Entice

Book 0: Violet Eden Chapters

by Jessica Shirvington

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Romance

Synopsis

Violet Eden thought she knew all the secrets ... she was wrong.

‘I now had little doubt. I felt the intensity in that one burst of emotion from him, felt his desperate need to eliminate me. Any small glimmer of hope that might’ve been there - that somehow Phoenix would change, would be that guy I first got to know – was gone.’

On her seventeenth birthday Violet Eden’s whole life changed. One minute she was a normal teenager obsessed with her art ... and Lincoln. The next she has to get her head around the knowledge that angels do exist, both light and dark and she’s not altogether human either. Violet is Grigori – part angel and part human. Oh, and Lincoln knew it all along.

Coming to terms with her destiny is tough, but Violet thought she knew all the secrets. She was wrong. The ancient battle between exiled angels and humanity is far from over. And now Violet has to learn to live with her feelings for Lincoln while working with him to stay alive and stop the exiles discovering the key to destroy all Grigori. It isn’t easy. Especially when the electricity between her and Phoenix ignites and she discovers his hold over her has become more dangerous than ever.

Searching for the answers she needs will take Violet halfway across the world to the sacred mountains of Jordan, where ancient stories come to life and her warrior spirit will be called upon to make things right ... but even then her choices have consequences she never saw coming.

A captivating combination of mythology, romance and a kick-arse heroine make this book impossible to put down. Lose yourself in the Violet Eden Chapters latest book, Entice.


The Violet Eden Chapters

Book One: Embrace
Book Two: Entice
Book Three: Emblaze
Book Four: Endless
Book Five: Empower

Release date: June 26, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 432

Sample

‘No one takes my life away from me.

I give it up of my own free will.’

John 10:18

the angel had been ordered to make his choice. It had to be of his own free will. But what they asked of him carried a high
price. He would most likely never return. Most likely be destroyed. Or worse.

And no one would ever know the truth.

‘You have decided, then,’ a voice said to him.

I felt each moment as he did – the obscured version of time in what had to be an otherworldly place – but could see nothing.
It was surreal; no visible people – just their presence or maybe auras.

It wasn’t a question, what was said. They knew the moment he’d made the decision. They probably knew before him. He could
sense them all around, the mighty Seraphim. Supreme knowledge lent them a powerful presence, but it was bitter this day.

‘When the first of your tasks is complete you will move on to the next. You must not reveal yourself or seek companionship
with anyone, especially exiles, unless for the purposes of fulfilling your objectives.’

‘I understand.’

‘You will spend three years before the day on which you must act arrives. He has his role to play. It is not possible without your actions first.’

‘I understand.’

And he did – understand. He had made this decision of his own free will, despite the sacrifice, for he knew it had only been
asked of him because he was the perfect choice.

He felt the universe around him, the freedom of unfettered dominion over space and realm, and wondered when he would again
feel this, if ever.

‘Take a name of the times when you are there. Now go.’

And so it was. He made the transition amidst images of mobs and anger. To his destiny. To death. The flash of a kiss. All
things to come.

A fog cleared around me and my surroundings came into view. I was suddenly in my art studio. Standing by the window was a
figure I recognised. The one I suspected was my angel maker.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, still amazed by the way my words seem to float through the air in these dreams, as if they had
their own physical presence.

‘It does not matter. But you may call me Lochmet if you require a title.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Warrior.’

I swallowed, suddenly nervous. The way he said it – with such force and confidence – made him seem so powerful.

‘Why did you show me that angel? I don’t get it.’

‘Not yet. But you will. It is but a strand of one existence, from a very long time ago.’

‘No, please don’t … Just tell me.’

He turned to face me, his shoulders squared, and I struggled with conflicting urges. One drawing me towards him, the other,
to cower away. I was sure he could see it, see right through me, which only made me more vulnerable.

‘We all have the capacity to find the will to do what must be done – even when that which we must do terrifies us most. Remember
this.’

‘That’s it? That doesn’t explain anything. Who was he? I thought it was against angel law to exile to earth. How come the
Seraphim asked it of that angel?’

