead as I feel inside.

“You’re just lost, Pen.”

“And you’re here to find me?”

He’s silent.

“To save me?” I guess again. “Newsflash: I
can’t
be saved. And who says I even want to be?”

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I question myself. Can I really never be saved?

I try to imagine the next few centuries in Hell, going through the same motions day after day, year after year. I’ll have to push down what little of Heaven is left in me, put it in a small box, locked up tight, and hide it somewhere I will never be able to find it again. If I do that, will I lose myself completely? Maybe one day I will be exactly like Azael. But is that what I want?

What option do I have? I can’t go back to Heaven—not after everything I’ve done. So, without Hell, where would I belong? Where would I even go?

“I’m not here to save you. I’m here to remind you of who you are. You can save yourself. You’re more than capable.”

“And if I can’t be saved?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Everyone can be saved if they want to be,” he answers simply.

“Did you ever think, just for one minute, that perhaps you are on the wrong side of this war?” I ask angrily. “That maybe Heaven isn’t as pure as they think?”

“I have,” he says quietly.

“Exactly, you’re too—” I stop. “Wait, what?”

“I question what I believe in everyday.”