Incite: Ignite, #2

By Erica Crouch

Earth is in ruins, and the war of Heaven and Hell has spilled over into the mortal world. In the frozen wasteland of the apocalypse, Azael and his band of cohorts search for Pen and Michael with orders to kill. Little does he know that his sister has incited a rebel army of her own.

Angels and demons alike stand side by side, ready and willing to fight for a future they didn’t realize they could have. Change doesn't come easy, though. Pen is wary of joining New Genesis's revolution, but when Azael shows his hand and Pen learns all that he holds over them, she chooses to fight back, no matter the risk. She only has to survive, one hour at a time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patchwork Press
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781927940266

Book preview

INCITE

Erica Crouch

Book 2 in the Ignite Series

A PATCHWORK PRESS TITLE

Incite (Ignite, Book 2)

Copyright © 2015 by Erica Crouch.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons - living or dead - is purely coincidental.

First Edition.

ISBN: 9781927940266

Patchwork-Press.com

More by Erica Crouch

Madly, Deeply

The Empath

Ignite Series

Ignite (Ignite 1)

Entice (Ignite 1.5)

Engage (Ignite 2.5)

Coming Soon

Infinite (Ignite 3)

Mostly Marceline

To my sister, who has never tried to kill me.

Yet.

Here let us live, though in fallen state, content.

—John Milton, Paradise Lost

Prologue

Azael

FOLDED IN THE CORNER OF the room, Pen has tucked herself behind a barrier of books, pushed up against the far wall, as distant as she can be from me without actually leaving the dormitory. The books box her in. One in her hands, three open on her lap, six stacked on her bed, and dozens more under her mattress. Would she notice any missing were I to steal a few copies? I should slowly clean out her stash one book at a time. I hate her mess.

Pen doesn’t speak much. She never really did to begin with, but it’s different now. I don’t like the change. It puts me on edge, not knowing why her silence has changed. It’s a brittle quiet, not comfortable like before. My sister—sharp and dark with eyes that know too much and a mouth that has no filter—has locked down her words.

What happened to before? I can’t remember right now.

She rearranges her books and flips through the thin parchment slowly, her fingers sprawled out across the pages, tracing sloppy lines of text. The ink colors her fingers black and marks up her cheek when she throws back the knots of hair that have curtained off her face. She pulls a second book close, inspects a few lines, and nods as if something has been confirmed.

I doubt she knows I’m in the room.

Find anything new? I ask.

There’s a beat before she looks up from her books. She cocks one dark eyebrow. What?

A bubble of irritation gurgles in my throat. I cross my arms under my head and prop my face on my forearms, burying my voice in the crook of my elbow. Are you looking for something in your books? You seem quite…absorbed.

"I’m not looking for anything," she says, annoyed.

Then what exactly are you doing? I roll over, grab my scythe from the side table, and spin it above my head, working on my grip. It’s gotten worse without practice. Organizing your Byronic heroes in accordance of swoon-ability? I hope I don’t see Darcy at the top of the list. I think Oedipus is much more striking. He is a king, after all. Surely he could sweep you off your feet.

More books on her bed, moved from the floor to the mattress. A growing wall. I want to kick it down.

A wicked grin flashes across her face before she disappears behind the tower of tomes. You know how that ends, right?

Oedipus?

He discovers that his wife is also his mother. He blinds himself.

I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. Is that true?

Absolutely. Pen lifts the book higher in front of her, pushes farther into her corner. Plunged two golden brooches right into his eyes. She laughs. Very dramatic. He kept screaming about how he no longer wanted to see the world now that he knew the truth. ‘What good were eyes to me? Nothing I see could bring me joy.’

I pause. I don’t like that quote. It bothers me, like glass under skin. Still handsome, though.

She laughs again and it’s lighter, more carefree. "Sure, he was very handsome. You just have to get past the four children he had with his mom."

Well, there’s that.

A few of the books come down from her wall, and when she looks back up from replacing them under the pile next to her, she appears different. Older, paler.