He considered me for another delayed, vacant moment before his head tilted towards a painting beside him. The vision of a
sandy beach with a midnight blue sea crashing against rocks seemed to affect him. He stretched his arm out and brushed his
fingers lightly across the textured ripples of the oil-painted canvas. For just a moment, the silence between us was almost
comfortable.

But when he looked back at me I knew: he wasn’t going to tell me any more about the angel he had shown me.

‘Be mindful. A traitor is within your fold,’ he said.

‘Who?’

He shook his head and turned back to the window.

‘You must walk your path, leave the footprints as evidence of your journey. I cannot take it … or change it.’

His voice held the first hint of emotion – a small, almost undetectable, quiver.

‘But you did help me,’ I started. ‘Two years ago, in that classroom …’ Even in my dream I felt the sickening memories and
the lump in my throat willing me not to go on. ‘It couldn’t have been anyone else. You sent that teacher across the school
to intervene.’

I swallowed hard, fought to hold onto my train of thought, not detour to that day, to that teacher holding me down while I
struggled beneath his heavy weight.

‘You interfered,’ I said, then dropped my head. ‘Thank you.’

His silence was all the confirmation I needed. I looked around the room, unsure what to say next. My paintings surrounded
me, but, unlike before, they now included those that I had only planned. Envisaged. Somehow, this room held the paintings
of my imagination.

I shuddered.

From behind me, I heard a roar. The deepest rumble, so strong it reverberated up my legs and into my spine.

‘My lion,’I whispered.

I spun around, in dreamy slow motion. There was nothing there. I turned back to the angel. He was gone. Sprinkles of rain
spat in through the crack in the window.

I stood, waiting.

And then everything around me exploded in a flash of colour that settled to nothing. I was nowhere, all alone apart from the
rain, startlingly cold, stinging my face with every sharp landing.

Shards of ice.



Cold enough to wake me up.



In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments; there

are consequences.’

Robert Green Ingersoll

I held the dagger in my right hand. The hilt heavy and intricately carved, the blade long and slim. The sharp point made an
impression into the tip of my index finger – just enough to sting and stir the memories. Choices had been made and now the
consequences were mine. Although I’d do it all again, although I knew now that there was something I had to do that was more
important than anything else, the truth was – I mourned the life I’d left behind. I twisted the hilt slowly and watched the
point pirouette on the pad of my finger.


My dagger – the dagger I killed myself with.

I put it down beside me – not wanting to touch it any longer, but unable to hide it away. I tried to snap out of it. Focus
on the positives. For one – I got my period earlier in the week. Never had I been so happy for an emergency dash to the pharmacy.


Everything I had once believed in was shattered. It was still humiliating, knowing I’d been so naive under Phoenix’s influence.
I really thought I could trust him – so much so that I’d lost my virginity to him and unwittingly created some kind of emotional bond between us. A connection he exploited to destroy my already fragile friendship with Lincoln. Throw in jumping
off a cliff, nearly being killed by a bunch of over-the-top psycho exiles, discovering that Phoenix was in fact the son of
the first dark exile, Lilith, and that he tricked me into becoming one of the Grigori and, well, condoms hadn’t been the first
thing on my mind.


Shaking myself free of the memories – and questions – was hardest when I was on my own and as I’d learned a long time ago
that Dad was more comfortable at work, where he could hide from his own memories, this was a problem. Solo time made it impossible
to ward off the persistent whispers of my past.


I headed into my art studio and started to lay down some fresh paint – I’d just picked up a new supply of iridescent colours
and had been playing around with them since I got home from school. My phone beeped.


I’m outside – where r u?

I blew out a breath and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’d lost track of time. Now I was late and looked like crap.
My long dark hair was twisted into a matted knot and the loose strands falling around my face were splattered with red and
grey paint. I hadn’t even bothered to put on make-up this morning. Although I didn’t really need foundation – most were too
dark or yellowy for my creamy complexion – mascara was a must for my otherwise lacklustre hazel eyes. But the only thing I
had time to fix was my clothes.


Be down in 5.

I ran to my room, stripping as I went, and threw on my most reliable jeans, the only option when pressed for time, and the first T-shirt I could find – boring black, but clean. I tried and failed to rescue my hair, finally just tying it up in
a new version of the same messy knot and gave up completely on my paint-ridden hands. After a hurried attempt at applying
at least a layer of mascara I grabbed my dagger and was out the door, pulling my trainers on between steps.


