Henri
Temperature was difficult to gauge in dreams, but my immediate impression was that the room was cold. Your lips were blue, and you were shivering so badly that your teeth chattered. The clothing you wore, a thin gray shirt and pants, swallowed your gaunt frame and offered little defense.
“Vincent, where are we?” You’d gone still as a rabbit, frozen where you stood in a corner of the room, eyes wide and hollowed out with fear. “Vincent?” I reached for your hand to offer you some comfort, but you snatched it away.
“Don’t touch me, Henri. It’s not safe.”
“You can’t hurt me in dreams,” I reminded you. You had all the markers of blood deprivation—shakes, fever, paranoia, and wild-eyed desperation. This was how you’d survived for months on end, caged like an animal, isolated, and starved. I’d known it already but seeing it firsthand was heartbreaking.
We heard footsteps then, and your eyes darted toward the door, narrowing on the lock as the deadbolt turned. The being who stepped through was massive with thighs as round as tree trunks and a chest broader than the door frame. In the dead center of his forehead, a single eye stared at you with unwavering focus. Somehow, the cyclops was even more monstrous in dreams. Your jailor possessed an electric prod and even before making any commands, struck you with it. The shock rattled your thin frame, and I sprang forward, catching you in my arms before you crumpled while attempting to shield you from further abuse.
“What’s going on here?” I demanded. Clearly, you weren’t in control of this dream.
“Come,” the cyclops said, and when I looked down, you were shackled and collared with a cage over the lower half of your face. My oneiric abilities were limited, but I reimagined the collar without spikes and loosened your restraints.
“I didn’t want you to see this,” you said through the leather mask, your voice a weak rasp. I laid a hand on your shoulder as the cyclops led us through a labyrinth of corridors that resembled the complex in Athens until we arrived at a cinderblock wall. The door was open already, but the brute blocked my entry. I envisioned the prod in my hand instead of his and shocked him with enough force to bring him to his knees, then followed you through the open doorway, shutting it behind us.
It was an interrogation room, and you were strapped to a hard, metal chair with your ankle chained to the cement floor. I tried to disappear your restraints but was unable, so instead, I rubbed your shoulders and tried to alleviate your terror.
“Stay with me,” you pleaded.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You surveyed the room as though any number of horrors might jump out at you. Azrael chose this setting because he wanted you to feel helpless and afraid, so that you’d give up on this revolution in return for some small, insignificant mercy. He’d used the same tactic on me, many times over.
“Vincere.” A booming voice thundered all around and shook the walls. I didn’t need the visual confirmation to know who it was.
“What do you want?” Your jaw was clenched, fingers hooked like talons around the metal arm rests of the chair.
“I relinquished you from your service and returned you to your beloved. Now, I discover you’ve been meddling in Imperium affairs. And you’ve involved the warborn.”
“We want the Nephilim freed, and we want you out of our lives. We’re more than capable of ruling ourselves.” Despite your fear, your voice was steady, as was your gaze.
“As much as I’d like to relinquish myself of this duty, the Order of Angels won’t permit it. They made the mistake once of allowing demons to meddle in human affairs unchecked. It surely won’t happen again.”
I recalled the many times I’d begged for your life, your safety, and your return, and I was met with a similarly cold dismissal. The damnable avarice of the Angel of Death.
“I want a meeting with the Thrones,” you said.
“The Thrones do not have the time or attention to give to you. You are not that important.”
“I’m important enough that you’ve dragged me back to your torture chamber for this conversation.”
“A small family matter,” Azrael stated.
“I won’t negotiate with you.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
Just then the wall to our side fell away to reveal several bodies laid out on metal tables. The corpses of your bloodmeals, I presumed, with Santiago’s vessel among them. His throat was torn open and his collar saturated with blood. I glanced back at you to find your mask had been removed, and your face, hands, and shirtfront were smeared red.
“Look at all the death you’ve wrought,” Azrael taunted. “Is your life really so precious?”
“You did those things, not me.”
“Let me offer you a glimpse of the future then,” Azrael said as a sharp pain lanced through me as I slid to my knees on the cold, cement floor. Blood poured from my gut like a cascading fountain, my intestines torn open.
“Henri,” you cried.
