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I stay quiet, shocked, and wait for him to continue.

“Pen, I know that the world is not black and white. But that seems to be the only options for Heaven and Hell. You’re either good or you’re bad. You can’t be both. But what if we are? There are gray areas, and both sides are blind to it. They refuse to even acknowledge its existence.” He sighs. “No one is only good or only bad. We have a bit of both inside of us all. We’re flawed. Imperfect. And why is that a bad thing?”

He catches me off guard. An angel—especially an angel as important to Heaven as Michael, an angel who was once the most devoted proponent of Heaven—should not be questioning the laws of Heaven.

I remember Gus saying that he was causing trouble, but I didn’t know this is what he meant. If he mentioned this to any of the other angels, what would they think of him?

Angels only see in black and white, not shades of gray. There is lightness and darkness, with nothing in between. Because if there were, what judgment could they pass? How would they determine where they belong? Could someone with evil inside them walk amongst the angels? Would someone with some goodness left be banished to Hell?

I consider what he’s saying. It’s something I’ve mentioned to Azael once. It was shortly after we had fallen, and I tried to tell him that he doesn’t have to belong wholly to one side. He was darkening quickly, and I felt like I was losing a part of him. The part of him that would come and watch the stars with me, even though they bored him. The part of him that
cared
.

Naturally, he brushed it off, said that of course there is only black and white in this world. “There are only two sides to a coin,” he told me. “Not three.” But it’s not as simple as that. People—and angels and demons—are complex and indecisive. Nothing they do is absolute.

There have to be gray areas. Why else would I want to spare Michael’s life? I was the one who suggested that, instead of killing him, we could shift his allegiance from Heaven to Hell.

I don’t want to have to kill him. But I should. As a demon, I should want to see him strung up, begging for mercy that he would never see.

If the world was only black and white, I would be exactly like Azael, ready to watch the world burn. It’s the gray in me that wants to save it. It’s the gray in me that prevents me from belonging fully to either Heaven or Hell.

No one is perfectly dark or perfectly light. I’ve always thought this, but ever since I mentioned it to Azael and had him scoff at the idea, I’ve bitten my tongue. I have had to accept things the way they were for not only my own safety, but also Az’s.

Darkness bleaches at the corners, and lightness becomes dirty. There are flaws to even the smoothest black stone, even the purest diamond. Aren’t these flaws the things that make us individuals? Don’t flaws distinguish one stone from another, one diamond from another? Without these differences, these mistakes, the world would be masked in dull sameness.

The rain above Michael and me hits the leaves loudly, splashing down the branches and onto the ground. It’s raining harder, as if the weather around us is suddenly aware of the seriousness of our conversation. How appropriate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” I admit. “Flaws are inescapable.” I shake my head. “What I mean is, we are our flaws, but they don’t have to define us as either good or evil. It’s possible to be both.”

“Yes!” He gestures wildly, rocking back on the branches. “But with the way things are run now, our flaws do define us. The seven deadly sins—envy, gluttony, greed, lust, sloth, pride, and wrath—don’t they exist in everyone? The force Heaven exerted in the war against Lucifer, was that not wrath? It’s not fair that we pass judgment on others so easily without first looking inside ourselves. Are we too proud to admit that good is not absolute?”

He speaks so quickly that he seems out of breath, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Pen, if the world was only black and white, how did the angels fall?” He looks at me meaningfully. “Hell is comprised of fallen angels, who Heaven thought held pure light. But they weren’t as pure as they were believed to be. They had something deeper inside of them, some blackness that sullied their purity into gray. And it’s not bad that they weren’t perfect. No one is. But Heaven couldn’t accept this. They abandoned them because the darkness scared them. It was wrong.” His voice sounds bitter, and he shakes his head.

I nod slowly. “So what does this mean for you?”

He looks up at me in question. “I don’t understand.”

