Ignite (41 page)

We fly against the sun as it passes quickly overhead, the light of the day sliding across the sky like the hands on a clock as we slip above the water, hiding ourselves in the thick, watery clouds. Eventually, the dark black water of the ocean fades to a deep teal, and the ocean tapers off to reveal the cold and empty coast of England. Waves crash violently against the shore, the water pulling away from the rocky beach like lips curling back from sharp teeth.

“How about here?” Michael shouts over the wind, pointing down at the beach.

I shake my head. “Too isolated.”

We’d be too easy for Azael to find and kill. Our best bet is to hide in plain sight, surrounded by crowds. Some place like London.

He nods and we continue on, past the beach. We pass over large gray farms with beige sheep and fading red barns placed on crooked hills. The farther we fly inland, the more populated it becomes.

The rolling farms turn into small, leafy villages, and the villages grow into larger towns, some filthy but all of them overcrowded. We follow a winding road that seems to snake its way straight through these villages and towns until we arrive in the heart of London.

It is a huge city with roads and buildings laid out like a giant puzzle. We fly higher, over large clock towers, stoney bridges, and even a large ferris wheel that rises above the thick mist that clings to the steely Thames river.

“We need to land somewhere crowded, busy,” I tell Michael, looking over at him. His cheeks are burned red from the wind and his hair is tossed and tangled. “Somewhere we can get lost and blend in with people. Like…” I think for a moment. “Like a train station.”

“Are there any stations around here?” he asks.

“Yeah, just past the park, if I remember correctly. That way.” I point back across the river. “We should be able to land on the roof. It’s so foggy that no one should notice us.”

I take off in the direction of the station with Michael by my side, following the muffled sound of a train that is buried under the louder noises of London. A large, cream and brick building comes into view. The center of the tall, peaked roof of the station is made entirely of glass, and as we fly over it, I can see the crowds of people rushing from one platform to another.

Michael and I set down next to the sloping roof on a small, level landing and tuck away our wings. I hold my hand out and he takes it. We walk forward, looking down to the streets below, and I rest my hand on one of the imposing, carved angels.

Dozens of these angels adorn the station, made of cold, white stone. Their faces are cracked and emotional as they watch over the crowds that come and go through the arched entrance. The small, hard figures are draped around a large, ticking clock. In the dimming evening, several spotlights shine up on the statues, illuminating the faces of the angels in grotesque ways. The corners of the station are decorated with more ornate carvings, strong and curving and unmistakably Baroque.

I pull on Michael’s hand and guide us away from the edge and towards a small, metal door that leads down from the roof. Michael reaches out and turns the handle, but it sticks. Without much thought, I step back and kick out at the silver knob, sending the door flying in and revealing a set of steep, narrow steps. I walk in front of Michael down the twisting stairs until we come to a small, tiled room at the bottom. Two rusty blue doors lead out of the room and into a musty hallway of the station.

Victoria Station is the second busiest railway terminus in London. It should be easy for us to get lost in the foot traffic. I brush down my hair anxiously as I step out of the empty hallway and into the crowds bustling between platforms, gripping Michael’s hand so we don’t lose each other. The station smells hot and dusty, and there is a loud humming sound as the trains slide into the station.

I look over at Michael and see he is staring up through the glass ceiling, completely oblivious to the impatient people that push around him, and I smile. Most people don’t bother to look up; only Michael and a few small children, who are pulled fast behind their parents as they point up at the glass, notice the grandeur of the ceiling and the sky that lies beyond. Everyone else is so busy trying to get where they are going that they don’t seem to notice the beauty around them.

“This is amazing,” he gasps.

“Welcome to London.”

We follow the crowd like we are stuck in a tide, being pushed and pulled through the station until the travelers disperse and we spill out onto the street. The humming of the station is replaced by the sound of heavy traffic and the wailing of distant sirens. In front of us is a large court filled with tall, double-decker buses that wait patiently for passengers with their doors open.

