Embrace, Entice, Emblaze (45 page)

chapter
one

“In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there
are consequences.”

RoBeRT GReeN INGeRsoLL

I held the dagger in my right hand, the hilt heavy and intricately carved, the blade long and slim. Th e sharp point made an impression into the tip of my index fi nger— just enough to sting. I twisted the hilt slowly and watched the point pirouette on the pad of my fi nger.

My
dagger— the dagger I’d used to kill a vision of myself.

I put it down beside me, not wanting to touch it any longer but unable to hide it away.

Choices had been made and the consequences were mine.

Everything I had once believed in was shattered. It was still humiliating, knowing I’d been so naïve. I’d really
thought
I could trust Phoenix— so much so that I’d unwittingly created some kind of

emotional bond between us, a connection he exploited to destroy my already fragile friendship with Lincoln.

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Shaking free of the memories— and questions— was hardest

when I was on my own. No wonder Dad was more comfortable

at work, where he could hide from the memories of my mother’s

death seventeen years ago. Solo time made it impossible to ward off persistent whispers of the past.

I headed into my art studio and started to lay down some fresh

paint. I was just starting to play around with my new supply of iridescent colors when my phone beeped.

I’m outside— where r u?

I blew out a breath and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I’d lost track of time. Now I was late and looked like crap. My long dark hair was twisted into a matted knot and the loose strands

falling around my face were splattered with red and gray paint. I hadn’t even bothered to put on makeup this morning. But the only thing I had time to fix was my clothes.

Be down in 5.

I ran to my room, stripping as I went, and threw on my most

reliable jeans— the only option when pressed for time— and

the first T- shirt I could find, boring black but clean. I tried and failed to rescue my hair, finally just tying it up in a new version of the same messy knot. There was no help for my paint-covered hands. After a hurried attempt at applying mascara, I

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grabbed my dagger and was out the door, pulling my sneakers

on between steps.

The mirror in the elevator may as well have laughed out loud.

Shit.

By the time I reached the front doors of my apartment building, I’d completely forgotten about my appearance and unconsciously

but predictably refocused on Lincoln. Sick anticipation crept

through me, circulating and intensifying with every breath.

Yeah, I have it bad.

If possible, I had it worse than ever.

There was a time when I thought my love for Lincoln was

unrequited, but now…Well, it’s more complicated than ever.

We had a crazy, wired vibe— two people dancing around each

other while simultaneously chomping at the bit to get as close

as possible— and it was like hacking through a thicket of raw

tension whenever we were near each other.

“Hey. I know it’s cool to be late, but could we at least keep it to a fashionable ten minutes?” Lincoln asked, a smile in his tone. I tucked my hair behind my ear and he gave a quirky grin. He knew me too well.

“You know, when you talk like that, you really show your age,”

I quipped, as I slid my swipe key into my pocket.

Lincoln’s eyebrows shot up.

Good
job, Vi.

Less than a minute together and I’d already made things

awkward. Although he looked twenty- two at most, Lincoln was in 7

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fact twenty- six. Then again, a nine- year age difference didn’t mean much to the Grigori. Unless we got killed in battle against exiles, we’d likely live well into our hundreds, the aging process slowing the older we got. But there were other complications…

“Where are we going, then?” I asked, keen to change the subject.

“Griffin just called. He got a tip about exiles a few blocks from here. If we go now, we should catch them. You up for it?”

Lincoln wanted me to be good. He wanted me to be strong and

capable. That was one of the things I loved about him. He’d started training me years ago— running, rock climbing, martial arts. He didn’t want me to hide away and not be able to protect myself. But at the same time, I could hear the concern in his voice.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I rallied, trying to sound as sure as I should be.

Since I fully embraced as a Grigori, my life has taken a sharp

change of direction. I am, for all intents and purposes, a warrior.

In many ways, that suits me fine. I like being strong and having extra abilities no human could achieve. Exiled angels do not belong among humans. There is a very good reason we are divided by the realms of time and space; angels were simply not made to cope

with the emotions humans handle on a daily basis. In the end, the angels who try usually go insane, and most of them are vindictive monsters well before that.

Yet there is still a part of me that struggles with the concept of killing them. Technically, we “return” them— stripping exiles of their physical forms and sending them back to their realm for judgment. But…

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Since embracing my angel half in the desert— plunging my

own blade into the image of myself— I haven’t been able to use my dagger, though I rarely go anywhere without it. It sits in a sheath, carefully “glamoured” so it cannot be seen by normal humans.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I could call Griffin and he could go out with some of the others.”

“And who’s going to go with him? Magda isn’t back for another

couple of days, and Griffin wouldn’t put me on active duty if he didn’t think I could manage.”

Lincoln dropped his head. I nudged his shoulder as we walked

on. “I’ll be okay. And anyway, practice makes perfect, right?”

He took a steadying breath, stood a little taller, and ran a hand through his gold- streaked brown hair. He knew there was no

talking me out of it, and at some point he had to get on board. It wouldn’t help either one of us if we didn’t work together.

