Ignite (19 page)

“Absolutely not. Just—lead the way,” I answer, circling my hand in the rain and motioning to the stormy clouds.

We lift into the sky together, our wings creating small cyclones of rain that spin around us. He flies in front of me, away from the pond, and I watch the silver of his wings become slick with the raindrops. It shines brilliantly, hypnotizing me.

Miles of thick, green pine trees blur below us before he turns his head over his shoulder and says that we’re nearly there.

Gradually, his wings beat slower and he lowers into a small, barren clearing, similar to the one I first found him in. The ground looks like it is the bottom of a dry creek bed. It is covered in a thick layer of pine needles that keep the cracked ground from becoming muddy. I land behind him, turning around and surveying the clearing.

To my surprise, a lining of tall, thin aspen trees grow around the clearing. Their large, yellow leaves and willowy, white trunks are shockingly bright against the dark background of brown and green pines. Michael stares at me as I walk out and place my hand on one of the trees, smiling.

“I haven’t seen these trees in so long,” I say in a hushed tone. “They’re my favorites.”

“What are they called?”

“Aspens, I think.”

“They’re great to climb. And I like their leaves.”

I scrunch my face. “They don’t look like they’re good for climbing. They’re too narrow.”

“Which makes it more difficult for
humans
to climb, not us.”

He comes up and places his hand next to mine on the tree, his fingers lightly brushing against mine. Under the large branches of the tree, we are nearly shielded from all of the rain, but his face is still dewy with raindrops. He looks behind me and I see my black wings reflected in his pale eyes. I study his wings, slick and silver, and start to tuck my own away, self-conscious.

My wings, the color as black as coal, are nothing compared to his expansive, metallic wings. His are a sign of power while mine are only a mark of the darkness inside me. When I was in Heaven, I had soft white wings, but after I fell, they became dirty, the pure white darkening slowly over time. The more people I killed, the darker they became.

He takes his hand off of the tree and stops me from hiding my wings. “Wait,” he says. “I want to see them.”

I still, letting his hands brush through the glossy black feathers. I watch his face carefully, trying to decipher his silence. He tilts his head to one side examining them closer, and a fat raindrop falls from a golden curl that is looped around his ear. I follow it as it drips down his neck and stops at his pulse.

“It’s amazing,” he says.

“What is?”

“Your wings.” He runs his fingers over the feathers again, ruffling them. “They are the same color as your hair.”

I step back and fold my wings closed. “Yours aren’t.”

He frowns.

“The same color, I mean. Your hair is gold, but your wings are silver.” I shift on my feet. “When your wings are open like that, you look… You’re like a wishing well full of shiny coins.”

“A wishing well?” His eyes are curious.

“Oh, it’s a human thing. Urban legend, I think. Maybe folklore? I’m not sure what it’s officially classified as…” I’m rambling. I bite my lip and try to explain. “People throw their coins into a well and make a wish. Supposedly, a wishing well wish should come true.”

“Like a prayer.”

I shrug. “In a way.”

“And do they come true?”

“I think it depends on the wish.”

We’re both silent, and he curls his wings into himself, letting them disappear.

“What would you wish for?” he asks. “In a wishing well?”

“I—I probably wouldn’t wish for anything.”

“Nothing at all?” he asks disbelievingly.

“I have nothing to wish for.”

He studies my face and nods. “I would wish that you would get your wish.”

“But I have no wish,” I say.

“One day you will. And when that time comes, I wish that it will come true.”

I roll my eyes, let the straps of my backpack slip off of my shoulders, and walk out from under the canopy of trees. “Go for it,” I say, striding into the center of the clearing and into the rain. “But now it’s time to train.”

He laughs. “I
do
make you uncomfortable, don’t I? I’m sorry.” He stands in front of me, smiling stupidly and opening his arms wide. “I’m all yours. Teach me.”

I pull my dagger from my belt and hold the blade against the hollow of his throat. He freezes, the corners of his mouth falling out of his smile. The light rain continues to fall on his face, but he doesn’t blink. “Lesson one: never let your guard down.”

I lower my blade and he lets out a long breath.

I back away from him. “Attack me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Attack me,” I repeat.

“But…” He looks between the hilt of his sword and me. “I could—”

For a split second, I am arrested with fear. My nightmare comes crashing back to me, slamming into my ribs and stealing my breath. I remember seeing myself slide off of Michael’s sword, crumpling to the ground. My stomach knots in fear as the vivid image of my lifeless, bloody body swims in my vision. I was dead. No soul, Azael said, but at least I didn’t burn. It was in a clearing just like this…

I close my eyes for a moment and shake my head, banishing the memory.
It was only a nightmare.

I reach behind me and snap a thin branch off of the tree. It breaks off and I slide my blade over the bark to scrape off the small twigs and clinging wet leaves. I hold it up to inspect; the tip is pointed like a stake and about as long as his sword. It weighs less, but it should be a good enough substitute. I toss it to him. He holds it out in front of him warily.

“Attack me.”

After a moment of hesitation, he clenches his jaw and charges me, holding the stake out in front of him. He thrusts it towards my chest, but I duck quickly and avoid the hit. He swings it again, cutting through the rain with a whipping sound, and tries to knock me with the length of it, but again I dodge his strike.

I grab on to the makeshift sword and whip it around violently. He holds on to it tightly, swinging around behind it. I roughly push on the stake, throwing him across the clearing where his back strikes loudly against the trunk of a tree and knocks the wind out of him. But he manages to stay on his feet.