I direct us around the courtyard and onto a rickety sidewalk. Dozens of small, squashed black cabs with loud, mustached men sitting at the wheel line the narrow street. One of the drivers waves at us, offering us a ride, but we decline.

We walk a little farther from the station, rushing along the sidewalk until we pass a red phone booth. I pull us around to the back of the booth so we are mostly hidden from the people on the streets. Hedges press up against us, and if I look over the neatly manicured bushes, I can still see the clock draped with the angels of Victoria Station.

“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” Michael says. “So full of life.”

“So full of life and so full of filth. It’s a bit much if you ask me, but it’s the best place for us to hide until we can figure things out.” I curl my fingers around the chain of my necklace.

“Can he find you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

I know Michael heard Azael’s voice ripping through my mind when we fled the cave. He continued his torment as we flew across the globe, his voice raspy and hissing. He threatened me, he threatened Michael, and he detailed ways he would kill me—kill
us
…

I think he talks to me without realizing it sometimes, accidentally leaving his mind open for me to explore. I heard him preparing the army, giving an impassioned speech about reclaiming the throne in the name of Lucifer. He was wonderful, strong, and convincing. I heard Gus talking to him, his voice grave as he fit him for armor. And I heard the moment Lucifer presented him with his sword.

I saw the flat, black blade and the deep violet stone embedded in the shockingly white handle in my mind as clearly as he did. Engraved in sharp, twisting letters along the blade was the quote, “Hail, horrors, hail.” A reference to Milton’s
Paradise Lost
. Azael probably loves it.

It is a sword made for Hell if ever I have seen one. There was a second twin sword, slightly more delicate looking with a pale emerald embedded in the hilt, that remained untouched in the corner of his room. With an ache in my stomach, I realize it was cast for me.

The last time I saw Azael, we were over the Atlantic Ocean. Azael and scores of demons were leaving Hell, clawing up through ice and speeding into the sky. Dark wings, gnarled and sharp, flapped wildly under armor and an inhuman bloodcurdling scream tore through the pale blue sky that quickly darkened with demons. The sound pierced through me painfully, and I nearly fell from the sky. But Michael caught me and held me up until my vision stopped spinning and I could fly on my own again.

For all I know, Azael could be dead by now, struck down at the pearly gates of Heaven.

But I would feel it if he were dead. Wouldn’t I?

“If we stay in one place for too long, or if I don’t concentrate on blocking him…” I pause. “Yes. He could find me.”

Michael holds my amulet in his palm delicately and studies it with interest, the gradient purple stone bright against his tan hand. “Why don’t you get rid of it?”

“I—I can’t. Azael and I both have one. We gave them to each other.” I pull the stone away from him and tuck it under my shirt. “I know it’s stupid. But I can’t get rid of it. Not yet. Not until I have to.”

“It’s not stupid,” he says seriously. “I’m sorry, I should have realized how important it was to you.”

I shrug. “Do you think—”

Michael lifts one long finger to silence me, his eyes suddenly alert. He takes my hand and pulls me into the middle of the street, which has suddenly gone very still.

The cabs are frozen in place and buses block the middle of the road as drivers and passengers hang out of windows, looking up at the sky. Michael cranes his neck up to the sky, too, and I follow his gaze. The ground begins to shake beneath us and the gray sky suddenly burns a hot red before it begins to melt away.

This is very familiar
, I think.
I’ve felt this before, deep within a memory.

Screams erupt from the crowds of people behind us and I grab Michael’s hand protectively.

He’s here. He’s safe. He’s with me.

The ground continues to shake violently and I hear a splitting sound. I look down and see a giant crack spreading through the street, under the cars and buses. The high whine of car alarms is added to the chaos. Everyone seems unaware of the growing fissure, and I pull Michael over to the sidewalk with me just before the Earth opens, the road collapsing into a massive black pit that swallows up the traffic in the street.

