Entice: An Ignite Novella by Erica Crouch Page A

have answered him. The Tree holds knowledge—the most dangerous temptation of all.”
    “Fine,” Botis agrees. “Go, bathe.”
    Naamah leaves him to himself, walking the way we came a few hours ago from the river. I wonder if the body of the puma is hidden well enough in the shrubbery for her to miss. Or maybe she won’t care. They don’t seem that concerned with what we’re doing anyway.
    When she’s out of sight, Botis removes the shirt of his uniform. He shudders once, his red skin seeming to ripple across his body. He twists to his side, rears back his head, and two fangs protrude from his jaw. His tongue flicks in and out of his mouth as he slowly begins to shrink and transform. The dark leather of his uniform lands in a heap on the ground and a fat, muscled snake slithers out of the leg of his discarded pants.
    The red serpent silently makes his way toward man.
    “Disgusting,” Azael grimaces.
    After a few more minutes of silence, the birds resume their final songs of the day.

Chapter 18
    ––––––––
    T HE DARKNESS OF NIGHT CONCEALS our work.
    We begin simply: I go to work carving words in the soil and curses into the bark of the trees while Azael poisons the roots of every living thing. He uses the sacrificial blood that smells putrid like death to create spells, slashing deep into the soft ground of the Earth to pour the concoctions. We work quickly and efficiently, spiraling our way farther out from the center of the garden and keeping to the shadows in case Naamah, Botis, or Adam are close.
    I use my dagger to carve a story into the dirt. The narrative is long and twisting, wrapping around bushes and roots to climb the rough trunks of the trees. It talks of wings and darkness, fire and ice, of the fall of Lucifer and the war of the angels that followed him.
    I write about the angels I’ve killed, the ones I know by name or face. I tally the dead, and I nearly add Azael’s name to the list, but the story takes the same sharp turn reality did; he survived, his name replaced on the list of dead by that of Michael’s. I nearly add more about Michael—what I remember of him from Heaven, the way he would speak and walk with an authority unknown to other angels—but I cross that story out. This doesn’t feel like the time or place to tell it. I keep that story folded up inside of me for later.
    Instead, I write about Hell. I describe the way it twists down, funneling into the center of Earth, each abhorrent level trying to outdo the last. I mention the armory, our dorm, Gus. I add the hieroglyphs Naamah wrote, the way Botis has silent conversations between his senses and the air.
    Then I describe Lucifer’s throne room, a twisted facsimile of the great room in Heaven. I write about the brutal, warped metal throne he sits on and the power and esteem he believes he holds. And in small, sharp letters, I add in the threats he wields to control the fallen.
    The warning he gave me burns hot in my mind. He’ll kill Azael if I don’t obey him. “ Seeing your brother die would be much more tortuous than any pain I could cause you. ”
    I erase what I’ve written with the heel of my hand. I don’t know how closely I’m being watched.
    Azael’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “So it sounds as if Adam’s gotten himself a new wife,” he says, kicking dirt over one of the wounds he’s cut at the base of a tree and sealing in the spell. He pulls his hand across his forehead, leaving a smear of black filth.
    “He thinks he does.” I use my dagger to carve a new sentence. It’s a simple string of my favorite words, a sort of poem I’ve written. It makes no sense, but the words stir something in me right where my heart sits, motionless.
    “What would be the point of that?”
    “Well, Gus said Lilith was his first wife, right? And Lucifer stole her.” I push harder into the soil, making my words look violent and angry. “I’m sure man gets lonely.”
    “Maybe at night,” he scoffs.
    I ignore