I shift my weight onto my back foot, holding my elbow steady as I throw my wrist forward, letting go of the dagger so it spins quickly and sticks into the white trunk of the tree, not even an inch above his left shoulder.

He looks over at the dagger sticking out from the tree and his eyes widen.

“Lesson two: never go for the obvious attack. You could learn a little subtlety. And lesson three: precision and speed are more valuable than power.”

“You could have hit me!” His voice is tight.

“No, I couldn’t have.”

He grabs the bone handle of the dagger and unsticks it from the tree. He stares at the tip. “Yes, you definitely could have.”

“I have never missed a target I throw at. If I wanted to hit you, I would have hit you. But I didn’t, so you live to see another day.”

He chuckles nervously. “Right.”

I meet him in the middle of the clearing and take back my dagger. “Drop the stick,” I order, “and draw your sword.” He hesitates. “You’re not going to attack me again. Not right now. But you need to know how to fight with an actual sword. Trust me when I say that fighting with that branch won’t get you very far in a battle.” I toss my heavy, wet hair over my shoulder and wait.

He throws the branch to the side, the tip sticking into the ground. Carefully, he draws his sword out of his belt.

“Always draw your sword before you engage,” I tell him. “And faster than that. It takes longer to draw a sword than it does to get hit by one.”

He nods, replaces his sword, and draws it again. This time, he grabs the golden handle and pulls the sword from his belt much faster, the metal of the blade ringing. “Better?”

“Better,” I confirm.

He holds the sword in both of his hands, his gripped knuckles white. His shoulders are raised and he stands stiffly.

“Relax,” I advise him. “Lower your shoulders and learn to hold the sword with one hand. You won’t get a large enough range of motion if you hold it like that.” I hold my own dagger out in example.

He relaxes a little and lets go of the sword with his left hand. He holds it in his right hand, the blade bouncing in the air. Raindrops fall onto the blade, pinging softly.

“You have to hold it with confidence. Grip it securely, but not so tight that your knuckles turn white. The blade shouldn’t be bouncing like that.”

He does as I say and the sword levels.

“Good.” I lower my dagger and walk closer to him, carefully avoiding the tip of the sword. “Turn your body to the side. There’s less area to strike if you stand like that. You don’t want to give your opponent a large target.”

He wavers.

I move to his side, place my hands gently on his hips, and position him. “Like this. And keep your legs shoulder-width apart.” I kick my foot between his feet, widening his stance. “This will help you stay balanced. Also, it’s easier to move quickly when you stand like this.”

He looks over his shoulder and down at me. “How do you know all of this?”

“I’ve fought with a sword before.”

“Who taught you?” he asks.

“No one. I taught myself.” I roll up my sleeve and show him a series of scars that crisscross my left wrist and forearm. Some of the scars are thin and delicate, while others are longer and rougher.

I have scars from swords, others from daggers, and a few from razor-sharp teeth. One of the scars wraps around my wrist like a ribbon—a faint reminder of a blessed golden whip.

“A bit of trial and error at first,” I tell him. “But trust me, once you’re hit for the first time, you learn to move faster. When your life depends on it, you fight with all you’re worth.”

He drops his sword and turns to face me. His fingers brush across my wrist carefully, tracing my scars. My breath catches and is pulled back down my throat by whatever is clawing my stomach.

“Have you had to fight like your life depended on it?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “In the war, every day I fought was for my life and Azael’s.”

“Oh, right.” His eyes meet mine for a brief moment before he turns and positions himself so he is standing like I told him to again, his back pressed up against me and his sword held level. He looks back at his outstretched arm. “Is this right?”

I step back and move around him so I can see his complete stance. “Keep your elbow bent and close to your body. Don’t stretch out your arm—you won’t be able to strike quickly.” I explain. “Extend your sword, not your arm.”

He bends his elbow and holds it closer to his abdomen.

“When you strike out,” I continue, “try not to lift your feet from the ground. The higher you lift your feet, the easier it is to be knocked over.” I stand in front of him and demonstrate. “The more the sole of your foot remains on the ground, the more solid your stance is. Your attacks will be stronger. Try to slide your feet instead of lifting them.” I swing out, sliding my feet across the pine needles and slashing through the rain.

He copies me, sliding his feet forward and thrashing his sword through the air.

“When you block a strike, keep your blade close to you. You don’t need to be stretching out and exposing your chest. Missing one block can be fatal. Protect yourself.”

“Keep it close. Okay, got it.”

“Never, and I cannot stress this enough,
never
charge.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you how many people I’ve seen charge someone wielding a sword and impale themselves. It’s about precision, remember. You have to be careful and focused, not stupid and hot-headed.”

He nods seriously. “Never charge.”

“
Never
,” I say again. “Hold your opponent at bay by either pointing the tip of your sword at their heart or their throat.” I grip my dagger in my hand and point it at him. I let the sharp end pause at his neck before I lower it to his chest, remembering the small scar that is hidden beneath his shirt, marking his strong, beating heart.

His eyes widen anxiously, so I lower my arm back to my side.

“Don’t let it bounce down. Always keep it ready to strike. And as soon as you see an opening, you have to take it. Kill them.”

He watches me.

“If you dodge an attack, your opponent’s torso will almost always be open to you.” I demonstrate what it would look like if I missed a strike, my shoulders turned towards him, my chest vulnerable to an attack. “Allowing you to deliver the final, winning blow.”

He drops his eyes to his still outstretched sword, considering the weapon. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You can,” I say forcefully. “And you will.”

He shakes his head, dropping his sword so the tip hits the ground.