Page 2
Azrael
The rain pelted against my face as I leaned into the curve of the road. My bike responded like it was an extension of my body, the engine’s rumble vibrating through my chest as I cut through the empty streets. Nights like this were my sanctuary -- dark, wet, and desolate. The kind of night where decent folks stayed inside, leaving the streets to predators like me. Or so I thought, until a scream sliced through the steady drumming of rain on pavement.
I jerked my head toward the sound, my muscles tensing. Screams in this part of town weren’t uncommon, but this one -- this one had the sharp edge of genuine terror. I throttled down, my tires hissing across the wet asphalt as I made a quick decision. The club patch on my back meant something in these streets. It wasn’t just for show -- it carried weight and responsibility.
The alley mouth loomed dark between two abandoned storefronts, a black slash in the neon-tinted night. I killed the engine and dismounted in one fluid motion, my boots splashing into a puddle that soaked my jeans to mid-calf. The cold barely registered. My hand automatically went to the knife at my hip as I moved forward, staying close to the brick wall where shadows offered cover.
Another scream, choked off this time, followed by male laughter and the sound of something -- or someone -- hitting the ground hard.
I rounded a dumpster, and the scene unfolded before me: three men surrounding a woman who’d been forced to her knees, her clothes torn at the shoulder. Broken glass crunched under their boots, reflecting the distant streetlight in wicked little sparkles. One man held her hair in his fist, yanking her head back at an unnatural angle. Another had his hand over her mouth. The third was unbuckling his belt.
The woman’s gaze found mine through the darkness -- blue eyes, startlingly bright against her darker skin. They weren’t filled with fear but with fury, a rage so pure it nearly matched my own. Only one choice I could make.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I said, stepping into the alley fully now. “Seems like the lady isn’t interested in your company.”
The men turned, the one with his hand on his belt pausing mid-motion.
“Fuck off,” the largest one snarled, his face half-hidden beneath a scrappy beard. “Mind your own business.”
I smiled, knowing it was the type that would send a chill down their spines. At least, if they were smart. “This is my business. Everything that happens in this neighborhood, in this fucking town, is my business.”
The dim light caught my cut, and I watched recognition dawn on their faces. The smart ones would have backed off then. None of them were smart.
“There’s three of us and one of you,” said the one holding the woman’s hair. Seemed to be a common theme these days. Why did assholes like these think that would make me give a shit and back down? “And we’re just having a little fun. No harm in that.”
“No harm,” I repeated, taking a step closer. “We’ll see about that.”
The first one rushed me -- drunk, clumsy, confident in his size. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past me before driving my elbow into the base of his skull. He stumbled forward, his feet sliding on the wet concrete before he face-planted into the wall. The crunch of cartilage told me his nose wouldn’t be the same again.
The second attacker was warier, circling as his friend groaned and slid down the bricks. He pulled a switchblade, the metal catching the light filtering into the alley.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he promised, flicking the blade open with practiced ease.
“I doubt it,” I replied.
He lunged, slashing wildly. I caught his wrist, twisting until I heard the pop of tendons and his knife clattered to the ground. His scream was high and thin as I drove my blade into the meat of his upper arm, not deep enough to kill, just enough to make sure he remembered this night every time the weather changed.
The third man, the one who’d been holding the woman’s hair, shoved her aside and backed away, hands raised. “Hey, man, we didn’t know she was with someone. We’re just --”
My boot connected with his groin before he could finish the sentence. As he doubled over, I grabbed the back of his head and brought my knee up to meet his descending face. The impact sent vibrations up my leg, and he collapsed into a heap of limbs and whimpers, blood gushing from his nose.
Three down, none of them moving to get up. Pathetic little fuckers. The only sounds now were the rain, their pained breathing, and the distant wail of a siren that had nothing to do with us.
I turned to the woman, who had pushed herself to her feet, leaning against the dumpster for support. Her breathing was ragged, but her eyes were clear and focused. Blood trickled from her hairline where one of them must have struck her, mingling with the rain on her face. Her dark hair clung to her cheeks and neck, and despite her torn clothing, she stood with a dignity that seemed out of place in this filthy alley.
