I cannot believe it. We’re counting down to the end of the
fantastic Embrace series by Jessica Shirvington. We have grown to love Violet, Lincoln, Phoenix and the rest of the crazy gang. Endless left me and many readers in quite a state. You know the "what the heck just happened?" and "what is she thinking?" and "no!!!!!" feeling that we were left with. So I am
both excited and hesitant to see what Violet’s next move is.
To hold us over til the book comes out, our wonderful friends at Sourcebooks Fire are not only unveiling the stunning cover to us, they’re also giving us an extra treat for this weekend – a first chapter reveal of Empower!
Enjoy!
~ Bel
Chapter One
“But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and
miles to go before I sleep.”
Robert Frost
My sweater was coated in a layer of mist—-again—-a by--product of
life in London. I barely noticed the constant drizzle anymore. It’s not as if
the cold bothered me, not when I was the very definition of cold.
What was bothering me was the smell. There is
something rank about a meat market at night—-especially when you’re wedged into
the eaves wondering what, over the years, has been sprayed about and never
cleaned away. I shuddered.
The Smithfield Market was currently in vogue, but a gritty sense of
history thickened the air, giving it a density that made me sure this wasn’t
the first time the site had been used for wicked intent. And right now, it was
hunting hour.
At least I was the hunter.
I watched quietly as the exiles came into the center of the massive
terminal--style space, vaguely interested to note that there were six of them,
instead of the four I’d expected. No bother, I suppose. I still had the element
of surprise on my side.
The past two years had taught me not to let the everyday hiccups get
to me. Sure, the additional muscle would hurt, but only in the physical sense,
and I could cope with that. Rolling with the punches is necessary when you are
a Grigori—-a human--angel hybrid—-a weapon against the ever--increasing numbers
of exiled angels on earth. For me even more so, since they gave me such a
colorful nickname. I’m the Keshet—-the rainbow. I didn’t ask to be, but I made my
choices and I stand by them.
So, there I was. Although I was
still trying to figure out exactly what being the rainbow meant, mostly I found
that the desire to know conflicted with my continuing need not to think about
it at all. One thing I did know was that somehow I could create space with the
angels—-an unknown place where we were able to take form and communicate. My
angel maker—-whose name I still didn’t know—-said it was a place of new
possibilities. For what, I was not sure.
But I know this is what I am. It
is what I will be.
The final two exiles sauntered up to the four already waiting. It
used to be impossible for me to be this close to exiles without them going into
a frenzy, sensing my presence. But I’d learned many lessons over the past year,
the most useful of which had been how to keep my guards up and locked so tight
that even exiles couldn’t sense me when I was truly concentrating.
Which—-judging by the thin film of sweat on my
forehead—-is now.
The exiles dumped the huge calico sack they had been dragging along
the floor and pulled it open, revealing three mutilated bodies to join the two
maimed ones already on display.
From my position it was difficult to tell how old the corpses were,
and if the smell was able to give a clue, I wouldn’t have known, the stink of
death and flesh being an overall theme of the place.
It was no wonder the exiles liked it so much.
Normally, exiles wouldn’t bother with the cleanup—-leaving evidence
was of no concern. Normally, the exiles enjoyed the mess
and despair they left behind. But not these exiles. These dark exiles were
working for someone else. They’d been following a plan, using a hit list, and
it was all too well constructed for any one of them to mastermind. Our intel
told us they’d been hired. Such behavior would usually be considered beneath
them, but apparently this group of exiles had decided the job was thrilling
enough to suffer the humiliation of working for the highest bidder—-even if
that was a human.
As for the billionaire businessman, well, that’s not my department,
but someone will pay him a visit. Right after all the evidence of his
wrongdoing—-minus the exile activity—-is handed over to the authorities and his
bank accounts are heavily siphoned to pay for the futures of his victims’
families. And our fee, of course.
Which, thanks to certain people, is exorbitant.