The mirror in the lift may as well have laughed out loud.

Shit

By the time I reached the front doors of my apartment building, I’d completely forgotten about my appearance and unconsciously
but predictably refocused on Lincoln. Sick anticipation crept through me, circulating and intensifying with every breath.


Yeah, I have it bad.


If possible, I had it worse than ever.

There was a time when I thought my love for Lincoln was unrequited, but now … Well, it’s more complicated than ever, but the
vibe – the crazy wired vibe that sparks between two people who are dancing around each other while simultaneously champing
at the bit, that vibe – was one I was walking, stumbling, hacking through a thicket of, whenever we were near each other.


‘Hey. I know it’s cool to be late, but could we at least keep it to a fashionable ten minutes?’ Lincoln asked, a smile in
his tone. I felt his eyes take me in and quickly remembered my very average appearance. I tucked my hair behind my ear and
he gave a quirky grin. He knew me too well.


‘You know, when you talk like that, you really show your age,’ I quipped, as I slid my swipe key into my pocket.

Lincoln’s eyebrows shot up.

Good job, Vi.

Less than a minute together and I’d already made things awkward. The issue of our age difference had definitely taken on more
significance since I’d found out that although he only looked twenty-two at most, he was in fact twenty-six. As I was only
seventeen, it increased the gap to a hefty nine years. Then again, as Grigori, neither Lincoln nor I were confined by the
normal parameters of life expectancy. Unless we got ourselves killed along the way, we would likely live well into the hundreds,
the ageing process slowing the older we got. So the age difference in the end meant little. It was the other parameters that were our problem.


‘Where are we going, then?’ I asked, keen to change the subject.

‘Griffin just called. He got a tip-off. Exiles have been spotted a few blocks from here. If we go now, we should catch them.
You up for it?’


Lincoln wanted me to be good. He wanted me to be strong and capable. That was one of the things I loved about him. He didn’t
want me to hide away and not be able to protect myself, but at the same time, I could hear the concern in his voice.


‘Yeah, let’s go,’ I rallied, trying to sound as sure as I should be.

Since becoming Grigori, my life has taken a sharp change of direction. I am, for all intents and purposes, a warrior. In many
ways, that suits me fine. I like being strong and having extra abilities by way of supernatural enhancement is a-okay with
me. I have learned the hard way that exiled angels do not belong among humans. There is a very good reason we are divided
by realms of time and space and angels were simply not made to cope with the emotional extras that come with having a corporeal form.


Humans are born with the ability to feel, touch, smell, to experience both love and pain physically. Angels are not. Becoming
human is just too much for them to process. In the end they go insane and most of them are vindictive monsters well before
that.


Yet despite knowing this, there is still a part of me that struggles with the concept of killing them. Technically, that’s
not what we’re doing, since we are only stripping exiles of physical forms when we return them to their realm for judgement.
But …


And as if that wasn’t enough, since embracing my angel half in the desert – plunging my own blade into the image of myself
– I haven’t been able to use my dagger, though I rarely go anywhere without it. It sits in a sheaf, carefully ‘glamoured’
so it cannot be seen by normal humans (weird to think I am no longer one of the normal), and whenever I train or head out for a hunt, like now, I have every intention of using it should the occasion call for
it.


‘Are you sure you’re okay? I could call Griffin and he could go out with some of the others.’

‘And who’s going to go with him? Magda isn’t back for another couple of days and everyone that can be active is already out
doing something.’


Lincoln dropped his head. I nudged his shoulder as we walked on. ‘I’ll be okay. And anyway, practice makes perfect, right?’

He took a steadying breath, stood a little taller and ran a hand through his golden-streaked brown hair. He knew there was
no talking me out of it and at some point he had to get on board. It wouldn’t help either one of us if we didn’t work together.


‘Right,’ he said, with a finality that made me smile. With that, he segued into a tactical pep talk to which I listened intently.
I was learning to be Grigori, to be a warrior, but Lincoln had already travelled well down that road. Under his nice-guy facade
was a mighty champion.




