Ignite (2 page)

Probably, but I couldn’t care less.

What about the promotion?

Azael and I were recently promoted to level two on Hell’s tier of demons. When we first fell, we were amongst some of the most powerful demons, but we’ve slipped down the ranks and have had to claw our way back to the top. There are no handouts in Hell, and every demon has to earn their powers—and fight to keep them.

We’re Power Demons, able to interfere directly with humans through influence or action; we can kill or reap, manipulate or possess—all the fun stuff. Az and I are each other’s mirror in every way, twins who share the strength of a top-tiered demon between us. I have the authorization and skill to kill whomever I want, but only Azael has the training to reap their souls. We’re a bit of a packaged deal.

Unfortunately, our reliance on each other is a weakness. Every demon should be able to stand on his or her own.

Even though he can’t torture people himself, he makes sure I inflict enough pain on our victims that they beg for death. He loves it when they beg. Killing them at that point, at least, becomes a merciful act. It’s what Hell has trained me to do, and I’m very good at my job, but not nearly as good as Azael is at his.

Without him to reap their souls after they die, their spirits wither away, like a flower left in the dark, wilting into nothingness. He never lets them wither, though. He wouldn’t want to waste a good scream; he enjoys the mournful wailing they make when he drags them to Hell even more than their begging, though I don’t see the appeal. Their screams have ways of working themselves into my mind and I’m often kept awake by the memory of it.

We answer to Greater Demons, the executives of Hell who are able to divine the future and order mayhem—a plague here, a genocide there, maybe a few natural disasters like famines, floods or fires. That’s something Azael tells me we should be proud of, so you’re welcome, I suppose.

Throughout history, humans have been unwittingly obsessed with demons, labeling us as serial killers, dictators and madmen. Mush-mouth reporters are too blind to see what they are really dealing with. Jack the Ripper is actually the demon Zepar, one of Azael’s closest friends in Hell. He loves to relive his days of ripping throats in London, teasing Az with every last detail the newspapers puzzled over.

The only reason the entire world isn’t in ruins by now is because of the angels. Heaven has ways to slow down our destruction. Protection spells, guardian angels, hallowed land… Without them, there wouldn’t be anything left to terrorize.

Over the millennia, Heaven and Hell have struck a sort of balance. It’s contentious, always tiptoeing around the line of war, but, as the saying goes, there is no light without darkness, no shadows without a source of light. Thanks to us, there is plenty of darkness and an abundance of shadows.

I wasn’t going to tell you until later, but we lost the promotion. Back down to L3.

What?
My stomach drops through my feet and I scramble to think about what went wrong. Was it something I did, something I said?

There’s a beat before he answers.
Yeah, remember that kid we killed in Indiana?

Yes.
I swallow hard. He was maybe only five, but Azael said he heard that his soul was one Hell had been searching for, that he was somehow going to be instrumental in a future mission. Those were all the details he had.

I still see the kid’s face when I close my eyes, with his short, curly hair and freckles so bright they looked like they were painted on. I killed him fast, didn’t let Az get the chance to make him scream. He wasn’t afraid of us, but I still remember the look in his wide, green eyes when he saw me. Curious, trusting. I didn’t want to kill him, but I couldn’t walk away. Azael wouldn’t have let me. At least I made it quick. No one else would have.

Well apparently we encroached on one of the higher up’s assignments.

I knew we shouldn’t have done it.

I thought it would have bought us bonus points! Going above and beyond, taking what’s ours without apology, all that bullshit Lucifer loves.

So no promotion?
I let out a long huff of breath. I’ll never have the power to reap at this rate.

Nope. You’ll have to get used to needing me as your personal reaper. You should consider yourself lucky. I am a joy to stare at. A finely sculpted model of power and beauty.

I choke on laughter.
Says the only person who doesn’t have to endure staring at you.

Very funny. Now can you shut the Hell up and let me concentrate? I can’t pull an entire soul together with you distracting me.

Scything is easy for Azael and he makes quick work of it if he can concentrate. For him to properly claim a soul, he needs to mark it with darkness, if it isn’t already marked, and then reach into the person’s chest and untangle the gnarled soul.

Pure souls are much harder to reap because the light they emit is a blazing white so bright that it can burn a dark angel, only if handled without care.

Over the centuries, Azael has become very adept at blackening innocent souls. He loves stealing them out from under Heaven’s protection. He practically has snuffing their light out down to a science, but even he still gets burned sometimes.

During the war, he reaped the soul of an extremely powerful angel that burned him so deep he still has a jagged scar that rips up his forearm. I guess that’s Heaven’s little ‘screw you’ to those who try to pilfer their souls. Speaking of which…

Don’t mean to rush you, but I’m seeing some wings out here.

Not yet. Damn. How many?

I peek through the leaves and branches to get a better view.
Looks like there’s only one.

He lets out a string of curses.
There’s more than that. With this many souls, there will be at least three. The others are probably hiding themselves. How close are they?

A rush of air twists my hair around and into my face as two giant wings flutter right over my perch and land with a light thump on the branch above me. I brush my hair out of my face and look up to see silvery wings folding in on themselves. Behind the wings is a very young angel; he’s a thin but strong-looking boy with tousled, golden blond hair that curls at the nape of his neck. He has large, bright eyes as blue and cold as a midwinter’s sky just before it begins to snow.

As he shifts awkwardly on the thin branch, I can see that his cheeks are flushed a warm red. There’s an innocence in his face that tells me he’s a new angel. He obviously hasn’t seen the woes of the Earth yet. But he is young, and he no doubt will learn.