Two of the exiles were dressed impeccably: one in a steel--gray suit
and sporting villain--typical slicked--back hair; the other wore a
slim--collared black suit that hugged his tall figure and set off his
of--the--moment tousled, light brown hair. The remaining four were less
striking in casual wear, though nonetheless picture perfect. All six looked
over the bodies like fishermen comparing the size and quality of their haul. My
hand grazed my dagger, the blade that had been given to me after I first
embraced my powers and became a Grigori warrior three years ago. I was never
without it. I even had a sheath attached to my bed for a quick draw if needed.
I’d learned the hard way—-through the death and suffering of people
I loved and, strangely enough, through my own death and suffering—-exiles stop
at nothing. Their insanity and misguided missions know no bounds, and they take
pleasure in causing great pain and suffering to humankind.
At least tonight I would only face exiles of dark. A couple of years
ago, the two opposing sides, light and dark, had called a truce. Of course, I
tried not to think back to that time.
I tried constantly.
The discovery of the scripture that could end all Grigori had found
its way into my hands. That in itself was part of the reason the Assembly had
rejected me. They blamed me for trading with the dark exile, Phoenix. My
decision had allowed him to resurrect Lilith—-his mother, the first dark
exile—-from the dead, and she had taken control of the Grigori Scripture. But
at the time, my choice had been a simple one. Phoenix had Steph, my best
friend, and I wasn’t about to take any chances with her life. I’ve never
regretted that choice.
Not like so many others I’ve made.
In the end, that made it easier to walk away from a place in the
Academy when Josephine decided to change her mind. Of course, that was after
I’d given my life, Lincoln’s soul had shattered, and Phoenix had died—-proving
that not only was he the son of Lilith, but he was also the human son of the
first man, Adam—-all so that I could kill Lilith. And those reasons weren’t
even the ones I tried not to think about.
But I can’t go there right now.
I caught myself. I was working and the last thing I could afford to
do was acknowledge that I was thinking about him.
The six exiles started to shift
the remains of the bodies toward the incinerator, tossing them with
supernatural strength and no care. I half expected them to try and mince the
meat and load it onto trays for sale tomorrow. I wouldn’t put anything past
them.
“Make sure you take the index
fingers,” one of the suited exiles instructed.
“Mr. George is expecting me to
deliver them to him tonight.”
That’s a shame. Though I’m sure Mr. George will receive
a knock at his door nonetheless.
“I still don’t understand why we
don’t just kill him too,” another said.
“Are you challenging me?” The exile who had spoken first stepped
forward.
His questioner mirrored his actions.
Here we go.
“If I must.”
Exiles never back down. Their pride and egotism combined with their
unique brand of insanity is just too much to ignore. Angels were not created to
take corporeal forms on earth. Though they have existed for eternity, in human
bodies, they manifest emotions in ways their innate nature can never process.
It makes them unstable. And almost unstoppable.
I wriggled into a better position and waited patiently, knowing that
this would work in my favor.
Sure enough, the exile who had spoken out first also struck out
first, engaging with the suited exile. It didn’t last long. The suit, clearly
the older of the two and a true fighter—-my guess was he had once been either a
Domination or a Power—-overpowered his opponent, snapping his neck and making
quick work of removing his heart.
We had our methods of ending their immortal existence; they had
theirs.
Happy days. I now have one less
exile to take care of.
I checked the time and sighed. If
I didn’t get this show on the road, I’d lose my window. And fighting alone was
always my preference.
The drop to the ground was at
least two stories high, but I landed behind the group of exiles lightly, thanks
to my angelic enhancements.
Breathing calmly, I let go of the power I was holding tightly
within, just enough to lower my shields.
The exiles, who had been preoccupied with their boasting, stiffened
instantly and spun around to face the new threat. It was almost comical, the
look of surprise on their faces. I guess a Grigori had never snuck up on them
before.
Responding quickly, the suited exile stepped forward, shoving two of
them to the side, the five of them quickly forming a semicircle around me.
So nice of
them to stand in single file.