If you must know, she eventually says, I’m reading about the end of the world.

Now that, dear sister, is a subject I can discuss with more poise.

Three ticks at once—brows, fingers, lips. Furrow, fidget, bite. Then she says, Nearly every story has the good side winning. With the exception of—

"Paradise Lost. The right side wins there. Humankind’s chance at a perfect world foiled by a few cunning demons."

She pulls her lip from her teeth and presses her mouth in a line. "Yes, of course, Paradise Lost. No happily ever after when Milton’s involved."

Depends on who you’re asking. I stand up and walk over to her, scooping up the book with the green binding off her bed. I hold it between my scarred fingers and reread the worn pages. I think it has a very happy ending.

Pen frowns. No, Azael. That’s not happy at all.

I snap the book closed. "And why not? We won, Pen. Isn’t that happy? Demons beat God!"

It’s horrible, Az. It’s absolutely horrible. A stupid tear falls down her cheek and she swipes at it with her inky fingers, doing nothing to stop its trajectory. Now it falls black down her cheek, tips off her chin, and lands on her shoulder. I wish you could see. I wish you knew that this isn’t the happy ending you should be rooting for. You’re missing out on so much.

I toss her book at her ankles. I am not missing out on anything.

You are. Her voice has that pleading tone I’ve always hated. Like a child. She’s picked up terrible habits from humans. You’re missing out on love. The worst habit of all.

We do not love, Pen. It comes out sharper than I intend. Don’t be so…so—

She cuts me off, and the scythe in my hand slips, slicing my palm. I miss the old you. Azael, remember when you used to watch the stars with me?

I make a noise in the back of my throat. No.

In the garden, in Heaven? The stars that looked like the white flowers at night, but much farther away? She reaches for me, but I pull away, turn my back to her.

I live for the future; there’s no room for the past here.

Ready to storm out to the training room, I grab my gear and strap on my boots. Suddenly, it’s claustrophobic in here. I want to leave, but before I make it to the door, her hand lands on my shoulder and she spins me to face her.

Listen carefully, Pen says, her eyes bouncing around the room. She’s nervous. Cautious. Remember that I love you, okay? Don’t ever forget it. No matter what happens next, I want you to remember that I loved you then and I love you now. Hesitating—waiting for permission or for me to pull away—she reaches out and tugs on an unruly tuft of my hair.

No. I shake her hand off and unkindly laugh at her—the only laughter I have. You don’t.

Her face falls, and she backs up to her bed, sinking down between two rickety stacks of books. She looks so small and so immediately deflated that I’m enraged. This is not my sister, this fragile thing so easily broken by reality. Pen is a fighter, a killer with so much blood on her hands that she wouldn’t understand what to do with kindness even if it came with a manual. Let alone love. Love isn’t for us; it isn’t real.

And then my own reality creeps in. We’re not in Hell. We haven’t been for centuries—not for long enough to mess up our dormitory like this, at least. We were on Earth. And she…

You left me, I say. The words are hot; my mouth is dry. You left me for some angel. Chose Michael over your own damn brother!

Az, please—

I don’t know what you think you’re doing here. Bitterness tastes like lightning. Like drinking acidic electricity. I wish my words didn’t bounce back at me from around the icy room. I hate the way my anger sounds like grief. I punch the wall behind me, my knuckles cracking as my bed fades away, as the nightstands evaporate, and the room disappears until all that’s left is me and Pen in the middle of nothing. What right do you have to keep visiting me like this?

I miss you. I hoped…

I turn on Pen, and I feel so much bigger, stronger, more splintered than she is. Dangerous. She shouldn’t stand so close.

There is no hope! Don’t you get it?

She doesn’t back up. I thought she’d move away from me.

"I want you dead."

You don’t mean that. Her voice couldn’t even be considered a whisper.

