Henri
Iwas stalking a suitable human host outside the gates of a swanky country club when I spotted a man with a golf bag slung over his shoulder. He was middle-aged and spry in step with a jovial expression on his face, as though he’d been looking forward to this outing all week.
Unfortunately for him, I had other plans.
I overtook him in a surge of adrenaline. There was nothing quite like that first moment of inhabitation. Even more so than reaping, it was a godlike rush of power to bend another being’s strength and will toward my own purpose. To command them so completely.
That task having been completed, I begged off sick to my host’s companions, stuffed the bag of clubs in a row of hedges, and walked the few blocks to Santiago’s cigar factory for my appointment with the Angel of Death.
My duties as a soul courier required me to check in with my master on a regular basis to give my report of souls reaped and souls lost, along with any intel I picked up that might be of angelic interest. If the celestial beings could be compared to a corporate hierarchy, Azrael was something akin to the Chief Financial Officer, only instead of budgets and cashflow, he dealt in the human life cycle—life, death, and rebirth. Reaping souls was a sacred duty, and Azrael an uncompromising master.
The bar was empty when I arrived, as were the few tables, and there was no chatter from the factory floor behind the burlap sack. Sunday was Santiago’s employees’ day off, and he used this time to channel for the divine. Gods didn’t care to have their conversations interrupted or overheard.
After glaring at me scornfully and refusing to serve me any libations, Santiago sat down across from me at a rough wooden table. It had been a few years since I’d last seen him, and he’d maintained his host well. The only difference I noted in his appearance was that he’d lost the ridiculous mustache and his penchant for pastels. He’d also gained a few wrinkles around his eyes, which made him look a little wiser for the wear.
“Where’s your fetching bartender? Perhaps he might be more obliged to fix me a drink?” I said conversationally. Santiago’s scowl only deepened. “What was his name? Xavier?”
I was good with names. Faces and souls as well. I could usually recognize a soul I’d reaped in a past life. The circumstances of the deaths I dealt in were often grim, so it cheered me to see them again in a new body. A new life with endless opportunities.
“Keep his name out of your mouth, Nephilim. I provide this service for Azrael, not you. I’d just as soon as see you rot in a Shade Vale.”
So much animosity. I could only imagine if Itriedto offend him. Santiago rolled his neck and closed his eyes. His hands rested palms-down on the table with his fingers spread wide. He dropped his head to his chest and rested it there for a moment, his chosen posture for receiving spirits. When his head lifted again, I was no longer communicating with the Malakhim but with an entity far more ancient and vastly more powerful.
“How may I address you?” Azrael asked, as was our custom.
“Henri, my lord.” I bowed where I sat. “And you?”
“Azrael.”
Even in Santiago’s voice, his name resonated through my entire being and weakened my knees. Names had power, and in Azrael’s case, his power was limitless.
I gave my report as succinctly as possible. Even though he conducted these types of meetings simultaneously, I was respectful of his limited time and attention.
“No souls lost?” Azrael said in a voice edged with disbelief.
“It’s been a good few years,” I said humbly. “The souls have been agreeable.”
“Or your powers are getting stronger.”
I lowered my head with gratitude. “Perhaps that too.”
“The Potestas are pleased with your work,” he said magnanimously. “The Thrones as well. Their decision to place you in my service has been vindicated many times over.” I didn’t know if he’d received those sentiments prior to our meeting or as we spoke. The nature of the Potestas’ power was a melded consciousness where they could draw upon each other’s thoughts for consensus. It was a similar phenomenon for the Thrones. It made both orders extremely expeditious in issuing their commands.
“It honors me to hear it,” I said. It grieved me greatly to lose a soul. And though the work could be tedious, it was satisfying to know that because of my efforts, a soul might be reborn.
“Tell me, Henri, have you been relieving yourself of spiritual angst?”
This was Azrael’s polite way of asking if I’d satisfied the human cravings I still harbored, despite no longer having a body.
“Sufficiently enough,” I said noncommittally. I couldn’t help but think back to our brief episode in your bedroom, which was far more intimate than any sexual encounter I’d had in years. But I must temper such errant thoughts, for you were a treasure I must hoard to myself. Or risk retribution.
“It is imperative that you slake your thirst with regularity. We cannot expect a bloodborn Nephilim, even disembodied, to deny himself bodily communion.”
I should have been grateful for his concern, but it only served to remind me of the baseness of our kind, and in particular, my tribe. With our corporeal cravings and our demonic progenitors, the Order of Angels would always deem us Nephilim as lesser beings.
When I didn’t respond, Azrael continued, “Santiago can recommend someone to you. A human who goes by the name Xavier.”
So, that handsome bartender was serving as a vessel for the gods?
