by Erica Crouch
I bristle. When Pen came for me in London, I thought a similar thing. But when I don’t fight, things don’t go well. Only I can ensure that I won’t fail; I’m responsible for my wins—my hands, my actions, not my words. The inscription on Pen’s dagger comes to mind: Not with words alone.
Letting out a huff of air, I decide to ignore him. Abaddon doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He rarely does. Lilith has nothing to do with why we are here. I am the one leading this group, and I will fight next to the soldiers who have come to help.
There won’t be any mistakes this time. I will make sure the job is complete, that Pen and Michael die on the battlefield. They will not survive for much longer.
Great leaders are born from soldiers. Perhaps Abaddon forgot, but Lucifer fought during the first war. The only reason he’s not here now is because he is busy planning for more important things—like the end of this war, where we’re going next. Lilith is assisting him alongside Gus; she’s not leading anything or anyone, except maybe Jeremy. Lilith is on par with Gus as far as leadership goes. Neither is suited for it; neither is interested, either.
“Anyways,” Abaddon says, his voice booming, “I’m glad to be here. Can’t wait to crush a revolution.” He slaps me on the back again before he is swallowed back into the crowd.
The influx of reinforcements dies down in the middle of the night, and I think we’re all here. All who are coming to drain the blood of the rebellion have gathered around, and now, they wait for my orders.
In the dark, shifting, gray light of the early morning, I look out at my army. My army. They are here to follow the King of Hell, to prove themselves to me and to prove their loyalty to Hell.
It’s time.
I climb to the top of the hill and wait for silence to spread across camp. One by one, the demons realize I’m above them, ready to speak. When all eyes are on me, I start the speech I’ve been preparing for the past few days.
“War,” I begin, my voice deep and thunderous, rumbling over the crowd, “is where we come alive. It is what we were made for, and this battle today is not the end of our war. It is the beginning.”
Proserpine looks up at me and nods encouragingly. Her eyes are fierce, fury churning under her thick lashes. Even Jeremy’s attention is locked on me. He grows very still.
“Rebels will not be tolerated. The members of New Genesis may claim they want reform in Heaven, but their interests will eventually spill over to Hell. They want to dismember our system—and our demonic compatriots have started by keeping company with angels, the enemy!”
The sharp tear of hisses, of disapproval, splits through the soldiers. They readjust their weapons, hold their heads higher.
“They act against the orders of Hell, the wishes of Lucifer,” I say.
A rise of whispers curdles through the crowd, clotting demons in small groups of distracted conversation. Once or twice, I hear Lilith’s name surface.
I press on. “We had traitors among our ranks in Hell, and they left us to fight side by side with the angels. The very beasts who threw us from Heaven, who slaughtered our allies on the battlefield of war without a moment’s hesitation. That self-righteous confidence of Heaven disappeared the moment we took the war to their doorstep, didn’t it?”
Shouts of agreement.
“Do you know what these revolutionaries are fighting for?” I call out across the crowd, waiting for a response. Silence answers me. “Exactly! Neither do they. They are working under the delusion that they can inspire change—that demons can be saved, that angels can force God to give them free will. Weak cowards—all of them! They are unorganized, they are ill prepared, and they are naïve if they believe there is any God listening to their plight.
“Today,” I say, gathering a breath to speak louder, “we take away the one thing they have left to fight against us with: hope. We will cut them down to size and show them that there is nothing waiting for them on the other side of death. There’s no God to hold their hand and make it better. No Father will protect them from our terror. There is, and has always been, only Lucifer.”
Again, the crowd stirs, uncomfortable. Agitated. They’re fidgety, ready for battle. I need to get them riled up further, and then I’ll let them go. I’ll allow them to release the torrent they’ve kept pent up.
“But they rejected him,” I say.
Some nod at my words.
“If they had fallen in line with him, if they had obeyed as they were told, they could have had the world. Lucifer,” I yell across the crowd, “has given us the world! But they turned it down because they thought they could have something more. What he was offering wasn’t good enough!”
