Ignite (27 page)

There are scars from sharp teeth, from when I was an angel still fighting against the snarling demons of Hell. Those scars are small and perfectly round, like white freckles up the inside of my arm, from wrist to elbow. I count them. There are nineteen in total, but they are so pale that they’re nearly impossible to see from far away.

I cover my arm with the robe again and leave the bathroom, moving from cold tile to plush carpet as I go over and hop onto the tall, squishy bed. The mattress sinks under me, warm, fluffy, and so comfortable I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave it. I lean over to grab the phone that rests on one of the nightstands. A small framed menu lists room services and the numbers for each service. I dial the number for the hotel restaurant.

The phone rings once before a man with a thick, drawling southern accent picks up. “The Aria restaurant. Are you making a reservation or placing an order for room service?”

“Room service,” I say slowly and clearly, hoping that my enunciation will rub off on him.

“I can take your order, miss. What’ll it be?” It doesn’t.

“Chicken. Whatever kind you’ve got.”

“Oh, well that’s a fair amount, miss. We’ve got grilled chicken, chicken parm, spinach-stuffed chicken, barbecue chicken, lemon-basil chicken, chicken strips—”

I cut him off before he lists every chicken dish ever made. “Chicken strips are fine.”

“Great choice, but it’s from our kids menu. Is that all right with you, miss?”

“That’s fine. Just make it a double order.”

“Sure enough, sure enough.” I hear him typing through the phone. “What would you like for your side? Your options are salad, vegetables, french fries—”

Again, I cut him off. “French fries.”

“Would you like your fries curly, thin cut, wedged, chipped…”

His voice continues to list the innumerable styles of french fries they make, and I roll my eyes, bringing the phone away from my ear. I just want a simple dinner. This shouldn’t be so complicated. I bring the phone back up to my ear, and when he breaks for a breath, I quickly answer, “Surprise me.”

I hang up before he has time to give me any more options about how I would like my food.

A small, silver remote rests next to the phone so I scoop it up and turn on the wide, flat TV that hangs from the wall in front of the bed. With nothing better to do, I flip through a few dismal nightly news programs until I hear room service knock on my door. I jump down, still wrapped in my thick bathrobe, and run to the door barefoot. I unlock the door and yank it open, leaning out to take the tray of food from a man dressed in a crisp, red and black uniform.

“Add a tip to my room bill,” I tell him with a smile.

He nods and I close the door to him, running back to my bed to eat.

The chicken strips are crispy and delicious, as are the french fries. I sip at the complimentary fizzing drink as I polish off my dinner and watch the end of a strange cartoon about a boy and his magical dog. I lick my fingers clean, set the empty tray on the floor next to the bed, and scoot myself under the covers. I pull the blankets up past my shoulders and bury my head into the feathery pillows, sighing contentedly.

A hot shower, a full meal, and a soft bed. Maybe this is all Heaven needs to be.

I smile as I drift off into sleep, my thoughts dancing around Michael.

Goodnight, Michael
. I think to myself.

Goodnight, Pen.

I open my eyes for a minute, thinking I heard his voice in the room. I sit up, pushing the blankets down so I can look around the room. But I’m alone, and I can see the locks in place on the door. It was just my imagination.

I lie back down and resettle myself.

Don’t worry. You can sleep. I’ll chase away any nightmares
. His voice is golden and musical, just like I remember it.

I’ll chase away yours,
I sleepily answer in my mind.
Next time I see you.

And I fall asleep.

Chapter 23

Days drag on quietly and uneventfully. I should be glad for the peace, but instead it makes me nervous. It’s like the calm before a violent storm. I can feel the electricity in the air and I’m just waiting for the lightening to strike, the fire to spread, and the chaos to begin.

The news gets bleaker and bleaker each day. There’s a mass shooting at a mall, a movie theater, a school. The murder and suicide rates are soaring. Almost every country in the East is at war—uprisings, bombings… Eventually I have to turn the television off. I can’t stomach the news anymore; it only makes me anxious.

Azael checks in periodically.

How do you say “Leave me alone” in Japanese? What about “Go to Hell”?

Is it bad form to say “Bon appetit” instead of “Bon jour” in France? I just think it would be better to be upfront with them. Let them know it’s not going to be a good day, but they’ll have a good appetite.

Have you ever been to Florida? You’re not missing much. Unless you enjoy the juxtaposition of alligators and the elderly, who, coincidentally, are both equally as wrinkled and leathery.

I sent Gus another one of my masterpieces. Lilim Cubism, very avant-garde. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the fine arts.

I’m convinced all of West Virginia has been infected at this point. It’s the only explanation for some of the things I’ve seen.

But he never says anything of real significance, so our conversations are limited. Occasionally, he will ask about Michael. He doesn’t ask about specifics though. He just wants to make sure I’m still in contact with him. I assure him that I am, and he usually lets the subject drop. I try not to ask him anything too serious, and he returns the favor, saving me from having to fabricate too many lies.

The majority of my days are spent avoiding the news by watching horrible daytime television, messing around with the strange gadgets and jets on the bathtub, ordering an exorbitant amount of room service, and pacing back and forth in front of my bed. I’m nearly convinced that there will be a hole in the carpet by the time I leave.

I have nothing to do until Michael comes back, and I’m going stir crazy. There are too many things to think about—some things are out of my control, but they still clog up my mind.

Azael, I fear, is becoming more distant and detached from the barbaric things he does and the people he kills. I think he’s completely forgotten what it was like to have a soul. The Lilim virus is spreading at an alarming rate, and I can feel a shift happening beneath my feet. Even though I’m not in Hell, I can sense the dark excitement in the air, like a heavy cloud, all around me. I wonder if I’m the only one that has noticed it.

