by Erica Crouch
I can’t move any farther.
“Pen,” he says, and his voice is just like I remember it. Exactly as I remember it, but better, somehow.
Yellow, curly hair. Golden lashes. Eyes so blue that they can’t properly be described by the color because they’re more.
He looks older—but not much. Stronger—much. His face is calm, patient. Even with these small changes, I know that it’s him. It’s unmistakably him. I’d recognize him anywhere.
And still, I can’t move.
“You wear glasses now?” He smiles and tentatively steps inside. Like I might tell him to go.
I push them up my nose. “Sometimes,” I say. It’s the first thing I say to him. “Sometimes.” Stupid.
He looks around the living room, up the stairs. “There’s no doubting that this is your home.”
Home, he says. Not house. Because I’ve made it mine—ours. Asher’s and mine. Our fingerprints are all over it, from the paint, to the decor, to the…
“The mess?” I ask. “I didn’t—I would’ve cleaned up, or something. Or Asher would’ve. He’s always cleaning up after me.” I press my lips in a line to stop rambling.
“No, the books.”
He takes another few steps toward me, and my heart slams against my ribs. It’s been so long. He looks the same but different. But he’s here. Michael’s here.
“And…” He lifts a paper of my sloppy, rushed handwriting taped to the wall. He pauses to read it. “The poetry.”
“What happened?” is all I ask. All I can manage.
“What happened?” he repeats back, confused.
He’s standing differently than he did last I saw him. His shoulders are higher, lighter. Curved up a little, a mirror of his smile. And he shifts on his feet more than he used to. Something’s not quite right…
I unfreeze, move forward, and tear his jacket off him. I spin him around, lifting his shirt up and pulling at his collar.
“Undressing me already?” he asks, laughing.
“Wings,” I say when I notice his back. His bare back. “Where are your wings?”
“Gave them to someone who could make better use of them,” he says, shrugging his shirt back on. “Kala.”
I step back, trip over an empty coffee mug with dried chocolate on the rim. “What?”
“I’m done, Pen. I finished.”
“Finished?”
He steps closer, reaches out a hand, and touches me. For the first time in years. My heart kicks into overdrive. It’s as if he’s waited forever for this moment, and he moves slowly—so painfully slowly—that I think I’m imagining it. But then his hand, still warm, still strong, and still his, traces my jaw. His fingers smooth over my lips, and I close my eyes.
“The moment you left,” he says on a breath, “I knew I couldn’t stay. Heaven is my own personal Hell if I don’t have you.”
If I weren’t so shocked, I might roll my eyes. “You just left them?”
“No, I made arrangements. We fixed things, Kala and I, and I was training her these past few years. She didn’t realize it, but she was preparing to take my spot. The angels don’t need me specifically. They just need a strong, loyal leader people will want to follow. And now, they have her. I left Heaven in good hands.” He smiles. “My job is done. I’m finally allowed to rest.”
“You’re here,” I say like it’s finally settling in.
“I’m here.”
“You’re human,” I say.
“You’re human, too.”
“And you look older.”
He nods, smiling, taking in all of me. “So do you.”
My heart is going to break through my ribs. It’s going to shatter the cage it’s in just so it can jump out and touch him. So it can be reunited with what it’s been missing for so long. So it won’t have to feel alone, not ever again.
We’re human. We’re here. We’re alive.
The life I imagined for us, the one I thought I would have to settle for in my mind or on paper, unrolls in front of me. A path I never thought I’d have the option to take, but now, I do.
The gate’s been opened. The trail cleared. Because he’s here and I can’t imagine living out my life without him.
“You’re human,” I say again. And I move closer, rest my hand on his heart to see if it’s beating as fast as mine. It is.
“I couldn’t imagine living forever without you. That’s not living at all.”
He leans close to me, so close—just a breath away—and my eyes flutter closed. But then he hesitates, his hand on my back, our lips almost touching. I open my eyes and squint through the smudges on my glasses. What’s stopped him?
“There’s no one else?” he asks softly. He’s carefully composed himself in a manner of indifference. Like if I said there was, he would return me to myself and be on his way. Like it wouldn’t shatter him.
“What do you think?” I say, grabbing his collar and dragging him back to me.
And we fall back into one another like we’ve never been apart. Like those five years were nothing, because they weren’t. We’ve lived with each other in our minds every minute, every hour. Every day of forever.
His hands move from my waist up my back and into my hair, which is shorter now. The way he plays with its curling ends makes me think he likes it better this way.
This is where we belong. Together. Hearts like ours are not meant to beat separately. They’re never to be apart. Not ever again.
We aren’t meant to live in a perfect paradise where nothing goes wrong and no one has any worries. Eden ended. Lilith and the demons are still in power, but the angels are there, too. It’s not something that can ever be changed. Without the balance, we live a half-life, numb and apathetic. Struggle makes us human, the decision—the conscious choice—to do good even in the face of evil.
I don’t need to pray and hope that, after I die, I’ll go somewhere better. Life is all we have, and we will live it together, Michael and I. Mortality is all I can ever ask for if I can spend every day of the rest of my human life with him. With the people—and the animals—I love.
