Entice: An Ignite Novella Read Free Page B

stranger. “I desire to bring his soul back to Hell, to imprison him in the very place he was determined to banish me.”
    From his pocket, he extracts a tall silver vial that looks burnt black. A string of symbols is carved into the metal—spells to bind the soul and suppress its power. They curl around the cylindrical container like roots twisting into soil, permanent and strong. I recognize the words; they’re ones I’ve written myself. It’s a prison.
    That’s when I realize he’s not planning to destroy the soul, to kill Michael and end whatever torment comes after a death like his. His punishment is much worse: eternity as a soul without a body—torture.
    Bile rises in the back of my throat, but I swallow it down along with all of my protests. Who am I to decide how he deserves to be treated, even after death? I abandoned his cause, fought against his army. I owe him nothing. But I can’t help but wonder... Who is Lucifer to hand down this fate? Wasn’t death enough?
    I must have made a noise because Lucifer turns his head ever so slightly in my direction.
    “Do you have something to say, Penemuel?”
    Pen , I itch to correct him but decide better. “No.”
    He grins and holds out the vial for Azael, who grabs it with one hand as he pulls out his scythe with the other and bends down over the lifeless archangel. I look away as he cuts into his chest. The click of the blade on the stone draws my attention again, and I watch as he reaches his hands down between Michael’s ribs.
    I can almost feel what Azael feels—the warmth of Michael’s chest cavity, his still heart brushing past my fingers, the nerves that moments ago sparked with life.
    Once, Azael explained to me how to separate soul from body. It’s complicated and dangerous, but with practice it becomes second nature. He said that you have to curl your fingers around the soul because it sometimes fights back, clinging to its vessel, unwilling to let go and accept its death. Then, when you have a strong grip on the slippery thing, you have to detach its tendrils and pry it out of the chest without destroying it. I wonder how many souls were torn to pieces before the angels perfected the technique.
    I watch Azael’s face carefully as it contorts in concentration. His brows knit together and he closes his eyes, forming silent words on his thin lips. And then something changes. His lips curl back over his teeth, his eyes squeeze together so hard it looks painful, and his face—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so pale.
    Suddenly, with a low hiss, he jumps back from the body, cradling his arm to his abdomen. He holds it out, flexing his long fingers and cursing at his own hand. There’s a giant, glowing red welt that reaches up his left arm like a hot, vengeful smile.
    I rush forward and take his forearm in my hands, trying to focus all of my energy on healing the wound, but he pushes away from me before anything happens.
    “What the hell happened?” I ask under my breath.
    Lucifer grins. “You’ve just used Hell as an intensifier...” He pulls his thin, white fingers through his stringy, white hair. “A fantastic expression. You have skill at turning a phrase, Penemuel.”
    Shit. I chew the inside of my cheek and quietly curse myself for letting Hell slip into my vocabulary. The spark in Lucifer’s flat, blue eyes tells me it’s an expression he intends on employing quite often.
    “His soul—” Azael turns away from me to face Lucifer. “It’s too pure. Angels... Their souls are unblemished, pure light, goodness.”
    He grimaces, and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or disgust. I wobble forward on my toes before thinking better of going to him. I stand statue-still.
    “They’re white-hot,” he continues to explain. “The fire of Heaven spits through their veins. I haven’t had any problems extracting them before, but now that I’ve fallen, my soul has...”—he searches for a word—“ dimmed , I guess you could say, and is on