“You okay?” I asked, wiping my blade on my jeans before putting it away.
“I am now,” she said, her voice steadier than I expected. She wasn’t from around here -- not with that hint of an accent I couldn’t quite place.
I approached her slowly, holding my hands where she could see them. “Need a hospital?”
She shook her head, wincing slightly at the movement. “No hospitals. No police.”
That was something we could agree on. I glanced back at the men on the ground. None of them were dead, though the one with the knife wound was bleeding heavily, clutching his arm and cursing. They wouldn’t be bothering anyone else tonight.
“Got somewhere to go?” I asked.
She straightened up, pushing wet hair from her face. “I found exactly where I need to be.”
That wasn’t the answer I expected. I narrowed my eyes, suddenly wary. Random women in alleys weren’t usually looking to find people like me unless they were working for someone else.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She took a step closer, and I noticed she was smaller than she first appeared, barely reaching my shoulders. Her clothes -- what was left of them -- were expensive, not the kind you usually saw in this neighborhood.
“My name is Zara Colton,” she said, looking up at me with those blue eyes that didn’t match the rest of her features. “And I’ve been searching for you.”
My hand instinctively moved back toward my knife. “How do you know who I am?”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “Not until just now. They call you the Angel of Death in some circles. Azrael. The one who punishes men who hurt women and children.” She gestured to the groaning men on the ground. “I’ve heard the stories, but I needed to see for myself.”
“You got yourself attacked on purpose?” I asked incredulously.
She looked away, her jaw tightening. “No. That was… unfortunate timing. But perhaps fortunate too, since it led me to you.”
“Why?” The question came out harsher than I intended, but strangers with agendas made me nervous, especially pretty ones who knew things they shouldn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time a man was betrayed by a woman. I didn’t trust people blindly.
Zara looked back at me, and something in her expression shifted, a vulnerability showing through her composed facade. “Because I need your help. My mother is missing, and I believe you can help find her.”
The rain continued to fall around us, washing the blood from the concrete into the gutters. In the distance, the siren grew louder, then faded as it turned down another street. One of the men at our feet groaned and tried to roll over. I placed my boot on his chest, pressing down just enough to keep him still.
“This isn’t the place to talk,” I said finally. “Can you ride?”
She nodded, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Yes. Although it’s been a while.”
“Then let’s go. The club will want to hear whatever it is you have to say.” I gestured toward the alley entrance where my bike waited. “After you, Zara Colton.”
She moved past me, her steps uneven but determined. I gave one last look at the three men before following her. They wouldn’t be the only ones remembering this night. So would I, though for entirely different reasons. Something told me that the woman walking ahead of me was about to change everything, and in my experience, change was rarely for the better.
I stepped toward Zara, noting how she swayed slightly despite her tough facade. Up close, I could see the bruise forming at her temple and the way she cradled her left arm against her side. Tough as she might be trying to act, she was hurt. I reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“Let me see,” I said, my voice low as I gently took her arm.
She winced but allowed me to push up what remained of her sleeve. An ugly gash about three inches long ran along her forearm, still seeping blood.
“Deep enough to need stitches?” I asked, examining it in the dim light.
Zara shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s not that bad.”
I pulled a bandana from my back pocket -- clean enough to serve as a temporary bandage. I wrapped it around her arm, tying it just tight enough to slow the bleeding without cutting off circulation.
“Thanks,” she murmured, watching my hands work with a curious intensity.
“Don’t thank me yet. We still need to get out of here.”
I didn’t miss how she gritted her teeth against the pain, but I respected her enough not to comment. I walked beside her, close enough to catch her if she stumbled, but not touching her. Rain continued to fall, softer now but persistent, soaking through her torn shirt and plastering her dark hair to her scalp. By the time we reached my bike, she was shivering.
“Here,” I said, shrugging off my leather jacket. It was wet on the outside but still dry and warm inside. “Put this on.”