I do. I don’t. I want you dead. I want you bleeding. I want you alive. I want you with me, on my side. On the right side. But more than that, I want your precious Michael strung up, tortured, turned inside out, and begging for death. We’ll see how high and mighty he is when he’s kept just inches from that relief. We’ll see how strong his ‘love’ for you really is.

Pen looks down at her stained hands. Wake up, Az.

What right do you have intruding on my dreams? What right do you have invading my mind? I’m screaming at her, and I can’t stop.

Wake up, Azael, she says in a voice that doesn’t belong to her.

You left me, Pen! You abandoned me, betrayed me!

The white ice around me turns black, the glare dulling to darkness, and the last thing I see is Pen’s eyes, wide and violet, watching me with a deep sadness. Good. I’m glad I’ve disappointed her. She’s disappointed me.

Wake up, Azael. Silk murmuring. Oh, Az-a-elllll.

Cold lips press onto mine as hard arms trap me in an embrace. I’m pinned by knotted sheets to a stuffed mattress. I open my eyes to liquid amber streaked with gold, dark lashes, a curved brow. Tongue, teeth, a laugh, and suddenly, all I see is the top of her head and her white-blond hair as her lips travel down to my ribs.

Lilith.

You look so furious when you sleep. She pushes herself up and straddles my hips. With one of her dark, sharp nails, she traces the planes of my chest. It’s excellent. What were you dreaming about?

Revenge.

Even more excellent. She grins, blood-red lips splitting open over perfectly sharp teeth. I want to help.

No, I answer quickly, pulling her back down. Her head rests in the curve of my throat, and I can’t escape the smell sulfur. You’re going to watch.

Chapter 1

Pen

DARK SHADOWS CUT ACROSS THE shining, white sheets of ice. They curl together, circling around me and Michael, stalking closer by the second. We don’t have time to think, only to react, our weapons raised and poised to strike. I turn my dagger in my hand, spin it once, and then slash it across the belly of the first demon. One blink and they’re gone, but only for a minute.

Michael looks at me, his sword balanced perfectly in his grip. The demon reappears just over Michael’s shoulder, barbed whip in hand. He flicks back his wrist, but I see his move before he makes it.

On your left!

The words barely leave my lips when Michael spins around and swings out his sword, burying his blade in the thing’s skull. The demon looks young, small, but I know how deceiving appearances can be. He’s about a foot shorter than Michael, with wild, fiery hair somewhere between the embers of red and orange. He moves like wildfire.

Michael pulls back and drives the sword through the demon’s chest, and the demon screams—violet eyes full of pain and rage. He ignites, sinking to his knees before collapsing into a pile of ashes, leaving behind only his whip. I flash back to the days of war, the bodies fallen, the ashes of soldiers mixing with the blood and dirt of the Earth.

Michael and I keep our backs to each other, waiting for the second demon to strike. Neither of their faces is familiar to me, but there was a flash of recognition in the redhead’s stare when he saw us, a dark satisfaction in his sneer. I pull out another dagger from my belt, my hands ready to fight.

You know him? Michael asks.

Not personally.

The second?

She’s unfamiliar to me, too, I say, looking over my shoulder at him.

He shifts on his feet, considering the ashes below, but says nothing else. There’s blood on his hands, and I don’t have to live inside his head to know the conversation he’s having with himself. The persuasion that this was a necessary kill, that there was no other option but to end his life. It’s a conversation I’ve had enough times with myself. But this is new to him. At least to the reborn him.

Ever since his resurrection, he’s been recovering pieces of himself. After the demons stormed through the gates of Heaven, sending the world into chaos and returning all of Michael’s memories, he’s had to reconcile his past with his present. His new self is so different than how he used to be, and memories of battle don’t make today’s violence any easier to cope with.

I let out a small breath and hear another noise coming from my left. Michael hears it too, his senses heightened from the adrenaline of the fight. We pivot, stand strong side by side, and wait. There’s a lot of waiting in attacks like this—biding time until whatever assassin steps forward, comes close enough for us to do something. I’m a bit disappointed they risk the proximity of a close kill. Haven’t they heard anything about my reputation as a marksman?

