Entice

by Jessica Shirvington

  Copyright © 2011 by Jessica Shirvington

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by Don Sipley/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The author and publisher would like to thank the following for permission to use copyrighted material: State University of New York Press, Albany, for a quotation from Jung and Eastern Thought by Harold G. Coward; University of Tennessee Press, Knoxville, for a quotation from A House of Gathering: Poets on May Sarton’s Poetry by May Sarton and Marilyn Kallett.

  The author and publisher would also like to acknowledge the following works from which the author has quoted: Douay-Rheims Bible; the Holy Bible: English Standard Version; and the King James Bible.

  Every endeavor has been made on the part of the publisher to contact copyright holders not mentioned above, and the publisher would be happy to include a full acknowledgment in any future edition.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  teenfire.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in Australia and New Zealand in 2011 by Hachette Australia.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Angel Hierarchy

  An excerpt from Emblaze

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Mum and Dad,

  who are a constant inspiration in both my life and work.

  Thanks for always being there.

  I love you.

  I form the light and create darkness. I make peace and create evil: I, the Lord, do all these things.

  Isaiah 45:7

  “No one takes my life away from me. I give it up of my own free will.”

  John 10:18

  The angel had been ordered to make his choice. It had to be of his own free will. But what they asked of him carried a high price. He would most likely never return. Most likely be destroyed. Or worse.

  And no one would ever know the truth.

  “You have decided, then,” a voice said to him.

  I felt each moment as the angel did—the obscured version of time in what had to be an otherworldly place—but could see nothing. It was surreal; no people were visible—just their presence, or maybe auras.

  It wasn’t a question, what was said. They knew the moment he’d made the decision. They probably knew before him. He could sense them all around, the mighty Seraphim. Supreme knowledge lent them a powerful presence, but it was bitter this day.

  “When the first of your tasks is complete, you will move on to the next. You must not reveal yourself or seek companionship with anyone, especially exiles, unless for the purposes of fulfilling your objectives.”

  “I understand.”

  “You will spend three years before the day on which you must act arrives. He has his role to play. It is not possible without your actions first.”

  “I understand.”

  And he did understand. He had made this decision of his own free will, despite the sacrifice, for he knew it had only been asked of him because he was the perfect choice.

  He felt the universe around him, the freedom of unfettered dominion over space and realm, and wondered when he would again feel this, if ever.

  “Take a name of the times when you are there. Now go.”

  And so it was. He made the transition amid images of mobs and anger. To his destiny. To death. The flash of a kiss. All things to come.

  A fog cleared around me and my surroundings came into view. I was suddenly in my art studio. Standing by the window was a figure I recognized. The one I suspected was my angel maker.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, still amazed by the way my words seemed to float through the air in these dreams, as if they had their own physical presence.

  “It does not matter. But you may call me Lochmet if you require a title.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Warrior.”

  I swallowed, suddenly nervous. The way he said it, with such force and confidence, made him seem so powerful.

  “Why did you show me that angel? I don’t get it.”

  “Not yet. But you will. It is but a strand of one existence, from a very long time ago.”

  “No, please don’t…Just tell me.”

  He turned to face me, his shoulders squared, and I struggled with conflicting urges—one drawing me toward him, the other, to cower away. I was sure he could see it, see right through me, which only made me more vulnerable.

  “We all have the capacity to find the will to do what must be done—even when that which we must do terrifies us most. Remember this.”

  “That’s it? That doesn’t explain anything. Who was he? I thought it was against angel law to exile to earth. How come the Seraphim asked it of that angel?”

  He considered me for another delayed, vacant moment before his head tilted toward a painting beside him. The vision of a sandy beach with a midnight blue sea crashing against rocks seemed to affect him. He stretched his arm out and brushed his fingers lightly across the textured ripples of the oil-painted canvas. For just a moment, the silence between us was almost comfortable.

  But when he looked back at me, I knew: he wasn’t going to tell me any more about the angel he had shown me.

  “Be mindful. A traitor is within your fold,” he said.

  “Who?”

  He shook his head and turned back to the window.

  “You must walk your path; leave the footprints as evidence of your journey. I cannot take it…or change it.”

  His voice held the first hint of emotion—a small
, almost undetectable, quiver.

  “But you did help me,” I started. “Two years ago, in that classroom…” Even in my dream, I felt the sickening memories and the lump in my throat willing me not to go on. “It couldn’t have been anyone else. You sent that teacher across the school to intervene.”

  I swallowed hard, fought to hold onto my train of thought, not detour to that day, to that teacher holding me down while I struggled beneath his heavy weight.

  “You interfered,” I said, then dropped my head. “Thank you.”

  His silence was all the confirmation I needed. I looked around the room, unsure what to say next. My paintings surrounded me, but unlike before, they now included those that I had only planned, envisioned. Somehow, this room held the paintings of my imagination.

  I shuddered.

  From behind me, I heard a roar. The deepest rumble, so strong it reverberated up my legs and into my spine.

  “My lion,” I whispered.

  I spun around in dreamy slow motion. There was nothing there. I turned back to the angel. He was gone. Sprinkles of rain spattered in through the crack in the window.

  I stood, waiting.

  And then everything around me exploded in a flash of color that settled to nothing. I was nowhere, all alone apart from the rain, startlingly cold, stinging my face with every sharp landing.

  Shards of ice.

  Cold enough to wake me up.

  “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. The sharp point made an impression into the tip of my index finger—just enough to sting. I twisted the hilt slowly and watched the point pirouette on the pad of my finger.

  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.

  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 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 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…

  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.

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

  Job 2:10

  The 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.

  The area is fairly shelter
ed, 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 fitting 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. They 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. The evening was 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.