His black wings fold against his robes, and a current of jealousy runs through me. Another veryhumanemotion I am not accustomed to.
“You called?”
He stares at me, confusion knitting his brows together. “Where are your robes?”
“Robes are not typically worn in the earthen realm. Surely you knew this? Or do you not look at a soul’s earthly body when you help them cross over to the afterlife?”
His lips curve into a frown. “I don’t pay attention to what they wear. Why should I?”
Two weeks ago, I would not have had an answer for him. Or even asked the question. But now, his apathy grates on me. “Because humans choose their clothing with purpose. They often use it to define who they are.”
“That is ridiculous. The Almighty does not care how a souldresses.” He shakes his head and scoffs, his wings shifting with every movement. “Shedoescare that you have been shirkingyour duties. As does Seraphiel. I assured him you would return to the celestial realmvery soon.”
Fuck. “I am not ready.” Grabbing Azrael’s arms, I barely resist the urge to shake him. “There is so much we can learn here, brother. So much we do not understand about how this realm has changed since its creation.”
The Angel of Death beats his wings, lifting us both five feet off the ground before he shakes off my hold. I fall, and my head slams into the side of one of the pews. The harsh scent of blood fills my nose.Myblood.
“Put your hands on me again,brother, and you will find yourself with much more than a minor head wound.”
I touch the cut on my temple. It is already starting to heal. In five minutes, it will be nothing but a memory. Much like my wings, at the moment.
“Of all our brethren, I thought you would be the one who would understand. I am not staying in this realm for my health, Azrael. We spend our entire existencewatching. We think we are all knowing, but in truth, we are blind. We need to find a way to see.”
Azrael smooths his hands down his pristine, black robes. His silver belt glows with his power. “I can buy you another few days in this realm. Seraphiel is distracted dealing with Lucifer. Hell’s guardian is demanding an audience with the Almighty, and you know how well that went the last time. But if you’re not back once that mess is sorted, Seraphiel will order you home.”
“Seraphiel can fuck off,” I mutter. “He is a power-hungry twat, and everyone knows it.”
Azrael’s chuckle seems to surprise him. He sobers quickly and steps closer to the altar. “That he may be. But he has the Almighty’s ear. Do not test him.”
His return to the celestial realm ruffles my hair, but I am prepared for the blast of power and maintain my footing.
The frescos behind the altar draw my gaze. Over the past two weeks, I have seen many churches. The ones in Italy were my favorite. Magnificent in every way. Some so ornate, they moved humans to tears. This cathedral is plain by comparison. Yet, there is beauty in its simplicity.
I should return to my hotel. Figure out where to go next. If I only have one more week, I must be…discriminating in my choices. And steel myself for the ridicule I will surely encounter when the other archangels see the ravaged state of my wings.
“Stop! Please!”
The woman’s voice carries from somewhere behind the altar. Panicked. In pain. Familiar. I close my eyes and release the hold I keep on my angelic power. Utter hopelessness and despair. Fear. Her emotions are like a thousand razor sharp daggers piercing my soul.
At the distinctive sound of a slap, I stride for a purple drape covering part of the wall. It flutters slightly, though the air in the sanctuary is utterly still.
“I didn’t see the last page! You have to believe me!”
“You lie,” a man growls. “Tell us where the Blade is, or you’ll find out what happens when we turn the WCU up to eleven.”
The woman screams in agony. I race down a narrow, twisting set of stairs, and burst into a large antechamber with stone walls. Bright floodlights point at a metal door.
An angry dark-haired man pins a curvy blonde’s arms over her head, while another woman—this one decidedlynothuman—twists the knob on a black box in her hand.
Tears stream down the blonde’s face. I know her. I met her in this very cathedral, perhaps ten days ago. Dr. Willow Saunders.
“Please,” she whimpers, her voice fading as her body shakes violently. “Hurts…”
“Let her go!” I shout, springing for the brute. One well-placed punch to his side sends him flying. Willow crumples to the ground, still crying.
The other woman narrows her gaze at me. “What are you?” she asks with a smile designed to seduce even the hardest of men. Her voice is like ambrosia, sweet and rich and addicting.
“I am—” Fuck, no. I wrap my fingers around her throat, cutting off her air. Was I truly about to answer her? I could snap her neck, but I am no killer. Not unless there is no other choice.