None of this is within my control. Logically, I realize this, but I can’t stop thinking about it, worrying about it, planning for it to happen. But how do you plan for something when you don’t know when it will happen or how? You can’t. So I pace back and forth, spinning my dagger around in the air, and worry. The only thing I can do is be ready for when the time comes and hope Michael will come with me when I run—wherever I run to.

I wait for Michael, sometimes thinking I can hear his voice. I have fake conversations with him, telling him stories from my past and dreams I have for my future. Talking to him is easy. I can forget my worry and be distracted for at least a few minutes. We don’t talk about the war, about the Lilim, or about anything dark or scary.

I think
, I imagine telling him
, that you would have loved the 1920s.

I hear his chuckle.
Oh, and why is that?

The music, the passion. There was this new sense of freedom, of liberation. The whole decade felt like one long, drawn out New Years celebration.

Were you on Earth during the 20s?

Of course! Chicago, mostly. Everything, it seemed, was alcohol, bright lights, and loud music. Maybe not everywhere, but definitely in Chicago. Azael befriended some prominent gangsters and had a rousing good time tearing up the town.

He did?

Oh yes. He and Al Capone were the best of friends. Al and Az: the two smartest bootleggers in all of America. The police could never quite pin them down because whenever they came too close, I would throw them off the trail. All it took was a smooth, smokey voice, maybe a rolled down stocking, and those cops couldn’t even remember which way was up.

So you worked with the smugglers? What was it like?

I didn’t interfere much with ‘the business.’ That’s what they always called it, ‘the business.’ Mostly, I was on Azael’s arm, or spending my time at speakeasies, dancing.
I flop down on the bed, throwing my arm over my head and close my eyes, remembering the glitter of the decade, the brassy music, the smoke.

What did you look like?
I imagine him resting his head on his hand, listening intently.

Cropped, jaw-length dark hair with a silky wave, ivory skin, blood-red lipstick, and coal eyeliner. And like any respectable flapper girl, a short, gold sequined dress, t-strap shoes, and a flask full of gin secured to my thigh.
I smile, remembering the way I shined in the dress, spinning on the dance floor to loud, gravelly jazz music.

I would have loved to see you dance.

You would have danced with me,
I tell him.
I would have made you.

You wouldn’t have had to make me,
I imagine him saying back to me.
I’m sure I would have been more than eager to dance with you.

I roll my eyes. That’s exactly something Michael would say, were I really talking to him.
Azael never danced
, I say.
He only sat with a drink in his hand, his fedora pulled low, hiding his eyes, and a cigarette between his lips. He enjoyed watching the girls who spun around him, their fringe fanning out in front of his face. A total bore.

He can’t dance?

He can, but, surprisingly, he wasn’t into the flashy style of the 20s. He can waltz really well, though. One of the best waltzers I’ve ever danced with. He thrived in England during the late 1800s. Every girl who hadn’t already pledged to marry had their eyes on him. Hell, even some who
had
already pledged marriage. But a Victorian dance such as the waltz has no place in 1920s Chicago. Thankfully, neither did the corsets.

He laughs.

His voice is clear and calm in my head, and I swear he is in the room with me. I touch my bracelet every few hours, letting the cool beads slip across my wrist, and remind myself he’s gone. His voice lives in my imagination, in my memory, not in this room. But he’ll be back soon.

***

From my window, I watch the days pass. The mornings are bright and busy, filled with people, cars, and the loud thumping noise of bass music. As the blue sky bruises into blackness, I expect the streets to begin to empty and the lights to fade. But they don’t. Instead, the sun is replaced by glowing signs, marquees, and streetlights.

Even in the middle of the night, people still rush along many of the streets, jumping in and out of yellow taxis and ducking into neon-lit bars and restaurants. Only the unlit, narrow alleys that run between the dark office buildings are vacant. A few teenagers stand at the front of some alleys making out, pushed up against brick walls, wrapped around one another next to large, green dumpsters. How romantic.

On the fourth day of being cooped up in my hotel room, I decide I need to get out and do something. I’m tired of waiting around and wasting time worrying. I need to run, or fly, or at least smell the cold air of fall. I wait until the day fades into early dusk to leave my room. I figure if I go to the more corporate side of the city, I will be able to avoid the crowds. Most of the office buildings seem to close by six, and there are no restaurants outside of the heart of the city, so it is unlikely that anyone will be walking along those streets.

I pull my hair back behind my head in a messy knot and put on a newly cleaned long-sleeved shirt and a pair of tight, frayed jeans. Earlier this morning, I had room service deliver a rugged leather jacket I’d ordered from one of the boutiques across from the hotel, and I throw that over my shirt, too. It’s grown colder outside, my windows frosting over at the corners, and while the weather doesn’t have any particular effects on me, I find it’s best to blend in and pretend to be bothered by the cold. I tug on my boots, zipping them over the torn edges of my jeans.

Briefly, I consider leaving my dagger behind but end up tucking it securely into my boot. It feels strange to be without it, so I bring it with me more out of habit than necessity. I grab my room card off of the nightstand, shove it into my back pocket, and leave the room, flipping off the lights just before the door slams closed behind me.

Silently, I walk through the hall, step into the waiting elevator, and ride down to the lobby of the hotel, keeping my head low. The lobby is practically empty. Most people have either already left for an evening out in the city or holed themselves away in their room for the night. I push through the revolving doors and out into the cold, dark evening, slipping into the flow of people.

I follow the sidewalk until I see an empty alley to disappear into and fade away from the crowd. I fall out of step and slide into the shadowed shortcut from the busy commercial blocks to the corporate block of the city. Just as I expected, it’s empty.