Ignite (11 page)

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. It’s another beautiful day on Earth. Temperatures will be in the mid-60s, with a clear sky and a slight breeze.”

He groans and rolls over, muffling his ear with his fist. “Tired. Sleep.”

I shake him again.
I think it was you who said last night that you have, ‘places to go and people to reap.’

He rolls back again, nearly falling off the narrow bench, sits up, and stares at me through squinted eyes. His hair is pushed up in strange shapes and he has a line down the side of his face that rested on the cushion’s seam.

“Well don’t you look gorgeous,” I tease.

He makes a face at me and pushes his hand sloppily through his hair. “Someone interrupted my beauty sleep.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive. But I won’t if I don’t get something to eat soon! Do you have any food left?” I bend down to see if I can see inside the knapsack he has tucked under the pew. He swings his legs down, blocking my view.

“Enough for breakfast.”

“Great, I’ll take two eggs, over easy, bacon on the side.”

“You’ll take scrambled, and we’re out of bacon,” he counters.

I stick out my lower lip in a pout. “Fine, but make it quick. I feel like I’m starving.” My stomach growls loudly to emphasize my point.

“Could be worse. If you were human, you could
actually
starve,” he laughs. “They may have been modeled after us, but they are so much weaker. Eating should be recreational, not essential.”

“Shouldn’t some of this stuff have evolved out of them by now?”

“These little insects are slow on the evolutionary race. I’m sure they’ll get there eventually. That is, if they even survive long enough to do so,” he says as he scoops the backpack off the floor and yanks it onto his shoulder. He stands up, pulls on his boots, and walks grumpily out the door, down the path, and into the clearing to the fire pit. I grab a dented skillet from behind one of the large angel statues at the edge of the graveyard and follow him.

I spark a fire with a snap and throw the skillet over the flames, setting it on a small metal grate that bridges the pit. Azael sets the backpack down on the grass and takes out a small carton of eggs. He opens it, removing the last of the eggs and cracking them each, one by one, onto the skillet. The yolk breaks as the eggs land in the pan with a sizzle.

Azael sits down next to the fire, putting his hands out in front of him to warm them. “Kind of nippy today, no?”

“Kind of,” I agree. “Much better than that heat, though. I can’t stand summer.”

“Typical demon response. Missing the icy depths of Hell?”

I roll my eyes. “Are you saying you like the heat?”

“I’m simply saying that I would like to feel my fingers when I’m forced to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to make breakfast.”

“Always the gentleman.”

He bows his head. “Wouldn’t be right any other way.”

“And no, I don’t miss it.”

“Hmm?” he says, looking over at me. “Miss what?”

“Hell. You just asked me— ah, never mind. But I don’t miss Hell particularly. I just don’t like the heat. But I love Earth’s colder seasons. Do you remember last time we were here during winter?” I ask, and he nods. “All of that snow. It never snows in Hell! It’s always cold but that’s all it is. Cold, empty, icy. It’s so much more interesting on Earth.”

“If you say so,” he says, returning his attention to the eggs. He shuffles the pan impatiently. “I hate the snow. Too wet.”

“Well I liked it. I wonder if it will snow again?” I look up at the clear sky that is now a light blue.

“It’s not cold enough,” he answers.

I frown in disappointment. “Maybe it will be soon.”

“I hope not,” he says around a yawn. “I can’t stand all those snow angels people make. Very inaccurate. And it’s insulting that there are no snow demons.”

“Isn’t that what Jack Frost is supposed to be?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “A demon who brings fierce snow storms?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe I’ll be Jack Frost,” I add, smiling. “I’ll follow you around pelting you with snowballs!”

“Or you could just rip my head off, spare me from that soggy nightmare with a nice quick death,” he quips.

“You are absolutely no fun this morning,” I say as I kneel down next to him, bumping against his shoulder.

“See what happens when you don’t let me get a solid eight hours?”

“Oh, rest assured. I’ve learned my lesson.”

He turns and smiles sleepily. “Good.”

He pulls the pan off the fire, the eggs a dark yellow, burned brown around the edge. I pull out two chipped plates from a backpack and hold them out to him, watching as he slides the eggs out of the skillet and onto the plates.

“Bon appetite,” he says, tossing the pan back over the fire.

I pull the eggs apart, popping small bites into my mouth. “A little runny,” I say around my fingers.

“What is this,
Top Chef
? Just be grateful we still had something left to eat.”

I cock my head at him in confusion.

“It’s a TV show where people compete to make the best dishes. You know what, I don’t have to explain this to you!” He shovels his eggs into his mouth quickly, hardly chewing.

I smile. “Now I know you’ve been out of Hell for too long.”

He shakes his head, downing the last of his breakfast. With the hem of his t-shirt, he wipes the empty plate clean and then slides it back into his backpack. I quickly finish the last of my breakfast and hand him my plate to place with the other.

“Thanks,” I mumble, my mouth still partially full.

He raises his eyebrows. “Very ladylike.” The plates click together as he shoves mine into the pack, hoists it onto his back, and offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me roughly to my feet. “Did you pack your bag last night?”

“I did,” I answer. “Not much to pack, though. Just a couple of shirts, a few bruised apples, and a water bottle. I’m going to have to stock up on some more food soon. Did you?”

He nods. “Of course. Packed it to capacity. Bag of souls, supplies, change of clothes, and a second scythe. Do you want one of the plates?” He shakes the bag on his shoulder, rattling the dishes.

“No, I’ll be fine.” I smile at him. “I’ll miss you.”

“That’s awfully sentimental of you,” he teases.

I shrug. “Like you won’t miss me?”

He glances over me quickly and purses his lips. “Fine, maybe a little.”