The screams grow louder and more panicked. Blue flames rise from the pit and dance wickedly, licking out at the towering townhouses that line the road. The heat is unlike any I have ever felt before and it throws me backwards into the side of the phone booth, shattering the glass of the door. I cling tighter to Michael’s hand, keeping him close to my side, away from the fire. My chest burns, each breath drawing the heat of the fire into my lungs, so I hold my breath.

Michael drags me farther from the road, away from the phone booth and towards thick, green hedges. My eyes begin to water from the heat and smoke, and through the tears I see his lips form my name, but I can’t hear him. “PEN!”

I try to yell back to Michael, to let him know that I’m okay, but I can’t. The searing heat of the fire burns my throat so severely that I can only manage a horrible croaking sound. I see the concern in his eyes and I want to scream. I look away from him, staring at the leaping flames until I am hypnotized by their bright blue fingers that reach towards the sky, searching for more victims. Only Michael’s voice in my head can break my gaze.

PEN!

I look over at him with wide, surprised eyes.
MICHAEL! IT’S FINE. I’M FINE! ARE YOU HURT?

Our voices are loud and urgent even in our minds.

He shakes his head no.
WHAT IS HAPPENING?

AZAEL MUST HAVE—HELL MUST HAVE BREACHED THE GATES OF HEAVEN. IT’S THE WAR. IT’S THE START OF THE APOCALYPSE.

Almost as quickly as they appeared, the flames and the pit disappear. The road smoothes over, the pavement stitching itself back together again. There is not a single blemish on the street, only dark scorch marks on the sidewalk and the brick townhouses. I glance back over my shoulder, down the street towards the train station. The buses, taxis, and people that were in the street earlier are gone, swallowed up deep within the Earth, and the stone angels that adorned the clock have vanished.

I look back up into the sky and notice a large, orange sun that sits low on the horizon. That isn’t right. It’s much too late in the evening for a sun this bright. The sky is still tinted red, and I continue to watch it, thinking I’ll see wings again like I did in my mind when Azael led the charge of Heaven.

I expect to see dark wings, white wings, any wings. But the sky is as empty as the streets—eerily empty. I squint up at the strange sun and notice the light is dripping from it. The orange of the sun melts away into a dark violet moon, nearly the same color as my eyes.

My pendant pulses wildly around my throat, faster and more insistent than I have ever felt it before. I trap it in my fist. Next to me, Michael grabs at his chest and falls to his knees. I kneel down next to him.

“Michael, what is it?”

He gasps for breath. “Something… Something is wrong.”

I squeeze his hand tighter in mine. “What clued you in?” I try to joke. “Was it the fiery chasm in the middle of the street or the bleeding sky?”

He shakes his head. “No, something beyond this Earth. Something is missing.”

I close my eyes, remembering a prophecy I had transcribed for Gus centuries ago.

This world will melt, break beyond repair. The balance between Heaven and Hell will fall. No angel will have a home. They will be stuck in what’s left of this Earth, in an unending purgatory.

I snap my eyes open. This is the end of the world, what Hell has been waiting for, planning for.

“Michael,” I whisper, knowing he can hear me over the screaming crowds. “The worlds are collapsing.”

“What do you mean, collapsing?”

“There is no more Heaven,” I say slowly. “No more Hell.”

He watches me, clutching his chest, still not understanding.

“The lines between the worlds have been erased.
That’s
what’s missing.”

His eyes grow wide. “And the angels?”

I shake my head. “They’ll walk the Earth. Everyone will be trapped.”

“Purgatory,” he whispers.

I lean forward and give him a desperate kiss, fearing we have little time left together. He twines his arms around me and holds me, tightening his arms protectively around my small shoulders. When we part, I see pale ripples of light sweep across the ground and seep into the dark hedges next to us. Chasing the light is the deep purple shadow of the moon. I place my hand on Michael’s chest, and in one heartbeat, we are plunged into darkness and abrupt silence.