For a moment, I thought she might refuse, but then she took it with a small nod. The jacket swallowed her, the sleeves extending well past her fingertips, but at least it covered the worst of her torn clothing and offered some protection from the cold.
My bike gleamed under the streetlight, water beading on its polished surface. I straddled it first, then held out my hand to Zara.
“You said you’d ridden before, right?” I asked as she approached.
“Yes.” She took my hand. Her palm was smaller than mine but calloused in places that suggested she wasn’t a stranger to physical work.
I helped her onto the back of the seat, steadying her as she settled in. “Hold on tight. The streets are slick, and so is the bike. I don’t want you sliding off.”
There was a moment of hesitation before I felt her arms wrap around my waist, her front pressed against my back. The intimacy of it wasn’t lost on me, but this wasn’t the time or place to dwell on how her body felt against mine. I started the bike, and the engine roared to life, vibrating beneath us.
“Ready?” I called over my shoulder.
Her answer was a tightening of her arms around my middle. I eased the bike into first gear and pulled away, moving slower than I typically would.
Rain streaked past us as we moved through the abandoned streets. I kept to the back roads where traffic was always sparse, avoiding the main drags where cops might pull us over.
As we rode, I felt Zara gradually relax against me, her grip loosening just enough to be comfortable without becoming dangerous. It was strange having someone on the back of my bike. I usually rode alone -- it was safer that way. Fewer complications, fewer liabilities. But there was something about Zara that had made me break my own rules.
Maybe it was the way she’d stood in that alley, bloody but unbowed. Maybe it was the mention of her missing mother. Or maybe I was just getting soft in my old age. Whatever the reason, she was here now, her breath warm against my shoulder blade even through my wet shirt.
After a few minutes of riding, I called over the engine noise, “Are you injured anywhere else?”
I felt her shift behind me. “I’m okay,” she replied, her voice close to my ear. “Just some scrapes and bruises. Nothing broken.”
There was a catch in her voice that told me she was downplaying her pain, but I didn’t push it. She was conscious and alert, and that would have to do until we reached somewhere safer.
We turned onto a narrow street that wound through the industrial district, flanked by shuttered warehouses and chain-link fences. The streetlights were fewer here, pools of orange light separated by stretches of near darkness. Zara’s hold on me tightened as we passed through one of these dark patches.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her lips close to my ear to be heard over the engine and the rain.
“Somewhere safe,” I answered, not ready to tell her exactly where until I was sure of her intentions. She was still a stranger, no matter how compelling her story.
She fell silent after that, her face pressed against my back as we rode. I could feel her shivering despite my jacket, and I pushed the bike a little faster, eager to get her someplace warm and dry.
The city gradually gave way to the outskirts, buildings becoming more sparse, the darkness between streetlights growing longer. Zara’s gaze remained fixed on the passing darkness -- I could feel her head turn occasionally as she took in our surroundings. She wasn’t just along for the ride. She was paying attention, memorizing the route. Smart girl.
We passed beneath a highway overpass, the sound of the engine amplified by the concrete above us, then emerged onto a stretch of road that ran parallel to an abandoned railway. The rain had tapered to a misty drizzle, but the night had grown colder, the wind cutting through my wet shirt like tiny knives.
I felt Zara’s body tense as we approached a crossroads. Her hand moved from my waist to my shoulder, squeezing gently.
“I need to stop for a minute,” she said, her voice strained.
I slowed and pulled onto the shoulder, bringing the bike to a halt beneath the shelter of a massive oak tree that hung over the road. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound besides the drip of water from leaves overhead.
Zara dismounted awkwardly, wincing as her feet hit the ground. I followed, keeping a hand on her elbow to steady her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, scanning her for signs of hidden injuries.
She flexed her left arm, the one with the makeshift bandage. “It’s starting to throb. And I’m a little dizzy.”
Under the diffused moonlight breaking through the clouds, I could see that the bandana around her arm was soaked through with blood. Too much blood for a superficial wound.
“Let me see,” I said, already reaching for the knot.