There’s a shift, and the noise we heard echoes behind us now. The ice doesn’t carry sound well. It’s like being in Hell again—disorienting, sounds bouncing off everything. I can’t pin down their location.

Any day now, I breathe, bouncing on my toes to keep my muscles loose. The cold works through me too quickly, slowing down my reactions, stiffening my movements.

Splintering ice behind me is the only warning to duck, and I pull Michael down with me, pushing him to roll away. The blade of a jagged knife soars over us, and I spot its wielder a few paces away. The ice sends me sliding out of my roll, and I redirect my trajectory, clawing into the smooth surface to pivot toward the female demon.

She tries to run away, but she has no tread on her boots. What a simple mistake. I kick my leg out and hook my knee around her feet, sweeping her to the ground. She lands on the packed ice next to me with a loud crunch and lets out a string of curses.

Another young one, this time with short, choppy hair the color of mud. She’s not as good of a fighter as her male companion was. Sloppy, slow. It’s possible she has never seen true battle.

Her weapon slides away from her and she tries to crawl her way to it, but I’m faster. Much faster. The trick is to bury the pain until after you’ve finished the fight. Deal with it then. So the peel and crack of my fingernails digging into the ice is an afterthought as I grapple my way to her, wrap my hand around her ankle, and pull.

Again, the ice works to my advantage. She slips toward me easily, her feet kicking and her hands scrabbling for purchase as she howls in anger. She looks back at me, violet eyes deep and angry. I take the heel of her boot to my jaw and my chin splits open, but I hardly notice it. All I feel is her struggling limbs in my hand. All I see are her flailing arms reaching for the handle of her weapon just a hairsbreadth away from her fingers. She doesn’t fight like a soldier, hasn’t developed the right reactions, and I’m able to pin her easily.

Michael recovers from where I shoved him to the ground and helps me keep the demon still, his boot on her wrist and his sword above her chest, poised to strike. He holds it confidently—so different than just a short while ago—and it looks easy in his hand, as if it weighs next to nothing when I know how weighted with power it is. I put my own dagger at her throat, the point just below her chin. Her furious huffing bobs her head just enough that the blade scrapes her skin ever so slightly, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

She hisses and bares her teeth at us, and I press harder into her shoulder, trying to keep her still. Her fingers finally stop searching for her knife.

Name? I ask.

She laughs. I should spit on you.

Well I, for one, would love to see you try. Though I should warn you: if you try to spit on me while in this position, you’ll just end up spitting on yourself. I shift all of my weight onto her, bringing my knee into the curve between her ribs. Her ratty sweatshirt is ripped and covered in blood. But maybe if you believe hard enough…

She spits blood. I move out of the way just in time and it drops back into her face. Lovely.

I warned you. Gravity and all that. Not very smart, this one, I say, looking up at Michael.

He shakes his head, his eyes hard and distant. He doesn’t focus on the scene below him and, instead, searches the horizon for more threats, something to distract from what’s happening here, now. Another rationalization session, then. I can’t remember exactly how long it took for me to be okay with murder. Maybe I had the right disposition for it. That thought makes me sick.

I’ll ask you again, I say, exaggerating the pronunciation in my slow speech. Name?

She grinds her teeth. You killed Shax.

Now she’s staring at Michael. His gaze snaps to her for a second before returning to the skies. He says nothing.

I glance over my shoulder to what’s left of Shax, and the demon squirms under me again, letting out a guttural growl as she tries to wiggle free. I don’t give her an inch.

Maybe I should be more specific, I say. "I want your name, not the name of your little friend who tried to kill us. Who are you, and what do you want from us?"

The demon babbles incoherently, and I slide the tip of my blade into the soft, hollow spot just under her jaw to shut her up.

I’ll cut your tongue out if you don’t want to use it to give me an answer, I say.

What is your name? Michael asks, not bothering to look at her.

"I don’t answer to you, Michael." She says his name like it burns her tongue, spitting it out as fast as she can so her mouth doesn’t catch fire.

