Page 44 of Hopelessly Teavoted
Az hated that Lex was out there somewhere knowing how he and Vickie were suffering.
But he had bigger problems to solve; whoever was behind the Brethren of One Love had made a deal so evil it was ironic that they would masquerade as angelic while hunting witches and humans to fuel their power.
It crossed over from the order and organized chaos of devils.
This was how demons could be made. Even greater devils were lawful; Az had met Frankie out in California.
He was one of the execs at a firm Azrael had interviewed at, and he had told Az they could only hire him if he was willing to use minor witchery to prepare ready-to-use spells for executives.
He’d absolutely despised that guy, and yet he still had rules.
Give and take. Trade of power for power.
He wasn’t half as bad as what was going to happen in Hallowcross if they let the church seize control.
Just like angels weren’t necessarily kind, devils weren’t inherently cruel creatures. They were often charming and well-to-do, and always strikingly good-looking. They embodied a wide range of good and evil intentions. They just had more power than most to act upon them.
Azrael wasn’t sure how he’d fare matched against one in combat, and as they pulled up to the old church, he hoped he would never have to find out.
The thought of fighting something worse than the devils made him a bit sick to his stomach, so he pushed that thought away.
That was a problem for later Azrael. For now, he had a grave to rob.
Gray mist wreathed the top of the stone spires, cut through with gorgeous designs in dark stained glass in some places and iron bars with jagged scraps of what once must have been lovely panes in others.
Right away, they set off for the mausoleum, Vickie’s pink jacket in sharp contrast with the muted greens of weeping willows and the overgrown gray path in the graveyard.
Here and there, trees sprouted from graves and vines leeched the stone monuments away from humans and back to nature.
“Who was the Prague Punisher?” Vickie whispered.
“Seriously? You want me to tell you about a murderer in a graveyard? While we prepare for maybe our most dangerous magical encounter yet?”
“Sounds like he was an executioner, Mr. Hart.” That title hit so differently from her than it did at work. Her smile dazzled him, and when she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, he wondered if she was being hot on purpose to distract him from the anxiety coiling in his gut.
“Stop it. You know that’s the same.” He sighed.
“Fair. Tell me about the murderer, then.” She was twirling a few strands of her hair absentmindedly. It was actually helpful to concentrate on something other than potential impending doom.
“Well, legend has it that he lost his love. She was executed when he was a young medical student, and he exacted his revenge on the world in his red hood, chopping down those sentenced to execution with vigor and enthusiasm. He was a hangman with a tragic past.”
“Now, that is both creepy as fuck and kind of romantic.”
Az snorted. She would think that.
“Listen. Vickie. We need to be careful. This place is old. Powerful. More than my witchery and your gift combined. Stay close.”
“Az, you have to be so careful, too, if this person is hunting a witch soul. You’re my favorite witch soul. Just don’t let yourself be hunted. Promise?”
Fuck. His heart pounded, and his face felt flushed. How was everything she did always so inappropriately, effortlessly hot?
“I promise. Just stay close.”
Vickie stepped closer and slipped a hand into his back pocket, holding herself far away enough to avoid touching his skin.
“Is this what you had in mind by close ?” The question—a dare, he recognized—rolled off her tongue easily, but the moment stretched between them like a soap bubble he was unwilling to pop.
“It works,” Az said, hoping he sounded more casual than strained. “Just try not to trip and fall on my mouth.”
Casual, because that had to be the right reaction, and strained because, well, his dick was trying to escape his pants through the very unmovable wall of his jeans, and the zipper hurt. Even through boxers.
Az hoped Vickie wouldn’t notice, but maybe she did, because she squeezed his ass through the denim fabric. Hard enough that he bit back a moan.
“This is helping, right?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “This is helping you? It’s keeping me from panicking about what we’re about to do.”
“It’s helping something, all right,” he muttered.
They reached the biggest mausoleum, with columns grand enough to be someone’s actual house and not just a glorified coffin holder.
“Shall we?” Vickie removed her hand—he instantly felt the chill of her absence—and darted ahead to pull open the stone door by the iron handle.
The inside of the mausoleum stretched out into an abyss of artificial midnight.
Az snapped his fingers, and the flashlights he had tucked into the trunk of the Packard appeared in their hands.
“What, no fancy torches?”
