Page 130 of Wicked Believer
Azrael grumbles something unintelligible, clearly a bit perturbed that I asked, before saying, “She’s weak.”
“Of course she is.” I nod, turning back to my scrolls. “I’m learning that about humanity the hard way.” I shake my head. “Physically, she has a long way to go, yes, but mentally, I’d say that with a bit of training, perhaps someday she could—”
“Don’t insult me.” Azrael scoffs.
I look toward him then. Any jealousy he might have felt toward Charlotte isn’t particularly unexpected, considering our history, but I sense there’s more to it than he’s telling me. Not that Death is ever particularly forthcoming. The fact that he’s grumbled more than his customary two syllables is already a small feat. Though I suppose when you haven’t seen someone in a few centuries, there’s quite a backlog.
I tilt my head to the side. “Is there something you’d like to share, Azrael?”
He remains quiet, contemplating, his gaze trained on the far side of the room. The perfect soldier at ease. “No.”
I draw closer, my right leg dragging a bit. “No, sir, you mean.”
Azrael’s eyes lock with mine, his jaw tight as we both go still. “I no longer answer to you that way.”
We glare at one another.
“No. No, I suppose you don’t,” I finally relent.
I abandon him as I return to my scrolls and the other loaned artifacts scattered about the room. The Book of Enoch. The Gospel of Judas. Even the Odes of Solomon and sections of the Gospel of Mary. Though I won’t pretend it doesn’t irk me that I mustborrowmy Father’s things.
I will reclaim what Michael has stolen from me.
As soon as I find who last had that ruddy spear.
When Azrael speaks again sometime later, I’m surprised to find him still there, watching me, but voyeurism was always one of his favorite things. “What is it you seek?”
“A family record.” I shrug. “Which of my angelic siblings last had control of the crucifixion blade.”
Azrael’s brows shoot up in an uncharacteristic show of surprise. “The Holy Lance?”
“One and the same.”
He’s quiet, neither of us saying anything. Then, almost reluctantly, he grumbles, “I ... might be able to assist.”
This time, he has my full attention.
“You’re offering to help me?”
This wasn’t part of our deal.
Death does favors for no one.
No one except for me.
Azrael glances away, his expression purposefully cold and distant. “Death follows wherever the blade goes.”
I smirk appreciatively. “And you would do that? Follow the blade to protect her?”
“Not her.” The piercing stare Azrael gives me is deliberate, one of cold fury. “If the blade is in play and you’re stripped of your powers, hers isn’t the only immortal life at risk.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I sigh, long and low. “You’re more sentimental than humanity ever gave you credit for, Reaper.”
“I could say the same, Deceiver,” he says, using the old nickname deliberately.
Reaper. Deceiver.
Lightbringer. Endbringer.