There are shouted curses, booing.
Smiling, I say, “Let’s not let them think that there is anything else for them. Not here, not anywhere.”
Uproarious agreement. Zepar’s slippery grin catches my attention.
“Leave no survivors. Make them pay for their disloyalty, for their lies, with their life. Show them why we were able to take back the throne in Heaven!”
Applause and yells of excitement compete with the thunder of the storm churning above. They’re grunting, clanging their swords together in a steady beat of anticipation. Their feet pick up the rhythm. They mark the tempo of war.
“You may kill whomever you like, in whatever manner you like. But there are two you are not to touch: Penemuel and Michael,” I say, my voice a warning.
At the last minute, I decide to tack on this message to my speech. Before, I only wanted Pen. Michael was theirs to do with as they please. But I realize now that I need him—that it will make it that much sweeter to let her watch me kill him before I kill her, too. Or maybe…maybe there are better ways I can use him.
“You know their faces,” I say. “The moment anyone sees them, bring them to me. You will be rewarded handsomely. We have unfinished business.”
Jeremy stands up, rocking back and forth. He falls still for a moment, and I swear I see Lilith flicker in and out of his eyes.
“TODAY”—I raise my sword above my head, raise my voice as loud as I can manage—“WE FIGHT FOR HELL.”
A few exchange glances, but they’re lost in the movement of bodies. Feverish eyes, rancor and murder building as they continue beating out their rhythm. Swords clang on swords, feet stomp the ground, and then their weapons join mine in the air. All the shouting underscores the storm that’s starting to rip open.
“TODAY,” I bellow, “WE SECURE OUR STRENGTH. WE PROTECT OUR POWER!”
My army of demons raises their voices in unison, a single violent cry of battle. A deep, unearthly roar surfaces in the noise, and I pump my fist to the clouds, the black blade of my sword nearly piercing the sky.
“TODAY, WE SILENCE ANY AND ALL DISSENTERS!”
The quiet, gray morning sky tears apart with a final battle cry as black wings blot out the dirty clouds. Those rebels in their small, sad compound have no idea what they’re up against.
Hell is here, and we leave no survivors.
Pen
THE TRAINING ROOMS ARE CROWDED and loud late into the night. No one wants to return to their rooms for sleep, so we preoccupy ourselves in different ways so as to ignore the growing tension of waiting. Of biding time before battle, of waiting for Azael to make his move.
Everyone keeps busy sparring or learning how to wield new weapons. A set of demons is trying to teach angels how to fight in hand-to-hand combat should they lose their sword. Just because you’re unarmed should not mean you’re defenseless.
The sound of metal clashing, bullets firing, and whips cracking fills the west wing of the compound. Those who aren’t in the training rooms or the weaponry hall are busy running drills outside—lockdown protocols, barricading the gates, blocking out the windows.
Michael and I continue training. For me, his trances are the perfect chance to practice sparring. I haven’t had a good partner since Azael, and it’s important for my muscles to remember how to engage in longer
fights. Building my strength and endurance up again is something I should have started a while ago. Killing the demons who came after Michael and me wasn’t enough to keep me in shape. Not good enough shape for me to survive this war.
When he’s in the middle of a compulsion, Michael doesn’t go easy on me as he might if he were aware, and my muscles protest after hours of fighting him off. It’s good for me, and I can already find myself moving before my mind tells me what to do. My instincts are coming back to me, and I’m tiring less. The soreness will suck later, but as long as I keep going, I won’t stiffen up again.
I’m worried about how Michael is holding up though. He’s frustrated. Eiael varies her tactics when she controls his mind, and his progress follows no particular pattern. Sometimes, she’s not even able to touch his mind. Other times, he lets it go far enough—long enough—that I would have died were he holding any real weapon.
During a break, I asked Eiael what it felt like to compel someone without using a soul, and she said, “It’s like crawling inside their skull and curling up at the control seat. Press a few buttons, type a few commands, and the body follows.”