‘… What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God and

shall we not accept evil?’

Job 2:10


the streets around the bridge were dodgy. Homeless people congregate around the massive stone pylons, using them as buttresses
for their provisional squats.


The area is fairly sheltered and since it’s well known as a homeless hang-out, residents are pretty much left in peace to
haul out their shopping trolleys and tarpaulins at night. Most of them clear away during the day. A fact that confounds Steph.
She struggles with the concept of anyone fitting all their belongings into one lone shopping trolley. Last time we’d gotten
stuck down this end of town she’d speculated no end as to where all the shopping trolleys and their loot are hidden away during
the day. I mean, she has a point. You don’t see dozens of homeless people walking around during the day pushing trolleys.
They must go somewhere.


By the time we turned into a small side street, the last of the daylight was gone and there were no street-lamps. The evening
was clear and there was a bite in the air but the absence of light always unnerves me and, of course, exiles, whether once of light or dark, prefer to play in the lee of night.


Entertaining themselves with the pain of humans was high on the to-do list for exiles. They have the power to infiltrate imagination
and pretty much put whatever horror movie takes their fancy inside someone’s head. Some of them use it just to taunt and frighten,
while others use it as a kind of strategy. Over time, according to Griffin, they’ve used this ability to throw humans off
their tracks entirely.


Apparently, that’s where the myths of vampires, werewolves and other things creepy come from, even fairies and elves. If exiles
sense that their supernatural power has been detected and they are not able to eliminate the problem using their preferred
method of slaughter, they simply reveal themselves as something other than human, anything but what they really are.


It makes sense. People, I was learning, were, on the whole, more at ease with the virtual reality of vampires and intergalactic
visitors than the troubling prospect of a biblical Armageddon of one-time angels, equally once of light and dark, who were
now exiles driven by vengeance and power living among us. Yes, we are naive by choice.


I looked down the narrow street as far as my eyes would allow. It was littered with homeless people lying on flattened cardboard,
the lucky ones wrapped in torn sleeping bags, the rest burrowed in piles of old newspapers. I scanned the dark red brick walls,
which ran at least five storeys high on each side. The protection they offered was part of what made this strip so popular.


Lincoln walked slowly beside me, his hand going to my elbow for a moment – a silent reminder that I needed to be alert. I tried to move myself quickly through the flush of heat that came whenever I felt his touch.


I stopped walking and he looked at me, a question within his features. I smiled into his emerald-green eyes before I could
stop myself.


‘I think I can sense them,’ I said.

I didn’t think, I knew. I’d been tasting apple for the past couple of blocks and the sound of birds flying, smashing through trees, was
not one shared by others nearby. These were my angelic senses. Most Grigori had one. Some, like Lincoln, had two. Lucky me,
I had all five and I seemed to feel them more acutely than any other Grigori I had met. Great to be special and all, but having
an extra five senses can be, well, overwhelming.


‘How long have you been sensing them?’

I hesitated. He saw. ‘Violet … How long?’

I was worried Lincoln would judge me – that the fact I could sense them from so much further away would be a form of supernatural
condescension and alienate me. ‘Not long. Maybe one street back,’ I said, awkwardly.


Lincoln raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Three streets back.’

The corners of his mouth curled. He was holding back his Cheshire. I was a fool – he was proud of me.

I rolled my eyes at his twinkling expression. ‘They’re in the street. There are two of them,’ I said.

He nodded, now refocused. ‘I can smell them.’ His primary angelic sense was smell, though he could also hear.

I returned his nod. Morning and evening or, more accurately, the power that created them, flashed before my eyes as the fragrance of sickly sweet flowers flooded the area so strongly it even overpowered the stench of the street.


He took half a step in front of me and I let him. I might be able to sense them from further away but Lincoln could size them
up and pick the strongest much faster than I could.


They emerged from the darkness, looking human, but not at the same time. Both were dressed casually, although one had blood
stains all the way up his right arm like an abattoir worker at the end of a long day. I had an awful feeling I knew what that
meant. Exiles had a habit of indulging in the internal physical torture of their victims. It prompted me to again take in
my surroundings.