“I’m a modern man,” he said.
“You’re a witch,” Vickie teased, smiling at him.
“Fine, I’m a modern witch.” Az angled the beam inside, unable to restrain the lopsided, besotted grin creeping across his face. Goddess, she made him wild.
He stepped inside and she followed, the stone door scraping shut behind them.
“Az. You promised you would be careful. Please be careful. Your mom said to set up wards. For safety.”
He nodded. Whispering and snapping, Az summoned herbs from the clippings he and Priscilla kept in the car emergency kit—lavender and rosemary and rue—and cast a bucketful of salt around the perimeter.
“There,” he said, snapping his fingers one last time to tuck a sprig of lavender behind Vickie’s ear. “We should be safe now.”
She fingered the bloom.
“What does this do?” She breathed the words, a genuine question, but also like she knew everything in his skipping, cowardly heart.
“Jewitches believe it can be cleansing and promote peace.” He paused for a moment to commit the sight of her to memory, here in the dimly lit house of death.
“Also, you’re beautiful, and you smell like lavender sometimes.
” His words were slipping, along with his control, as though the emotions he’d kept locked below the surface would soon burst forward.
He would tell her. That he could easily sacrifice ever really touching.
He wanted to profess his love, even here in the cemetery.
He’d gladly risk death to make it official.
To be her partner, whatever she wanted that to look like.
He had to tell her. “I’d keep your heart warm, Vickie. ”
“I.” She paused and a blush rose to her cheek, pinkening skin under whorls of freckles. “It’s just my conditioner.”
Az wanted to take her chin between his thumb and forefinger and show her just how beautiful he thought she was, but they had a coffin to desecrate, an object to steal, and a witch’s soul to summon.
Also, it would kill him, so it would have to wait.
He couldn’t just lick her fucking face until he died when they were supposed to be raising the dead.
“Here,” Vickie said, pointing to the most recent entry into the house of death. “?‘Tina Rosehill, daughter of Mordecai and Leeara, beloved cousin of Cal and Sienna. 1995–2021.’?”
“Shit, she died young.”
“Yeah,” said Vickie. “That’s the nightmare. Die before you have a chance to do things in life.” Her fingernails dug into her hands, kept firmly at her sides, hard enough that he could see the muscle in her wrist clenching where the sleeve of her coat ended.
His heart cracked for her. They were two imperfect, broken people.
Why couldn’t they just reassemble the shards of themselves together?
“So,” Vickie began, patting around the edges of the stone blocking Tina Rosehill’s final resting place. “What did your mother mean when she said she knows what’s in your wallet?”
Panicking a little, Az pushed his hand against his thigh to check for the bulge of his wallet. It was there, and his pants were tight enough to keep it close.
“Nothing, really. A condom.”
“That’s not what she meant. Though, do you really carry a condom in your wallet?”
“No. And to be honest, it’s been months since I even needed one. Before my birthday. And putting them in a wallet wears down condoms, by the way. It’s not safe. As long as there’s one nearby, I can summon it.”
“Wait, you haven’t had sex since June ?” She was attempting to wedge the stone lid off, and it gave slightly, but didn’t come loose. “I want to see if we can get this off without breaking it,” she explained.
“I mean, yeah, it’s been a while.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I definitely haven’t been interested in anyone else since we… you know. Got to know each other again recently.”
“Yeah. Me too.” She stepped back, examining the mausoleum wall.
The metal handle had bled a little, staining the pale stone a greenish hue, as though it had been there much longer than Tina had been interred.
Vickie cleared her throat. “I think you’re going to have to use magic.
It’s not budging.” She paused, the corners of her mouth quirking upward.
“Have you ever stolen a condom in summoning?”
He shoved a hand into his pocket, absentmindedly snapping with the other to continue spelling extra wards around them for the violation of Tina Rosehill’s peaceful resting place.
“Well?” She was staring at him again, her eyes wide and her nose scrunched up a little bit, and he wanted to pepper those freckles with kisses until he got to her pouty mouth, now twisted slightly in disappointment.
“Yes. Fine. I did steal a condom—once—and I feel terrible about it.” He snapped twice, gradually loosening the stone before trying it again.
“When?” Mischief sparkled in her eyes.
“You want to know this right now?” He jiggled the stone, and then tried again. Still nothing.