Michael wraps his arms tighter around me. I whisper promises to read him every poem I’ve written, to tell him every secret. In his smile, I find my Heaven.
There’s a mosaic in the middle of town. A massive art display of jagged glass and pottery. I take Michael there to show him, towing him behind me. He laughs at my enthusiasm—my insistence that he has to see the artwork—and though I don’t know if he has any interest in seeing it, I think he’s happy to follow me anywhere. To do something boring with me.
I knew that boring could be exciting.
The mosaic is all blue and green and gold—giant, silvery wings made from broken bottles pieced together in a fantastic fashion. There’s a pond in the background of the mural, a waterfall with a hidden cave behind it. The piece is titled The Return. A small note of description under the title references a line from a poem I published. My secrets are now circulating in the world.
I don’t know how the artist—whoever they are—managed to create such a perfect rendering of Michael from just my words. Maybe my poetry stirred something in them and the abstract imagery I used was enough to accurately depict him at our secret hideaway, hovering over the glassy pond. Or maybe the artist saw Michael themselves, flying over him as the world tipped into disaster and chaos. However they know Michael, they captured everything he is perfectly. The eyes, the smile. The serene power he possesses. It’s magnificent.
The mosaic is my favorite thing about this town; it’s the main reason I decided to settle here. Throughout the years, I would come and sit here on the bench. Sometimes, I’d bring a notebook to write; other times, I’d bring a sandwich. Mostly, though, I’d come empty-handed, just to have some time to myself, to enjoy the art. To remember Michael and everything he gave me—everything I gave him.
I’d have silent, imagined conversations with mosaic-Michael. It was comforting when I felt the most alone. Looking at
the piece always reminded me that broken is not the equivalent of purposeless. The mosaic is beautiful, a work of art, and no one who passes by it wonders why it’s not in one piece. No one mourns its jagged edges. No one calls it broken.
Michael pulls me close to his side, and we sit together on the bench as a new snow drifts through the gray spring afternoon. Our lips find each other and we make up for lost time. The sky sighs, and we let the silence linger.
Mortality never felt so infinite.
The End.
Author’s Note
LITERATURE HOLDS GREAT SIGNIFICANCE TO Pen. As the demon responsible for introducing man to the written word, she has a special place in her heart for literature of all kinds—but especially poetry.
There are a few poems referenced throughout the story, available under public domain. Below is a list of poems and literature quoted throughout the text, for further reading (and I always ALWAYS suggest further reading!):
“’Tis said, that some have died for love…,” by William Wordsworth
“Paradise Lost,” by John Milton
Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare
To learn more about poetry, visit http://www.poets.org.
Acknowledgments
TO PARAPHRASE KALA: HOLY SHITSTICKS, you guys. Reaching the conclusion of this series has been years in the making. I could never have imagined coming to the end of Pen’s story without the help of so many very important, very awesome people (all of whom I will list below; please read their names and remember them because they’ll be big one day…trust me).
It’s hard to describe just what it feels like to finish a series, but it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I’ve been with these characters, and their stories, for so long that I think it will be weird leaving them behind. No, I know it’ll be weird. I bet you ten bucks right now that Pen or Kala tries to hop into one of my other manuscripts I’m writing. I might be tempted to let them stay, because I will miss their voices like crazy.
I’m so proud of the story I’ve told, and the conclusion of the series. Even as sad as I am to be leaving it behind now, it feels right. I feel happy. I hope you do, too.
Now on to my many, many thanks:
To my first, Kellie Sheridan. You are my “first” everything when it comes to writing and publishing. The first person I email in an emergency. The first person I run my stupid/maybe-not-stupid/but-definitely-probably-stupid ideas by. You are the reason my writing career exists at all today, and for that I will be eternally grateful. You’re more awesome than words.
A mega-giant thank you to my editor, Mickey Reed. I will follow you to the end of the world. No one could even come close to the amount of absolute joy you bring into the world, and your talents with weeding out my countless grammar mistakes—yeah, sorry about those—are unmatched. I’m not entirely convinced that you aren’t some kind of witch. The good kind. Seriously, though, how do you catch this stuff?
To my real life peeps who have encouraged my writing. Dad, Jessica, all of my friends who’ve read my books and been more than kind about them. Some may call you “enablers.” Thanks for enabling. One day, when I’m a big shot like you keep lying to your coworkers that I am, I’ll get you a present. Probably candy, I think. Who doesn’t like candy? If your answer is “me,” I rescind my acknowledgment.
Again (and always), thank you to my WordNerd family: Erin, Emma, Calyn, Meghan, and Kellie. One day I will meet you all in person and touch your faces. It will get uncomfortable and weird. Prepare yourselves now.