We both stand awkwardly. Azael shoves his hands deep into his pockets and looks back towards the chapel as I kick idly at the ground. Neither one of us is very good at goodbyes.

“So…”

Azael takes a deep breath and looks down at the grass I’m kicking up with my boots. “So,” he repeats.

“I guess this is goodbye? For now?” I bend my head so he is forced to look at me.

He lifts his chin and smiles, a little sadly and a little crookedly. “For now.”

Boldly, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
Good luck.

He places one of his hands on my back and pats my shoulder uncomfortably.
I don’t need luck
. He pulls back from the hug, his eyes sparkling devilishly.
I’m a spectacular specimen of demonic prowess. I never fail.

I roll my eyes.
And unfailingly humble. But still—

I know.
He pulls up the second strap of the backpack, adjusting it so it rests between his pointed shoulder blades.
Good luck to you too.

I don’t need it.
I stick my tongue out at him.

He just smiles back at me, unfurls his dark, black wings, and lifts quickly out of the clearing. His wings push cool air down onto me, tangling my hair in the wind and flattening the grass that once stood tall around me.

I bring my hand to my forehead, shading my eyes to watch as he leaves. He flies quickly and chases the fading gray of dawn, outpacing the sun. When he’s out of view, I turn around and walk back up to the chapel.

Standing at the large doorway, I survey the small, crumbling shell of the chapel one last time. We’ve only been staying here for a week, but I still feel a slight twinge of loss as I swipe the last few candles off of the alter and place them into the open backpack that leans against it.

I shoulder the dark green backpack, turn around, and make sure I haven’t left anything behind. I don’t see anything under the pews or hidden in the choir loft so I walk out of the hazy chapel and back into the brisk, cloudless morning. I close the doors behind me and walk down the root-ridden path.

When I reach the top of the graveyard, I lean against a small mausoleum and spin my bracelet around my wrist deliberately. I roll each clear bead in my fingers, close my eyes, and think of Michael.

Golden hair, blue eyes, silver wings, white smile.

As I’m picturing Michael, a background begins to appear behind him, like lights rising on the scenery of a play. I can see him standing in a misty forest, thick with pine trees. The more I focus on Michael, the clearer the location becomes.

I open my eyes and grin.
There you are.

Chapter 10

It doesn’t take me long to find Michael. The closer I get to him, the sharper I can see him in my mind. He’s smiling, looking past me and swinging his sword playfully. He steps out with his foot and slices the air with his sword, and I can almost hear him laughing musically as he does so. From what I can see, he appears to be alone. And I hope he stays that way.

As the woods of tall maple trees slowly transition into forests of thick, green pine trees, my bracelet becomes warm. I let my feet skim the willowy tops of the trees when I see that I am close to Michael. I land next to a small, twisting stream where the pine trees are thinner, my feet hitting the ground with a dull thud and my boots splashing in the shallow water. I curl my wings back into myself and look around.

I haven’t been to the Pacific Northwest in over a century. Civilization has been consistently pushing deeper and deeper into woods and forests, but this area has been left unblemished by a bulldozer. It smells different up here too, like wet earth and crisp leaves. Even when it’s not raining, the air is damp with mist that brushes my face like a whisper and cools me down.

It’s very peaceful, and I wonder why anyone would want to live in a city when they could live somewhere like this. Who needs buildings and roads when you have trees and streams?

I reach down and touch my bracelet again, twisting it once to see Michael. This time, he’s sitting down on the dark dirt of the forest, leaning against the thick trunk of a massive pine tree. I drop my hand again, shift my backpack on my shoulders, and listen closely.

There is a steady dripping sound of yesterday’s rain sliding down branches and splashing on rocks, into the stream, or onto the soft ground. Periodically, there is a loud chirp from a bird that flits from branch to branch, answered later by a bright melody from its unseen companion. Behind these noises is a quieter humming sound. I follow the humming, walking soundlessly under branches and over flat, slippery rocks. I keep walking until I come up to a grouping of thinned trees that lets sunlight come streaming down onto a small patch of ground that is covered in dry, coppery pine needles.

I pull apart two heavy green limbs of a gigantic fir and see Michael sitting alone. His eyes are closed, but he has a warm smile spread across his face and he is humming brassily. He looks so serene that I can’t help but watch him a while longer.

His hair is bright and golden against the deep emerald and brown of his surroundings, a beacon in a sea of shadows. He is wearing jeans that are covered in dark grass stains and a long-sleeved gray sweater. I push the branches farther apart and lean forward, trying to see him more clearly, but when I do, one of the branches cracks.

I let go of the tree and hide myself behind the greenery. Through the closed branches, I see Michael open his eyes, straighten his back, and look around.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice as golden as his hair. “Is anyone there?”

He has his back turned towards me and is looking into the shadowy woods over his shoulder. I take a calming breath and step out from behind the tree, brushing the drooping green branches out of my way.

“Do I count as anyone?” I ask, eyebrow arched.

He whips his head back around towards me. Still sitting, he has to crane his neck up to see me. I give him a smile that I hope isn’t too sharp and hold out my empty hands, like I’m approaching a wild animal. Any sudden movements and he’ll bolt. He looks me over apprehensively and his eyes fixate on the handle of my dagger that sticks out from my boot.

He grabs the hilt of his sword with one hand and scrambles to a standing position. Clumsily, he pulls his sword out of his belt and holds it out in front of him. It’s not pointed at me, though. Instead, its tip drops to the ground with a small bounce.

I look from the sword back to him skeptically. “Really?”

He stares at me for a moment and then he shifts the sword so it is centered on me, clutching it with both of his hands. His posture straightens as he squares his shoulders. “Really.”