Who do you answer to, then? If your name is so precious, give us another one. I twist my blade slowly, carving a convincing argument into the nerves bundled in her jaw.

She sucks in air through her teeth and narrows her eyes, steeling herself.

With those eyes, I’d bet Lucifer, I say. Though I doubt he even knows your name. I doubt anyone important knows your name.

Everyone answers to Lucifer now. A smug look overcomes her features, and she shifts her gaze to me. But I serve under Azael, and my name is Uzza, you traitor.

I sit back a little, surprised, my weight shifting from her abdomen to the balls of my feet. Uzza scoots backward quickly, trying to get away. For a moment, I’m too shocked to stop her, but Michael doesn’t let her get far, taking my place by pinning her down and moving his sword closer, ready to strike.

She serves Azael. I grab at the pendant that swings around my neck, squeezing the rough crystal in my fist.

What does Azael want of you? Michael asks her, his voice low.

Oh, no. He wants nothing of me. It’s you two he’s looking for. But really, it’s her he wants. She nods toward me, and I stand up numbly, slipping my dagger back into my belt. He just wants you dead, filthy archangel. Doesn’t care how it’s done, doesn’t care who does it. Said we could have a bit of fun with you if we wanted.

Michael looks at me sideways, but I can’t stop staring at Uzza.

You spoke to Az? I mean, Azael—you saw him? I watch her carefully.

She arches an eyebrow, amused. You’re his sister, right? That’s what everyone’s saying. That you’re twins. Her eyes pick apart my face, trace my silhouette, brush my hair. I guess I can see it.

My face is hot. I kneel down again, this time right next to her shoulder, and lower my head so my lips are even with her ear. I keep one hand on the cold, white handle of my dagger as my other grabs her jaw, slick with blood. I hold her face between my fingers, turning her roughly to look at me.

I asked if you saw him.

Uzza smiles again, sarcastic and bitter like the last dregs of stale coffee. "Everyone’s seen him. He led us through the gates of Heaven—haven’t you heard? The King of Hell led us to victory."

King of Hell. I’d nearly forgotten about his promotion.

The way she speaks of Az, her voice thick with admiration and loyalty, makes me ill. At one time, I would have felt proud to see him inspire this dedication, this kind of stupid courage in the face of death. But now, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Uzza licks her dry, cracked lips and laughs at me.

I’m definitely going to throw up.

I let go of her, pushing her face away from me as I stand up, rising with the bile in my throat. "This is victory? He left you trapped here on Earth, I say harshly. Is that what he promised you?"

Earth ain’t so bad, you know. She looks between Michael and me. But what am I telling you for? It looks like you already know that.

Why does he want me? I snap. I already know why he wants Michael dead. I’m a bit surprised he doesn’t want to kill him himself, inflict his own medley of torture upon him. Azael must have bigger plans—that concern me. What does he want? Why does he need me alive? It can't be for anything good.

Uzza laughs, and I know she doesn’t hold the answer. She’s nothing but an ill-trained foot soldier. A poorly wielded weapon.

Are you going to torture me for information? she asks, another bubble of laughter gurgling in her throat. And here I thought you’d left Hell. Maybe you’re not so gone from our side after all. Wanna help me bring pretty boy’s golden head to our new king on a platter? He doesn’t seem the type to forgive easily, but hey, maybe making an effort— She turns her head to cough and a splattering of black blood sprays from her lips.

I ignore her and look at Michael. Kill her.

He considers me for a moment and then nods once, tersely.

Uzza doesn’t beg for her life, which impresses me. The young ones always beg. Her loyalty must be strong.

There will be more, she singsongs.

Michael pauses and looks up at me.

Everyone is looking for you two. Even the angels.

I don’t acknowledge her. She’s only trying to scare us further. To have us on high alert at all times, exhaust us more than we already are. I just keep watching Michael, focusing on the dark blue of his eyes. When he’s calm, they’re almost the same color the sky used to be—a bright, steely blue. But now, they’re so dark that they’re nearly black. If I look closely, I can still find the blue buried in the darkness, a bright sliver of hope shining through the never-ending night.