Kala keeps watch over Eli and Ana. Eli’s doing a decent job of training Ana on his shield, but every now and then, Ana gives up.
“That’s using it as a weapon,” she tells Eli after he shows her how to swing the shield on its side. The sharp edge of the shield would cut through anyone charging her like a secret emergency blade.
“You might not have a choice,” he says. “Shielding yourself from attacks might only last so long. They’ll keep coming at you again and again until you get tired of defending yourself, and that’s when they’ll strike. This gives you a chance to get away.”
She purses her lips.
Kala hops down from the stack of mats pushed up against the wall and walks over to Ana. She takes the bow off from around her shoulders and holds it out for Ana. “Or you could try archery, like I first suggested.” She raises her eyebrows. “Your choice. Learn to fight with that or learn to shoot.”
Ana takes a deep breath and pulls the shield back over her arm. Eli demonstrates how to pivot her body and slice the shield sideways. Ana mimics him, and he nods a few times, moves closer, and helps her do it again, slower this time so she can remember the movements. Ana tries again, and this time, Eli smiles.
“See? Natural-born fighter.” He steps back and points at the edges of the shield. “You can also use the tips of the shield as a sword of sorts. It’s shaped like a diamond so it can serve the dual purposes of defense and offense.”
Ana hesitates and looks at the shield. A range of emotions flicker across her face, and I can only imagine she’s trying to guess at how many died at the mercy of Eli’s shield.
“Just hold it out, but position yourself on the flat side.” Eli takes the shield from Ana and shows her. “Brace your feet, put the flat of the shield under your chest, and keep the edges”—he lifts the sharp point of the shield up—“pointed at your attacker.”
He gives it back to her, and Kala watches closely, waiting for her to repeat Eli’s posture. It takes a few minutes for her to get it right, but eventually, Ana manages.
“Right,” Eli says. “Now, let’s run more drills.” He takes the wooden practice sword out of its sling at his waist and gets in position.
Then Eli attacks, and Ana uses the sword to block every hit. She swings it wide and knocks him clean on the side with the flat front, sending him back. They repeat the exercise a dozen times, and Kala leaves them to it. She comes over to us again and watches Michael fight against the compulsions Eiael bombards him with.
Eiael is making the compulsions more difficult, and the veins on Michael’s neck stand thick and angry as his eyes dilate, blur over, and regain focus while he tries to get her out of his head. He’s still battling the inconsistency in his control, and that more than anything is what frustrates him. Surprisingly, the more-difficult compulsions are easier for him to stop. It’s the simple ones that give him trouble.
“It’s quieter,” he explains, bending over, out of breath, his hands on his knees. “The small ones are harder to find. A single command and it takes me too long to locate it and shut it down.”
With a sigh of effort, he stands and pushes the flop of blond hair out of his eyes. He’s starting to sweat through his shirt, so he takes it off and tosses it to the ground.
Now, I’m distracted. I turn away, and Kala catches my attention. A stupid grin is splashed across her face from having noticed my blush, so I flip her off, which makes her laugh. I rest against the ledge of the window—wintery wind sneaking through the cracks, cooling me down—and roll my ankles, watching Michael pace again.
“The more complicated ones…” He shakes his head, gestures wildly toward Eiael. “When you’re all over my mind, it’s easier to track those down and silence them. But how can I find a small, simple compulsion hidden amidst all of my thoughts?”
“Silence them.” Eiael crosses her legs and leans her head back against the wall. Her milky eyes seem so distant. “Remember what Ana said. You have to realize there’s something there before you can get it out. Recognize the intruder. The simple compulsions are a smaller invasion—a grain of sand compared to a pile of rocks.”
“Needle in a haystack!” Kala adds helpfully.