“Right,” he said, with a finality that made me smile. With that, he segued into a tactical pep talk. I was learning to be Grigori, to be a warrior, but Lincoln had already traveled well down that road.

Under his nice- guy facade was a mighty champion.

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chapter
two

“What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God and shall we
not accept evil?”

JoB 2:10

Th e streets around the bridge always put me on edge. Homeless

people congregate around the massive stone pylons, using them as buttresses for their provisional squats.

Th e area is fairly sheltered, and because it’s well known as a homeless hangout, residents are pretty much left in peace to haul out their shopping carts and tarps at night. Most of them clear away during the day— a fact that confounds Steph. She struggles with the concept of anyone fi tting all their belongings into one lone shopping cart.

Last time we’d gotten stuck at this end of town, she’d speculated to no end as to where all the shopping carts and their loot are hidden during the day. I mean, she has a point. Th ey must go somewhere.

By the time we turned onto a small side street, the last of the daylight was gone and there were no streetlamps. Th e evening was Entice.indd 10

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clear and there was a bite in the air, but the absence of light always unnerves me, and, of course, exiles—whether once of light or

dark—prefer to play in the cover of night.

Entertaining themselves with the pain of humans is high on

the to- do list for exiles. They have the power to infiltrate imagination and pretty much put whatever horror takes their fancy inside someone’s head. Some of them use it to taunt and frighten, while others use it as a kind of strategy. Over time, according to Griffin, they’ve used this ability to throw humans off their tracks entirely.

Apparently, that’s where the myths of vampires, werewolves,

and other things creepy, even fairies and elves, come from. If exiles sense that their supernatural power has been detected and they are not able to eliminate the problem using their preferred method of slaughter, they simply reveal themselves as something other than human, anything but what they really are.

It makes sense. I was learning that people are, on the whole,

more at ease believing in vampires or aliens than vengeful angels intent on a biblical Armageddon. Yes, we are naïve by choice.

The narrow street was littered with homeless people lying on

flattened cardboard, the lucky ones wrapped in torn sleeping bags, the rest burrowed in piles of old newspapers. I scanned the brick walls, which ran at least five stories high on each side. The protection they offered was part of what made this strip so popular.

Lincoln walked slowly beside me, his hand going to my elbow

for a moment— a silent reminder that I needed to be alert. I tried to ignore the flush of heat that came whenever I felt his touch.

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I stopped walking and he looked at me, a question in his

emerald- green eyes. I smiled before I could stop myself.

“I think I can sense them,” I said.

I didn’t
think
; I knew. I’d been tasting apple for the past couple of blocks, and the sound of birds flying, smashing through trees, was not one heard by others nearby. These are my angelic senses.

Most Grigori have one. Some, like Lincoln, have two. Lucky me, I have all five, and I seem to feel them more acutely than any other Grigori I have met. Great to be special and all, but having an extra five senses can be, well, overwhelming.

“How long have you been sensing them?”

I hesitated. He saw.

“Violet…how long?”

I was worried Lincoln would judge me, that the fact I could

sense them from so much farther away would be a form of super-

natural condescension and alienate me. “Not long. Maybe one

street back,” I said.

Lincoln raised his eyebrows at me.

“Three streets back.”

The corners of his mouth curled. He was holding back his

Cheshire. I was a fool— he was proud of me.

I rolled my eyes at his twinkling expression. “They’re in the

street. There are two of them,” I said.

He nodded, now refocused. “I can smell them.” His primary

angelic sense was smell, though he could also hear.

I returned his nod. The fragrance of sickly sweet flowers

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flooded the area so strongly, it even overpowered the stench of the street.

He took half a step in front of me and I let him. I may be able to sense them from farther away, but Lincoln could size them up and pick the strongest much faster than I could.

They emerged from the darkness, looking human but not at the

same time. Both were dressed casually, although one had bloodstains all the way up his right arm. I quickly took in my surroundings again, spotting one, then two, then three figures tucked into their sleeping bags, unmoving.

Energy hummed through my body and a cruel thrum worked

its way up into the base of my ribs. I had let it in once before, had allowed the energy to take over my body, forcing me to the ground, paralyzing me in the pain of others. I grabbed Lincoln’s arm. He didn’t look back, but I had his attention.

“They’re all dead. They’ve killed them all,” I said, all too aware that the exiles were moving closer by the second. Agents of death.

“Linc, should I do it?” I whispered.

We had such a honed connection, he knew exactly what I meant.

Though most Grigori need physical contact to return an exile, I had discovered I don’t— and I can take out multiples at the same time. I also am the first Grigori who can take an exile’s power against his will.

But the full extent of my power was still an unknown, and that

left everyone…nervous.

“No. Your power’s spiking all over the place. Are you okay?”

Lincoln replied.

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The exiles were getting closer.

My senses were on the edge but I had them under control…just.

“I’m okay. I could try.”