But the way he studied me—-with trademark exile insanity and
undisguised raw desire—-made me think that this one recognized me. It happened
from time to time.
I wanted to sit around and chew the fat. Really. I couldn’t think of
anything I’d rather do with my time than hear about how they intended to rip me
limb from limb and how that would make them as great as gods and me the most
pathetic of humans. But when you’ve heard it all before and always walked
away—-or, at the very least, been carried—-while they were returned for their
ultimate judgment, it gets old. So, I cut to the chase.
“You have a choice. Make it or I will make it for you,” I said,
knowing that of all Grigori, I alone had the right to put it like that.
“Consider wisely,” I reinforced. After all, I could return them like any other
Grigori with one of our blades, but if I willed it, I could also strip them of
their angelic strengths and leave them human—-a fate exiles considered worse
than an eternity in the pits of Hell. As far as I was aware, I was the only
Grigori who could do this without requiring the exile in question to first choose
such a fate. Which, of course, never happened.
“You brought Lilith to her end,” the suit said, his head tilted to
the side, as if confused.
Yeah, that’s right, little ol’ me.
And it only
cost me everything
that mattered.
I raised my eyebrows. “Time’s almost up,” I said, refraining from
closing my eyes briefly as I felt a surge of power within, something that had
been happening increasingly. I was getting stronger, and exactly what that
meant and how to harness it wasn’t the kind of knowledge I was excited to
discover.
I could strip them all, make their choice for them, and be done with
it, but I’d only done it twice. Onyx had been my first, and I’d seen the pain
it caused him. I didn’t like knowing I was the one who took away his choice.
Who was I to do such a thing? The second had been a demonstration, and had
resulted in the exile in question meeting a quick death. I can’t say I
regretted it—-he’d been one of the exiles so happy to see me strapped to a
crucifix and tortured for hours—-but still…
Anyway, tonight was more like training, and I’d been taught to be
thorough. So, when the suit threw the first exile at me—-knowing he’d be
nothing more than a momentary distraction while I took him down and he lined up
the next one—-I got to work.
I braced, grabbing my dagger and moving into position. By the time
the exile came within range, my dagger had sliced through his heart and he was
no longer there. Simply gone. Where did their physical forms go? Beats me.
I was already spinning by the time the second one was sent flying
through the air toward me. My foot stopped his momentum and threw him back. I
was on him in an instant, my dagger going straight to his heart. It didn’t need to be the heart to return them, just a killing blow
inflicted by a Grigori weapon. You could slice into exiles all day long with
your garden--variety knife or shoot them with a gun, but neither option worked.
I’d never seen a Grigori manage to rip out an exile’s heart barehanded, and
even though the trick worked for exiles taking out other exiles, something told
me that it did not alter our rules. Permanent results for Grigori over exiles
only came via the blades of angels.
Or my blood.
The third exile went much the same way, and soon enough I was left
being circled by the two suits. To my surprise, they actually worked
together—-exiles aren’t good at that—-boxing me into a corner. The
brown--haired exile in the black suit moved in on me when the other one feigned
a move to my right. I took a closed fist across the face and a foot to the stomach.
I heard a crack—-broken rib—-but I didn’t register the pain. That
kind of pain was barely a tickle compared to the agony I carried inside, every
moment of every day.
My pause gave the other exile the chance to take a swing. His foot
collided with my hand so hard that my dagger went flying across the room. I
kept my eyes on my attackers but my ear on my weapon, listening to the
reverberations as it slid along the concrete floor and eventually hit the far
wall with a clang.
The exiles smiled.
I sighed.
Then I leapt into the air, gaining enough height to grip the
brown--haired exile’s throat between my knees. Twisting my body as I fell
through the air, I dragged the exile down with me, his neck breaking with a
loud crunch.
It wouldn’t keep him down for good,
but a broken neck buys time.
The exile in the gray suit grabbed me roughly from behind and threw
me into the wall.
I groaned as I slid down the metal piping my back had hit. It was
the opposite wall to my dagger.