“Those types of compulsions are subtle, but they’re there if you know where to look. It’s like bleeding out internally versus bleeding out externally. If you’re searching for an internal bleed on the outside, you’ll get nowhere.” Eiael cracks her knuckles. “One’s plainly obvious and easy to treat. The other could kill you before you even know something’s wrong.”
“I’m not worried about it killing me. But it could kill Pen,” Michael says. He stops pacing in the tight circle he’s wearing into the ground and meets my eyes. “Again?” he asks.
He sounds so tired, but I know he won’t stop until he’s more confident in his ability to fight back. I wouldn’t stop if it were me.
Eiael rolls her shoulders and closes her eyes. I lift a new practice sword and wait for Michael to attack. His eyes still seem clear, and the wooden practice sword in his grip is at ease. We both look at Eiael expectantly.
“Are you doing it?” I ask.
Eiael cracks an eye open. “Yes.”
“I don’t feel anything…” Michael says.
“Then you’re controlling it,” I say. “You’re able to block it out!”
He smiles, but suddenly, one of his pupils expands, the black swallowing the blue. His other eye stays entirely normal. Michael steps forward and swings his sword. I catch it with mine and circle around as he strikes again. It’s faster this time, and I see the panic in his face. He’s aware of this attack—the compulsion. But he can’t stop it.
I say his name, grunting as I shove him away. “You’ve only stopped half of it. Find the rest of the compulsion and—”
“Run,” he tells me as he charges forward with the sword.
I dodge the end, but he follows me, striking out again.
“You know it’s happening,” I tell him. “You know there’s something in your head. Get it out.”
He grits his teeth, the muscle in his jaw bouncing. “I can’t find it.”
His right eye loses all focus, a haze of gray clouding over his dark, dilated pupil. But his left eye is still perfectly blue. Perfectly normal.
“You can,” I say, sidestepping another strike. I parry the blow, our swords held vertical. “Find the part that isn’t you. Listen carefully. Stop the bleed,” I say, referencing Eiael’s metaphor about internal injuries.
His eyebrows knot in concentration.
“Push it out,” I tell him. “Fight back.”
His sword switches hands and he starts fighting with his non-dominant side as well as he fought before. It’s an unexpected change that catches me off guard, and the sword hits me in the back of the knee. I fall to the ground, rolling over just before he slams the practice sword dow
n.
“Michael,” I say through my teeth, which are gritted against the bruising pain. His name is knocked out of me when he hits me in the back with the sword. My words come out on a heavy breath. “Fight it.”
I kick backward at his kneecaps, and it gives me the room to get back to my feet, but my reprieve is brief. He moves forward with his sword, driving me back in a retreating position. And then I’m pinned against the wall. The wooden sword he holds is up against my throat, and he pauses. His clear eye looks panicked, and the other is blurry and unfocused.
“Calm down,” I whisper, “and find it.”
His arm tenses, readying to pull the fake blade across my throat. You’re stronger than this, I tell him. I close my eyes and will him to stop the compulsion. He can do this. I know he can.
The sword clatters to the ground. When I open my eyes, he’s still standing as close as he was before. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes look wild and dark, but they’re clear. They’re blue. Mostly. He shakes his head, blinks hard, and he’s back to himself. A little shaky, but back in control.
“If you’re gonna keep standing that close to her,” Kala calls over to us, “you’re gonna have to kiss her.”
Flames of embarrassment heat my cheeks as everyone in the training room turns to us. Michael pauses a beat and then looses a laugh as he steps back.
“Maybe later,” he whispers to me. “I know you hate a crowd.”
Eiael pushes herself to standing. “Can we take a break?” she asks. “I have a splitting migraine now.”
“Yes, of course,” Michael says, moving across the space to shake her hand. “Thank you again for your help.”
“My pleasure,” she says, wincing a little as she forces a grin. “You have it, you know? You can do it.”
Michael shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“It’ll be almost exactly the same if anyone tries compelling you again. The only difference is, instead of searching your head, you might also have to search your soul.” She looks him up and down. “But I think you know enough of your soul to be able to identify an intruder.”