While still keeping sight of the approaching engagement I cast my eyes quickly over the sleeping bodies lining the street.
Why hadn’t anyone said anything to us, stopped us, when we clearly didn’t belong here, from entering into their indisputable
territory? I took in one, then two, then three figures tucked into their sleeping bags, unmoving. Energy hummed through my
body and a cruel thrum worked its way up into the base of my ribs.


I had let it once before – had allowed the energy to take over my body, forcing me to the ground, paralysing me in the pain
of others. I grabbed Lincoln’s arm. He didn’t look back but I had his attention.


‘They’re all dead. They’ve killed them all,’ I said, all too aware that the exiles were moving closer by the second. Agents
of death.


‘Linc, should I … you know?’ I whispered shakily. He knew what I was suggesting. Just after becoming a Grigori I had found
myself in the unpleasant position of being surrounded by exiles while mortally wounded. It was then that I discovered that I could do more than strip an exile’s powers
or return them to the angel realm for judgement. Grigori rely on physical contact with an exile, through which they can incapacitate
the exile for long enough to return them. It appeared I didn’t need that contact and in fact could extend my power to include
multiple exiles at the same time.


‘No. Your power’s spiking all over the place. Are you okay?’ Lincoln replied quickly under his breath. They were getting closer.

The senses were on the edge but I had them under control … Just.

‘I’m okay. I could try.’

‘Stay focused. Stick to the plan,’ he whispered back. But his tone left little room for discussion.

Great. The plan. The one that has me all dagger happy.

Except I’m not.


Lincoln and Griffin had insisted that I still had to enter combat the same way as all other Grigori. That it wasn’t enough
for me to rely on my power to get me out of everything. In theory I agreed. But at this very moment – standing smack bang
in the middle of a slaughter zone while two over-stimulated, decidedly unhinged exiles moved in on us – it seemed extreme.


The exiles stopped in front of us, smiling. They were assessing us the way only otherworldly creatures can. A flick of the
eyes, showing a defensive mechanism, and hunger at the same time. Exiles, whether light or dark, hated Grigori and loved killing
us above all others. We were their greatest – their only – threat. If exiles were successful in eliminating us, there would be no hope for anyone else.


‘You are a little late,’ said the shorter of the two, the one with the bloodied arm, like he’d been waiting for us.

Lincoln had already positioned himself level with him, not that I needed the heads-up that this one was the more derailed
of the two.


‘It’s a pity. We would have liked to have kept a few to tear apart in front of you. I prefer an audience. But we got bored.’
He smiled, perfectly white teeth, pink full lips. Had I not been so sure of the senses I would have sworn he was a sixteen-year-old
jock. That was the thing about exiles – they all looked healthy and strong, all in their prime.


‘You knew we were coming?’ Lincoln asked, twisting his body a little more, shielding me.

The exile laughed. ‘I have a message for you.’

‘And I thought your days as messengers were over.’

The jock-looking exile licked his lips, barely restraining himself. ‘The reward of getting to kill you,’ he glanced at me,
‘and her, is sufficient incentive.’


‘Well?’ Lincoln said, showing no concern.

The exile’s smile broadened and he spoke slowly. ‘Nahilius said to tell you he’s coming for what’s yours.’

Lincoln stiffened. The exile cackled loudly.

‘Make your choice,’ Lincoln growled. There was no denying that when he went into fighter mode, he was lethal. But so were
they.


‘Choice?’ The jock boy laughed. ‘So kind of you to offer. I think I will choose decapitation for you and something a bit more
… fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants for her.’ He looked to me, his buddy laughing away. Then I saw it. It was gone as quickly as
it had come, but it was definitely there. Recognition.


He could sense me, could sense my power. Of course, given what he could sense and what he’d probably heard I could do to him,
he should have run. Instead, true to exile form, he lunged towards me, relishing the challenge.


Lincoln was ready, his arm out intercepting the exile, coat-hangering his forearm into his opponent’s neck, breaking his speed
and redirecting his attention. That was all I had time to see before my own creepy once-was-angel started throwing punches
in my direction.


Why is it that they all know how to fight?

Exiles seemed to come to earth, take human forms and although none of them had great technique, they all knew how to hit.
Hard. Luckily for me, thanks to many hours of training and some angelic augmentation, so did I.