“Will you fight with Hell? You don’t believe in Heaven, in goodness…”

“No, I do believe in goodness,” he corrects, his eyebrows knotted in concentration. “I believe in goodness above everything, but I don’t believe it’s simple. I don’t agree with the narrow parameters in which Heaven considers what is good.”

“And Hell?”

“Hell…” He rolls the word around in his mouth.

“Would you fight with Hell?” I prompt. This is my first chance to convince him. He seems completely at odds with Heaven, and I wonder if he would want to see the angels dethroned like Lucifer does. “If a war was to rise, between Heaven and Hell, which side would you fight on?”

He considers this for a moment, and I’m surprised. I didn’t think he would hesitate, but he does. He must have really lost faith in Heaven.

“You could fight with me,” I suggest. “With Hell.”

I wonder if the angels can feel that they’re losing him like I felt that I was losing Azael before we fell. Do they know? Do they care?

Finally, he answers. “I cannot fight for the darkness to conquer the light. It is a cause I do not believe in. In a war between Heaven and Hell, I wouldn’t fight.”

I lean forward. “What do you mean, you wouldn’t fight?”

“I don’t believe I belong fully to either side. I may not agree with the antiquated beliefs of Heaven, but I do still believe in good, and I know that I couldn’t fight for Hell.”

I peer down through the branches to the orange pine-covered ground below us. He doesn’t belong to Heaven or Hell. Do I? I am not worthy of Heaven anymore; I’ve fallen too far. But do I belong to Hell? I’m cunning. I’m a skilled fighter, and I’m smart. But does that make me evil?

Of course it does
, a small voice in my head sneers. It sounds a bit like Azael, but I know it’s not him. I grip my amulet and hear nothing from him. These thoughts are my own, angry and bitter.
Think of everyone you’ve killed. How you reveled in their blood! You are a monster. Don’t let this golden boy tell you otherwise. He’s playing you. What would he say if he knew about the child from Indiana?

I look at Michael thoughtfully. A part of me wants to believe that what he’s saying is right, that there is goodness buried deep inside of me. I feel hope that I can be better than who I am now, that I won’t be trapped in the life I’ve been living.

At least part of what Michael said is true. When I fell from Heaven, it was because I had nowhere else to go. There was Heaven or Hell—good or evil, nothing in between. There was no middle ground, no compromise.

I lost my faith in what was good, and so did Azael. He was furious with the war and the way Heaven was using us—lying to us. I saw him withdrawing from the battles, and I knew I was losing him. He wasn’t going to fight with Heaven; he was going to fight against them. He would have left me.

But I needed Azael. I had no one else. So I fell with him when he abandoned Heaven. I see much of Azael reflected in myself, and the longer we are out of Heaven, the darker that reflection becomes. He took to being a demon so easily and with an enthusiasm I had never seen in him before. And he was good at it, too. At first it was frightening, but it is something I have grown used to over the centuries.

Azael was made to be a demon. It’s where he belongs, where he is comfortable. But I’ve never been fully comfortable in Hell. Not like Az. There are times I question if I’m cut out to be a demon, if I belong in Hell, and Michael is doing nothing to silence these worries.

But if neither Heaven nor Hell, where would I go?

I belong with Azael
, I remind myself.
And he belongs to Hell wholeheartedly. So that means I do, too. Right?

“I think I understand,” I say shakily. “There are times that I feel like I don’t belong.”

“In Hell?”

“Anywhere,” I shrug. “I don’t think I belong anywhere.”

“You can belong with me,” he offers. He smiles crookedly at me, his eyes sad. “We can be misfits together.”

I give him a small smile of my own. “And what a pair we are.”

He pauses and shifts forward on the branch, bringing his face inches in front of mine. My breath hitches in surprise. Hesitantly, he reaches forward and curls my wet, heavy hair behind my ear, his hot fingers sliding across my cheek, leaving my skin blazingly warm. I remain perfectly still.

“Pen, I believe in you.”

“Believe in me?”

