for Michael’s avenging sword.
The dagger is about nine inches long, its bone-white handle short and sturdy. The hilt is carved with a thick rope that extends over the handle and knots around the top of the long, thin blade. The silver brightly reflects the amber of the fire.
I turn it over and study the engraving I have read a million times. “Not with words alone.” The letters are small and pointed, but they aren’t faded or scratched and neither is its message. Words are not enough; it takes action to succeed. Action in life and action in battle. I rely on words as it’s a reminder I’ve often needed.
A loud snap from the fire sends a shower of sparks raining down on me, the embers pinging lightly off of my dagger before they die with a hiss. The flames shoot up tall around the now empty basin. I shove the tip of the dagger back into my boot and pull the dish out from the fire, tossing it behind me. The metal basin hits the grave with a loud clang, startling Az.
“We have company,” I say over my shoulder.
He stretches his arms above his head. “About damn time.”
The orange flames turns a searing blue as it continues to rise. I stand beside the rock-ringed pit and the fire, now reaching as tall as my shoulder, dances wildly. Azael steps up next to me.
“So do you want to tell him about your little episode, or should I?”
I glare at him. “It wasn’t an episode.”
“What do you want to call it?”
“Let’s not call it anything. I’ll tell him about the empty rooms first. He’ll want to know about that. And then I’ll tell him about the last door we tried.” I am sure it wasn’t a regular memory. It felt more like—like an implanted suggestion. Like I lost control of myself.
“So your—”
I groan. “You can have the honor of telling him about how I kicked your ass, since I blacked out.”
“And how you bit me,” he adds cooly.
“Yeah, that too.” I look over at his shoulder again, remembering the blood. The blackness of it still darkens the pale skin across his collarbone. “Sorry about that.”
He laughs. “Now that you’re sorry for, but beating me up is fine?”
“Sounds about right,” I answer.
“Okay,” he nods, like he’s proud. Like my not being sorry for hurting him has proven something to him. “I’ll take it.”
The flames pop again loudly, blue sparks spraying us both. It flares and then dies completely, revealing a tall boy in his early twenties with dark, closely cropped hair. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved black t-shirt with gray jeans. The corner of a sharp tattoo peeks out from the collar of his shirt and wraps around the side of his neck, stretching to his other shoulder before disappearing again back into his shirt to spread across his chest. His violet eyes are set under thick eyebrows that are knotted in irritation, like an angry gift wrapped in a frustrated bow.
“Gus!” Azael cheers. “It’s so great to see a familiar face!”
Gus brushes a blue ember carelessly off his shoulder and steps over the ring of rocks around the pit. “I can’t say the same.”
“Haven’t you missed us terribly? Hell can’t be the same without us!” I chime in with a smile.
He huffs in exasperation. “No, Hell definitely hasn’t been the same without you two. Much less trouble. Until now, that is.”
“How boring!” Azael walks over to Gus and wraps him in a tight hug. He pulls back and smirks teasingly. “Whatever would you do without us?”
I laugh as Gus fights his way out of Azael’s embrace, stepping back to straighten his shirt.
“That’s quite enough!”
“Oh, Gus, he’s just having some fun,” I say as I twist my hair into a knot at the back of my head. “We’ve had a very long day, or haven’t you heard?”
“I have, and I think it may get more complicated still,” he answers, crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you have anywhere else we can discuss this? Or do you expect me to sit around on graves all
The dagger is about nine inches long, its bone-white handle short and sturdy. The hilt is carved with a thick rope that extends over the handle and knots around the top of the long, thin blade. The silver brightly reflects the amber of the fire.
I turn it over and study the engraving I have read a million times. “Not with words alone.” The letters are small and pointed, but they aren’t faded or scratched and neither is its message. Words are not enough; it takes action to succeed. Action in life and action in battle. I rely on words as it’s a reminder I’ve often needed.
A loud snap from the fire sends a shower of sparks raining down on me, the embers pinging lightly off of my dagger before they die with a hiss. The flames shoot up tall around the now empty basin. I shove the tip of the dagger back into my boot and pull the dish out from the fire, tossing it behind me. The metal basin hits the grave with a loud clang, startling Az.
“We have company,” I say over my shoulder.
He stretches his arms above his head. “About damn time.”
The orange flames turns a searing blue as it continues to rise. I stand beside the rock-ringed pit and the fire, now reaching as tall as my shoulder, dances wildly. Azael steps up next to me.
“So do you want to tell him about your little episode, or should I?”
I glare at him. “It wasn’t an episode.”
“What do you want to call it?”
“Let’s not call it anything. I’ll tell him about the empty rooms first. He’ll want to know about that. And then I’ll tell him about the last door we tried.” I am sure it wasn’t a regular memory. It felt more like—like an implanted suggestion. Like I lost control of myself.
“So your—”
I groan. “You can have the honor of telling him about how I kicked your ass, since I blacked out.”
“And how you bit me,” he adds cooly.
“Yeah, that too.” I look over at his shoulder again, remembering the blood. The blackness of it still darkens the pale skin across his collarbone. “Sorry about that.”
He laughs. “Now that you’re sorry for, but beating me up is fine?”
“Sounds about right,” I answer.
“Okay,” he nods, like he’s proud. Like my not being sorry for hurting him has proven something to him. “I’ll take it.”
The flames pop again loudly, blue sparks spraying us both. It flares and then dies completely, revealing a tall boy in his early twenties with dark, closely cropped hair. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved black t-shirt with gray jeans. The corner of a sharp tattoo peeks out from the collar of his shirt and wraps around the side of his neck, stretching to his other shoulder before disappearing again back into his shirt to spread across his chest. His violet eyes are set under thick eyebrows that are knotted in irritation, like an angry gift wrapped in a frustrated bow.
“Gus!” Azael cheers. “It’s so great to see a familiar face!”
Gus brushes a blue ember carelessly off his shoulder and steps over the ring of rocks around the pit. “I can’t say the same.”
“Haven’t you missed us terribly? Hell can’t be the same without us!” I chime in with a smile.
He huffs in exasperation. “No, Hell definitely hasn’t been the same without you two. Much less trouble. Until now, that is.”
“How boring!” Azael walks over to Gus and wraps him in a tight hug. He pulls back and smirks teasingly. “Whatever would you do without us?”
I laugh as Gus fights his way out of Azael’s embrace, stepping back to straighten his shirt.
“That’s quite enough!”
“Oh, Gus, he’s just having some fun,” I say as I twist my hair into a knot at the back of my head. “We’ve had a very long day, or haven’t you heard?”
“I have, and I think it may get more complicated still,” he answers, crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you have anywhere else we can discuss this? Or do you expect me to sit around on graves all
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