Damn it.
It wasn’t an ideal situation. And
I wasn’t fool enough to delude myself into thinking I could make it to my
dagger. I was regretting my decision not to wear any other weapons tonight, but
my dagger was the only weapon that, when sheathed, was invisible to human eyes.
Think, Vi.
I’d come down behind a wall of old crates. I was considering how I
could use them to my advantage when I spotted a piece of the slim metal piping
I’d broken in my fall. It lay by my foot.
I could hear the exiles moving toward me. They were cackling.
“We should take her body with us to the tournament tonight,” one
said.
The other one laughed. “That
would definitely put dark in the lead.”
“And everyone would know that we were the ones who killed her.”
Can anyone say
“premature victory”?
Without stopping to think, I pulled off the bracelet from my left
wrist, using the specially designed clasp to cut open the flesh around my
silver marking, currently swirling in the presence of exiles, and let it spill
onto the end of the metal bar.
It took just a few seconds, and as soon as I palmed the pipe, the
exiles started to throw the crates aside then came into view, their smiles wide
with anticipation.
I stood. I didn’t return their smiles. I didn’t bother to do
anything other than what needed to be done.
I lunged, raising my elbow into the face of the black--haired exile
as I spun, the metal pipe striking his companion through the heart. He was
gone. I turned back to the first exile and, hoping that there was still enough
of my blood on the pipe to do the trick and using my supernatural speed for all
it was worth, I jammed the pipe straight into his neck.
His face wore an expression of pure surprise.
I’d seen that look before.
I sighed and my shoulders slumped forward, unfulfilled. This was my
job, one that I would do for as long as I existed, which could be a
significantly long time. But two years ago, I’d accepted that there was no
longer any satisfaction to be had in my world.
No fairytales.
Only the cold.
Turning toward where I thought my dagger had landed, my surroundings
suddenly changed.
I was no longer seeing the
warehouse. There were flashes of white, moving fast, pounding hooves. Horses.
Silver streaked through the air like a dance. Swords. Slashes of red painted
the sky. Something sharp and deadly ripping through flesh—-wet and gruesome.
Claws. Thousands and thousands of beings as far as I could see fought
ruthlessly, with no sign of tiring. In the center, two warriors battled beneath
a blinding light. I could not make out their faces.
I blinked hard.
The image was gone, and in its place Gray stood against the wall of
Lincoln’s warehouse, casually flipping my dagger in the air. “Would you like me
to applaud?” he asked.
Leaning against a metal support pole, he had that midtwenties look
I’d come to associate with the older Grigori—-though I had no idea how old he
really was—-and was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T--shirt, and black
leather jacket. Black really was the only color worth investing in—-blood
stains everything else. He sported about a week’s worth of growth on his face,
though his head was shaved, the scars that ran over the top of his skull
telling of a history both terrible and secret. Grigori did not generally scar,
so I knew that whatever had caused these had occurred before Gray had turned
seventeen.
I swallowed over the lump in my throat and glanced around as I
composed myself. The whole…hallucination…had lasted only a couple of seconds. I
clenched my jaw.
Christ. It was nothing. I’m just imagining things.
I snapped my bracelet back in place over my marking and shot him a
dry look.
“Should I be charging a spectator fee?”
My voice sounded normal but my ears felt like they were still
ringing with the echoes of battle.
“Not if the show is going to be over so fast, princess.”
I glared at him for persisting with the stupid nickname. “You know,
you could’ve stepped in and given me a hand.”
“Sure,” he said with a solemn nod. “And you could’ve waited until
the meet time we’d all agreed on too.”
I looked away briefly. “So, why are you here
early?” I asked, hoping to divert the conversation.
Gray tilted his head. “Because I know you.”
I shrugged off the veiled accusation, even though it was true. To a
degree.
“It was easier this way.”
He threw my dagger into the air, and I caught it by the hilt and
slipped it back into its sheath.
“Well you can explain that to the others, since they just arrived.”