We exchanged blow for blow. I’m not short for a girl, he was tall for a man, so he had that over me. He got in a few good
knocks to my face, but he really favoured his right side so I just kept moving towards it, getting nice and close so he couldn’t
gain any leverage against me. I was getting on top of things, a series of kicks to his legs had left him shaky. I hadn’t landed
one in that magic spot that would blow out his knee, but he was stumbling.


A glow of colours lit up to my right. I knew what it was, but I looked anyway. Lincoln had the jock in a headlock and as I
turned, I saw him plunge his dagger into the exile, returning him. What I failed to see was the tall exile’s fist heading straight for my ear. It was a sucker punch, but then these guys had no morals let
alone fighting ethics. I was caught off-balance and could feel the warm wetness that could only be blood seeping down the
side of my neck as I fell, now completely aware of the exile coming down on top of me.


My hand went instinctively to my dagger, my fingers wrapped fiercely around the hilt. There was an opening. I was going down,
he had launched himself over me, but I had time. If I hadn’t hesitated I could have got it out, I could have returned him.


Instead, my shoulder smashed into the gravel road and I rolled onto my back quickly in an attempt to evade him. He collided
into me so hard I felt the top of my spine being ground into the road and screamed. I punched him in the face twice, but he
was too close now and had taken the advantage. He drove his knee into my stomach and drew back a clenched fist for what I
knew was going to hurt, a lot.


But it didn’t. He never got his chance.

All I saw was Lincoln’s dagger coming through the exile’s chest, the glory of his power’s colourful mist and then, the exile
was gone.


Lincoln stood above me, strong and ready for anything. I looked into his fighter eyes and they took a moment to soften. He
put his hand out and helped me up. It was warm and real, and he pulled me into him and wrapped an arm around me to help me
walk.


‘I couldn’t.’ I wanted to explain, to give an acceptable excuse. I was letting him down by not stepping up. I wasn’t just
putting myself in danger but everyone else as well.


We walked away from the scene. The bodies of the exiles had disappeared but we were still surrounded by a killing field of
homeless, dead people no one would claim and barely any would even notice gone. It had been too easy for the exiles to torture them. I felt bad walking away, like I was being disrespectful, but there was no option. We’d inform
the police anonymously later. We couldn’t risk getting pulled into murder investigations we could never explain.


‘You did great. I can’t sense any more of them,’ he said, looking around. ‘Can you?’ He sounded unusually anxious.

‘No,’ I said, looking down. ‘Do you know what they were talking about? Who’s Nahilius?’

Lincoln hesitated. ‘Just a troublemaker. No one for you to worry about.’

‘Oh,’ I said, keeping my eye on him as he looked away.

Lincoln tightened the arm he had around me, supporting me. ‘It’s just going to take some time. What you went through … in
the desert. It’s okay that you need some time.’


‘You’re upset with me, I can see it,’ I said, wincing at the pain in both my ear and the back of my neck.

‘What’s the first rule in combat Violet?’ He spoke in his training voice. This time my cringe wasn’t at the pain, but at the
stupidity that I was about to have to admit to.


‘Never take your eyes off your opponent.’

‘Exactly.’ We walked on. He didn’t need to say any more. We both knew, this one was all on me.

When we turned the corner, out into a busier street, he pulled me a little closer, protectively. I loved being tucked in his
arms, wrapped in his warmth, and wished we could have our chance to explore what we were to one another.


‘We need to get you away from here so I can heal you.’

A drunk man dressed in a suit of rags slumped against the wall by the roadside and as we passed, his almost empty bottle fell
from his hands, clinking into the gutter and making me look down. I stopped walking. I could feel something. Not the senses, something else. It was … stale. A lingering shadow of
something …


I reached down and picked up the bottle to hand to the derelict, but I hadn’t thought it through and as I straightened paid
the price with a wicked head-spin followed by the throb of all throbs from my neck right up to my temples.


I shut my eyes briefly and took a slow breath. Lincoln steadied me.

‘You dropped this,’ I said, holding the bottle out to the drifter.

The man looked up.

So many things happened within a split seco