“In your strength and courage. I believe that you’ll wake up and see how great you truly are one day. You are good, and I’m going to keep telling you that until you believe me, even if I have to say it a million times.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask skeptically.

“Because you deserve to be treated with kindness, and I get the feeling no one has been kind to you in a very long time.”

I lower my eyes.

“And why are you being nice to me?” he asks.

I look up at him, confusion raging inside of my head. “I don’t know.”

He watches me closely, his bright eyes lifting to mine. “Don’t hit me, okay?” he says slowly, leaning close enough to whisper in my ear. He’s standing on a branch below me and his face is nearly even with mine.

“Why would I hit you?” I ask, pulling my eyebrows together, baffled.

“Because I’m going to do this.”

With a rush of air, he closes the distance between us, leaning forward so that I my legs straddle his hips. He gently places his hand on my cheek, his thumb brushing over my cold, damp skin.

For a moment, I am disoriented by his nearness, his face inches from mine, his eyelashes stretching between us. His breath whispers across my skin, and before I pull away, he slides his hand under my chin and tilts my face up to meet his, pressing his soft lips onto mine.

A small gasp escapes my lips as I watch with wide, surprised eyes as he lets his fall closed slowly. I freeze under his touch, too dizzy to move. It feels as if the rest of the world is falling away beneath me, but I grip tighter on to the branch and know that I am here, that this moment is real. I keep my eyes open, watching him as his eyelids flutter. His lips send a strange warmth spreading through my veins, like the ice inside of me is melting.

I’m perfectly still, afraid that any movement, however small, will shatter the fragile moment. I’m alarmed at the heat in my veins, at the fogginess of my mind, but I don’t move away.

He does.

He pulls back from my face, a shy smile on his lips, and instantly the ice returns to my veins.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He looks down self-consciously, shifting backwards to sit on his branch.

I stop him, roughly grabbing his elbow. My eyes dance across his face, conflicted. Without a word, I pull him back to me and brush my lips lightly across his. Now he freezes.

I run my hands up his arms and onto his shoulders, kissing him with a controlled urgency, needing the warmth to return. Hesitantly, he circles my neck with one of his arms, his hand reaching up into my tangled hair. His other arm presses against the small of my back, holding me close to him. His heart beats fast in his chest, strong and sure. The ice begins to thaw again as he kisses me with a building confidence.

He smiles against my lips and my self-control vanishes. I wrap my arms around him tighter, keeping him closer and closer still, unwilling to let go. There are no fireworks, no music. I only see light, white and pure, and hear beautiful, complicated lines of poetry. Unwritten poetry, primitive poetry, poetry about love that can change the world. I wonder if he can hear the poetry, too.

A flush creeps up into my cheeks, like when I take someone’s life, but this is better. I don’t lose a small part of myself when I’m kissing Michael. Instead, it feels like I found another piece of myself that I thought I had lost forever. I don’t have to detach from the sensation. I feel alive in a way I never have before. It’s like a light switch being turned on for the first time in a long-abandoned, dark room.

“What in me is dark / Illumine, what is low raise and support.”
It’s a line from
Paradise Lost
, a line I never paid much attention to, but now I find a solace in Milton’s words, an understanding. The words ring in my mind and slide through my veins as Michael continues kissing me, raising me from the shadows and supporting the heaviness that weighs me down.

He’s gentle but sure, knotting his arms around me. I can feel his heartbeat in my chest, echoing emptily and making me believe for a moment that it’s my own. In this small moment, perched high up in a tree above the Earth and tangled in his fevered embrace, I feel the sparks of hope ignite. And Michael is there to fan the flames.

I can be good.

I don’t have to be evil.

Maybe I’m even worthy of kindness.

I break away from him slowly, placing my hand on his chest, and search his eyes. My movements feel languid and the noises around us sound muffled. All I hear clearly is his heart beating quickly in his chest, his labored breathing, and my own short, shallow (and altogether unnecessary) breaths.