And finally, a massive, infinite amount of thanks to the readers and bloggers who have followed me (okay, fine, really Pen and Michael and Azael and Lilith and Kala and Ana and Gus and Eli and everyone but me, because I’m not important here, it’s the characters) on this incredible, crazy journey. Thank you for reading and thank you for sharing. I appreciate each and every one of you more than you could possibly know, and your reviews make my heart go all a-flutter. I hope that you enjoyed the conclusion of the series and had more fun reading it than I did writing the first draft. Thanks to you, Pen’s story will never end, not even after you close this book. Thanks for loving my characters as much as I have. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
About the Author
ERICA CROUCH IS A YOUNG adult and new adult author from Baltimore, Maryland. She has a strange blended aesthetic of cute and spooky, and her books reflect her ever changing mood. (You may find romance, you may find gore—sometimes both in the same book, but probably not at the same time. Probably.)
Erica is the cofounder of Patchwork Press—an indie publishing collective that produces middle grade, young adult, and new adult titles in all genres—and Weapenry—a resource for writers. She is the head of editorial services and design, with over fifty projects to her name.
You can find a complete list of Erica’s books here, or connect with her on Twitter at @Erica_Crouch. She loves having online friends, so feel free to email her at [email protected] if you want to talk to her about any of her books, pygmy goats, or the ghosts that haunt her. For free bonus content and semi-regular emails from Erica, subscribe to her newsletter and become a pen pal with benefits!
More by Erica Crouch
IF YOU’RE A FAN OF the Ignite series, then you’ll love Erica’s other titles. Enjoy an excerpt from The Empath, a young adult paranormal.
In a Victorian society fascinated by spiritualists, something wicked sinks its claws in from the other side. There’s tarot, séances, and murder! Read The Empath now…
The Empath, by Erica Crouch
CHAPTER 1
October 31, 1890
This morning’s cards come out unfavorably. It’s not the individual cards themselves that are worrisome, but rather the message they send when viewed as a whole. I try not to read too far into it. Probably just a bad hand—I’m not focusing this morning.
I reshuffle the palm-sized deck of cards, listening to them whisper between my fingers like secrets before I cut the deck and fan their painted faces across the lopsided table.
The cards stick to my fingers as I pull them from the deck, their edges curled and worn. I arrange them in an uncomplicated pattern. A simple read should suffice for this morning. Anything more could be dangerous. The day is thin and precarious; there are already too many spirits reaching over from the other side. I’ve warded the caravan three times since dawn and I can still feel the heavy presence of dark spirits looking over my shoulder. I might have to sage a second time.
A cool fingernail rakes over my spine as I turn the cards over one by one. I’ll definitely have to sage again.
The faces of the tarot cards stare up at me, too many upside down, too many multiple meanings. It makes me anxious. My fingers tap out a rhythm on the inverted High Priest.
“Why are you here?” I ask the unresponsive holy man, outlining the three tiers of his golden crown.
I should have left it with just one reading.
Mama pulls herself into the cramped caravan just as I’m reshuffling the cards to put them back into the pouch. She hunches beneath the low ceiling and sneers at me, her lip curling over crooked yellow teeth. Her breath smells sweet and sharp, like brown liquor. Somehow, I’m not surprised.
“Do you have to do that every morning?” she asks.
I shake my head and clear off the tipping table to set it up for the day. “Sorry, Mama.”
The midnight tablecloth with gold embroidered stars replaces my breakfast plates with a snap of fabric. I take the gems on the windowsill and position them in a precise pattern that spirals out from the center of the round wooden table. I move the pearly crystal ball from the bench where it’s buried under yesterday’s clothes and balance it in the middle on its brass base.
I move in silence as Mama trundles past me, stacking her fingers with rings and tying a patterned scarf around her unruly hair.
“We have a very important client tonight, Odessa,” she says. There’s arsenic in her voice and I’m immediat
ely on edge. “I’ve been in town, chatting up the keeps at the tavern all night.”
Of course she was. “Palm or tarot?”
“A séance.” The word whips out of her, sparking excitement in her eyes.
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight,” she snaps. “There will be a large party at the mayor’s house. His wife, I’ve gathered, is quite intrigued by the occult.”
As is everyone else, I want to add, but think better of it. Take a science-fearing society, sprinkle in an obsession with death, and you have the makings for magic. Mediums—both of genuine and fraudulent talent—have never had it so good.
“Did you know she lost her sister? Had her throat slit by a jealous boyfriend,” Mama continues. “Found that out from the fellows in town. Awfully chatty once they’ve had a few drinks poured in them. Wish they told me earlier. We could’ve milked her for weeks.”
A sense of wrong tickles my mind, perches just behind my eyes. I keep it to myself.
“She’s already seen several spiritualists to no avail. We’ll give her something tonight, though. Won’t we?”
“It’s not safe, Mama. The veil is—”
“The veil is no concern of mine.” Her words are venomous, jealousy turning her smile cruel. “Spirits don’t talk to me, remember?”
I swallow my warning and tuck my chin to my chest, the weight of guilt heavy on my shoulders. Mama’s never had the gift, not like I do—not like my grandmother did. It skipped a generation, a fact she never forgets to admonish me for. As if it were some choice I was given. As if it were something I would have asked for.
Another fingernail pulls across my bones, and I go searching for the sage before whoever it is trying to gain purchase in our world can get their claws in me. I say quiet words as I cleanse the room once more, my mind on a distant memory of my grandmother.