She offered her arm without protest, another sign that she was feeling worse than she let on. I unwrapped the bandana carefully, revealing the gash beneath. It was deeper than I’d initially thought, the edges clean but wide, showing the pale glimpse of fat tissue beneath the skin.
“This needs stitches,” I said firmly. “And probably antibiotics. Those alley rats who attacked you might have had all kinds of shit on their knives.”
Zara shook her head. “No hospitals. I told you.”
“We have someone at the club who can take care of it,” I said. “He’s got medical training.”
She looked into my eyes, searching for something -- trustworthiness, maybe, or deception. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it, because she nodded slowly. “Okay.”
I wrapped her arm again, tighter this time, using a clean section of the bandana. “We’re not far now. Can you hang on for another ten minutes?”
“I’ve been hanging on for several days,” she said with a grim smile. “Another ten minutes won’t kill me.”
I helped her back onto the bike, noting how she sagged against me as soon as we were settled. Her arms encircled my waist again, but there was less strength in them now. Blood loss and shock were taking their toll.
The engine roared back to life, and I guided the bike back onto the road, pushing the speed higher than was strictly safe on the wet pavement. Zara’s head rested between my shoulder blades, her breath warm but increasingly shallow against my back.
“Stay with me,” I murmured, though I knew she couldn’t hear me over the wind and engine. “Almost there.”
The road curved around a wooded area, and then the club’s compound came into view -- a collection of buildings and homes surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire. Security lights mounted on tall poles cast harsh white light over the lot where several bikes and trucks were parked despite the late hour.
The main gate was closed, but a figure emerged from the guard shack as we approached. One of our Prospects, a young kid called Ash, watched us. He recognized my bike immediately and hurried to open the gate, his eyes widening as he noted the woman clinging to my back.
I rode through without stopping to explain, heading straight for my house at the far end of the compound. As I pulled up into the driveway and stopped in front of the porch, Zara stirred against my back.
“We’re here,” I said, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was heavy around us, broken only by the distant sound of thunder and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
I dismounted first, then turned to help Zara. She tried to swing her leg over the bike but faltered, nearly falling before I caught her around the waist.
“Easy,” I murmured, supporting most of her weight as her feet touched the ground.
She looked up at my face. “I’m not usually this helpless,” she said, a note of defiance in her tired voice.
“I know,” I responded simply, because I did know. I’d seen how she’d faced those men in the alley, seen the fire in her eyes even when she was on her knees. This woman was a fighter, not a victim. The fact that she was allowing me to help her at all spoke volumes about how bad she must be feeling. I’d met her type before. They didn’t accept help easily.
I guided her up the three steps to my front door, unlocked it, and ushered her inside, flipping on lights as we went. The house wasn’t much -- living room, kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms -- but it was clean and secure. Right now, that was all that mattered.
“Sit,” I instructed, steering her toward the couch. She sank onto it gratefully, her gaze already scanning the room, taking in the sparse furnishings and the exits. Always assessing, always planning. I was beginning to like this woman.
“I’ll call Doc,” I said, reaching for my phone. “He’ll fix up that arm properly.”
Zara nodded, letting her head fall back against the couch cushions. In the harsh overhead light, I could see the full extent of her injuries -- the bruise at her temple had darkened, her lip was split at the corner, and there were defensive marks on her hands.
“Thank you,” she said, her gaze meeting mine with unexpected intensity. “For what you did back there. For bringing me here.”
I shrugged uncomfortably. Gratitude always made me uneasy. “You said you’ve been looking for me. Well, now you’ve found me. Once we get you fixed up, you can tell me exactly why you think I can help find your mother.”
She held my gaze steadily. “I don’t think you can help. I know you can.”
“Rest,” I said, heading for the bathroom to get the first aid kit. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, but it can wait until that arm is taken care of.”
Zara closed her eyes briefly, her hand clutching the edge of my jacket around her. “It’s waited this long. I suppose it can wait a little longer.”
I paused in the doorway, looking back at her -- this strange, fierce woman who’d appeared in my life out of nowhere. I had a feeling that nothing would be the same after tonight. Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.