I lean forward, tracing his tall figure with my eyes. My movement must have caught his attention, because our eyes lock on one another and surprise floods his face.

“Oh—uh, hello,” he stammers, his voice sounding like a light brass horn.

Our eyes remain locked on each other and neither of us moves. Only the the wind stirs, shifting my hair over my shoulder and lifting the leaves to whisper in the uneasy silence. He takes me in, from the wicked handle of my dagger peeking out from the top of my boot, to the scars that ribbon my arms. When his gaze finally lands on the violet of my eyes, his own startling blue eyes widen and I see a dawning understanding light his face like a warm sunrise. He knows what I am, and I know what he is.

Prey and predator, light and dark…
Angel and demon
.

Chapter 2

Get out here, now!
I shout to Azael in my mind. The angel tips his head and purses his lips.
I’m sharing a tree with one of them.

I hear Azael let out a string of curses in response, expletive after expletive tumbling out so rapidly his words make one very long, probably hyphenated, obscenity.

How young are they starting angels these days?
I speak over his profanity that clogs my head.
You would think they’d at least let their souls ripen before they pluck them out of the clouds and put them down here. Maybe toughen them up a bit.

It’s strange to see an angel so young on Earth. I know he’s probably not as young as he looks—no angel is—but there’s something about him that feels new and… almost unsettling. I shake the thought out of my head as Azael crashes through the front doors of the asylum. The small, blue velvet pouch that holds the souls he’s reaped swings from his belt like a pendulum. The angel above me startles but doesn’t say anything.

Shit.
Az looks at me, his eyes alert and fierce, and spots the golden angel boy perched just over my head. Quickly, he bounds over to the tree and claws his way onto the branch next to me. I join him in a predatory crouch and let out a low, guttural growl.

The angel moves again, shuffling his feet. He shifts and the sun glints off of a large broadsword that hangs from his hip in a sturdy holster. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it demands my attention.

It looks strange on him, out of place next to his mundane jeans and t-shirt. If it weren’t for the weapon, he would look like any kid on the street.

He nervously fondles the glinting handle of the sword, and I can’t tell if he’s anxious because of us or if it’s the sharp gold and silver weapon that makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t look like he knows what to do with it, and I wonder how much training he’s had, if he’s had any at all.

He speaks again, uneven and unsure. “I—um, I’m here to…” he stammers to a stop and pales, his cheeks flushing.

Immediately, my apprehension disappears. This angel is no threat; his inexperience renders him harmless. I rise from my crouch and Azael follows, laughing quietly as he appraises the angel.

He’s so eloquent, Pen.

Oh, so it would seem. An orator of the highest order.

The angel looks down at his feet and raises one of his hands to cup the back of his neck. In a whisper so quiet even I can’t hear, he seems to find confidence. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword with purpose and he straightens up, lets out a slow breath, and tries again. “My name is Michael and I am here to collect the souls of those who have passed. They are pure and belong to Heaven.”

Shock blooms on my face.
THE Michael?

Az tenses next to me and searches the sky before answering me.
Can’t be. He’s dead.
“Those souls aren’t Heaven’s anymore,” he spits at the angel.
You saw him die, Pen. I helped trap him in Hell myself. Pull it together!

Right.
With great effort, I bury my surprise, hiding it behind a dark glower. I’m not sure it’s very convincing.

Michael’s gaze slide from me to Azael and back again, his eyes curious and no longer afraid. He opens his mouth to say something but I stop him before he can.

“They’ve been claimed in the name of Lucifer.” I try to keep my voice smooth, uninterested. “We have already marked them with darkness and scythed their souls.”

“I did that, actually. She just ripped them to shreds first,” Az corrects with a grin.

Michael looks at me and the corner of his mouth twists into a frown. “No…”

“You weren’t here to collect them,” I continue, “so now they’re ours.”

“You snooze, you lose, kid.” Azael smirks as the angel’s face burns a red as bright as roses.

“They are pure. They don’t belong to Hell, wh—” His words clip off when a sudden surge of air pushes down on us all.

Two more pairs of wings land on either side of him on the thick, twisting branch. Their stance is protective, their large, pure white wings spreading behind Michael, wrapping around him in an almost defensive way. They’re taller than the young angel by at least six inches and it’s strange to see Michael sandwiched between them.

The two angels are robed in heavy emerald gear. Loose tunics stitched in gold hang over their sturdy pants, a shade or two darker than moss, that cling to their calves closely before disappearing in their flat, brown boots. I’m not surprised that Heaven hasn’t changed the uniforms for guardians since my time as an angel. Heaven loves its traditions.

Even though they look exactly like every other guardian angel in Heaven, I recognize them the moment they land. Ariel and Sablo. Fantastic.

Maybe this Michael is the real deal, Az. I mean, he brought our biggest fans as bodyguards.

Michael looks at me quizzically, tilting his head slightly as if trying to listen to something very far away.

Right, dumb and dumber here. Like they’ll be much help. It can’t be him, Pen. He looks like a child and he has no idea what’s going on—probably doesn’t even know the difference between a scythe and that sword he has. He must still be in training.

I study the young angel’s face, trying to find any similarities to the Michael I remember. There are pieces of him there. His skin seems to glow with the soft light that the old Michael had. He’s in a younger form now, but his eyes are the same.

He’s fixed on me, looking out from behind his golden hair. It looks like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle or translate an epic poem written in an undead language, but the letters shift and coil into one another, making it unreadable.

I shift forward slightly and slip the dagger from my boot. Maybe I’ll carve that stupid look off his face. I twirl the blade once in my hand, but he only continues to watch me with fascination.