Kill her, I say again.

There’s nothing new to what she’s saying. We’ve guessed as much about the bounty that’s been placed on our heads. Last week, we ran into a pack of angels, and the greeting we received was less than amicable. They didn’t seem to want either of us alive. Apparently, Heaven wasn’t too keen on Michael’s siding with a demon, even a demon who’d betrayed Hell to side with an angel. No one is safe to us now—nowhere a refuge.

What’s your name again? Uzza asks, her grin spreading wide and cracking her face in half. She knows it. She just wants to see how much she can get in my head.

I stand straighter, stiffening my posture into something I hope resembles indifference.

Ah, yeah, that’s right. I remember now. Penemuel.

I tighten my mouth, stitching my lips together. In my head, I correct her. It’s Pen.

My thought finds a voice on Michael’s tongue. It’s Pen, he says as he pushes the sword through her chest, right over the empty cavern that once held a heart.

Instead of her screams filling the silence, her cackles do. I don’t look away from her death. I watch closely, not blinking as the exposed skin around the sword begins to blacken. It spreads out under her clothes. The skin at her neck scorches, turning as dark as charcoal. Then her hands, her fingers. The charred skin of her neck extends over her jaw, across her too-high cheekbones and pointy nose. She looks at me one last time, and I see her lips for the words, This will never be over, before she is overtaken by the fire of Michael’s sword.

A brilliant, golden flame overwhelms her tall frame in a flash, and when it disappears, only her ashes remain. Light burns through darkness.

I turn away as Michael holsters his sword. Neither of us says anything. I step forward and let him knot me between his arms, pressing my cheek to his chest. His heart beats quick and hard, strong enough for both of us. I swear I can feel it echo in my own chest.

Closing my eyes, I try to remember the stars we lost weeks ago, the sun that hasn’t escaped the shroud of gray clouds since the day in London, the green of the grass that seems to be forever trapped beneath the thick cover of ice. Michael shivers once under my cold hands, and our smoky breath mixes together in the freezing air. There’s a quiet understanding between us that speaks what neither of us can voice.

But some words cannot be swallowed.

I’ll protect you, Michael whispers into my hair, kissing the top of my head. I won’t let Azael take you.

I pull back from him. And what about you? Everyone wants you dead. The angels, the demons… There’s no safety for us anywhere.

His hands trace up my spine and then back down to rest on my waist. Has anywhere ever truly been safe for us?

What are we supposed to do?

Figure it out, he says, tipping his face down to mine and resting our foreheads together. Like we always do. Just take it one hour at a time.

There are days when I wonder if the sun has given up on us. Its light is filtered through a quilt of stormy clouds that never open. I imagine it patiently waiting behind the clouds that make the sky low and claustrophobic. I wouldn’t blame it if it tired of waiting for a break in the perpetually overcast sky and decided one day to leave us. Everyone else has.

After the fight, we keep to the ground, not wanting to risk visibility. I bump into Michael’s shoulder as we walk through the empty street. He’s too serious, his eyebrows drawn low, his lips pressed into a stern line.

We didn’t have a choice.

There’s always a choice.

Not when you’re being hunted, I say as we pass an abandoned car, the doors open, the keys still in the ignition like its occupant would return any minute. Kill or be killed.

He’s silent.

I don’t like it either, but I prefer it to being dead.

I know, he says, sliding his hand over his face. I know. But we can’t just go on like this. Always running.

The uninhabited neighborhood around us eavesdrops, every home cold and powerless. A few have broken windows, the glass punched out, which leaves gaping holes in the houses like missing teeth. There is even a house or two with open front doors, left wide as if the people who once lived there had run so quickly that they didn’t have time to pull it closed behind them. They probably didn’t.

We’ve been staying in these abandoned houses recently, moving from one two-story home to another identical one a