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Azrael

“Diapers?!”

“Humans have always had a strange approach to the supernatural,” Micah says, leaning over my shoulder. Wide, unnervingly doll-like eyes stare back at me from the page, Cupid printed underneath in fancy, flourished script.

The absurd drawing has me mesmerized, and it takes a few seconds for me to force my eyes away from the freaky flying monstrosity. “ Strange ? That’s a seventy-five-pound human baby, likely with type two diabetes, wearing an extra-large pair of Depends. Why are his wings so small? Physics is real, people, and I’m going on the record to say those tiny things? They could never carry his weight.”

The longer I look at it, the more disturbing the image becomes. “ That’s who humans believe is responsible for true love? Out of all the crazy ideas they could’ve come up with, this was the one. Someone… no, a whole-ass group of people actually looked at that and said, ‘Yep. That strange man-baby helps us fall in love. Here’s hoping he doesn’t need his nappy changed.’ Really? ”

I lean in, my eyeball damn near touching the paper. “And what’s with the harp?” If we were going to play an instrument while we fly, an electric guitar would be much cooler.

Air guitar, if you will.

“That’s nothing,” Micah says with a snort. “You should hear their take on Easter. It’s this bizarre tale… something about giant rabbits that lay eggs.” He leans in, a thousand-yard stare taking him out of the present. “Then they eat them… tiny bunny idols and their foil-wrapped unborn children.”

Horrified, I whisper, “No,” but he only gives me a grim, shivering nod.

My eyes land on the drawing again as I try to get that particular image out of my mind. Thick layers of baby fat billow over the top of the diaper, so it’s no surprise he struggles with those itty-bitty wings. I shake my head.

Okay, sure, most Cherubs aren’t the fittest creatures in existence, and I could stand to lose a few pounds myself. Teleportation has made us lazy with exercise, and wings mean we are more likely to fly than walk. Admittedly, a nap in the clouds sounds far more exciting than a jog in the park.

Subconsciously, my hands land on my soft belly underneath my shirt and squeeze. I may be small, but tiny things can still jiggle.

“Pay attention, Azrael,” Micah reprimands, his annoyance amping up as he gestures towards the whiteboard. There’s a fine line between mild irritation and apocalypse-level fury with him, so I force myself to concentrate even as the image of the hideous flying toddler burns into my mind.

A jumpy muscle in his jaw ticks as his eyes flicker to my neon pink shirt, Just Wingin’ It printed across the chest. “This is history in the making, and you’d do well to heed that. Our first Interim Cupid ever , and it falls on your shoulders.” Pastel purple eyes burn into me, and I wither under the stare. “Your youthful shoulders. You already know my opinion about such a young Cherub taking the position.”

Oh, boy, do I ever.

It’s not like he has mentioned it a time or two… per minute.

Necessary evil, he likes to call it. The current Cupid, Seraphiel, has been in the role for over a thousand years, making him the longest serving in our history. And while he’s always done an acceptable job, as of late he seems to be getting…

Bored.

At least, that is what his recent… interesting pairings have indicated.

The lead singer of a metal band with an Amish woman.

A very out-and-proud groomsman with the brother of the bride, who was straighter than a ruler. I mean, the man was wearing cargo shorts at the rehearsal dinner, for Christ’s sake. It was a ballsy move on Seraphiel’s part, I’ll give him that, but it worked out in the end.

Most of the time, his matches are suitable, so everyone has always left him alone about it.

Let him blow off some steam, you know?

Then he had a bit of a meltdown a few months ago, and almost caused World War III. The American President and the Queen of England were caught in a quite precarious situation, and the scandal that followed was…

Well.

War was avoided, but just by a hair.

We’re taking bets on whether the UK becomes a state or England reclaims the US.

Fifty-fifty, really.

In the aftermath, a remarkably unanimous group decision was made to force Seraphiel to take a vacation. It shouldn’t have been a surprise he needed one, considering he hasn’t had a day off in over three hundred years.

Turns out, overworking isn’t a problem that’s limited to humans.

It was decided a month off would do him—and the rest of the world—some good, and the quest for the Interim Cupid began.

The logical solution?

A lottery.

Pay a few silvers and get an entry. Sure, a few attention-seeking high-rollers spent a small fortune putting their name in dozens… hell, hundreds of times. Mostly, though, it was jackasses sitting around after a few too many He-Brews, with nothing better to do than bet each other to put their names into the drawing.

It’s me.

I’m the jackass who was drunk on Angel Ale and entered the lottery.

Once!

I barely even remembered I did it, and I certainly never expected to win. When the heavenly trumpets blared and called my name, shocked doesn’t begin to describe my panic.

Mere hours later, Micah showed up at my apartment door, unannounced, and let me tell you, he got a first-hand view of hot mess central. Ebony hair a curly, untamed mess and pajamas stained with pizza grease. I could only stare.

And stutter.

The disgusted cringe on his lips and judgmental, razor-sharp arch to his brow made his disapproval loud and clear, but he didn’t need to worry.

I was already panicking.

Ready or not, the responsibility of The Cupid was destined to lie on my thirty-two-year-old shoulders. That’s young enough for a human, but for a Cherub?

I might as well be sporting the diaper they depict us in.

“Azrael!” Micah barks, his tiny sliver of patience depleted. Spine straightening and eyes wide, I snap to attention. “There is less than a week until you take over for Seraphiel.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I say, my voice coming out as a squeak.

“Oh, trust me, this was the worst idea, but as we’ve discussed a dozen times, you are bound by magical law. Regardless of whether you’re ready, the powers of The Cupid will pass to you in six days’ time.”

“Can’t we ask Seraphiel to wait another few weeks?” I plead, my already oversized eyes becoming wider as I beg.

“Absolutely not,” Micah barks, shaking his head as he gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Last week, there were maps of China spread out on his desk, with some concerning red circles drawn. No, it’s best he takes a break now before there’s no world left to serve.”

Twelve hours.

Seven hundred and twenty minutes.

Forty-three thousand, two hundred seconds until The Cupid’s powers are passed to me.

Get a good night’s rest, Az , everyone said. You’ll do great.

Sure, I’m doing a fantastic job now, staring at the ceiling and staving off a panic attack.

The past week of lessons? Nothing more than a blur. Micah’s midday outburst didn’t do a damn thing for my confidence. He flung his hands into the air and stormed out as he said, “I give up. Things can’t get any worse than they already are.”

And the worst part? I’m really trying.

He left, and I was determined to keep practicing until it clicked. There I stood—awkwardly gawking at the target. Fifty feet doesn’t sound like a lot, does it? Seems like it should be pretty easy to hit an enormous bullseye at that distance, but it isn’t.

It really fucking isn’t.

Bright side, there was technically an arrow sticking out of it, even if it was clinging for dear life to the outer ring. If we get down to the nitty-gritty logistics, it doesn’t matter where the arrow strikes, as long as it hits its human target. Shoulders, chest, leg, kneecap… the magic doesn’t care. It activates regardless of where it lands.

It’s just that people aren’t giant round targets—most of them, in any case—and they have this pesky tendency to move .

Defeat weighed heavily on my shoulders as my eyes dropped to the mountain of arrows on the floor. Hundreds of them sat there, limp in a pile like fish that jumped out of water and gave up on life.

Those were the ones that didn’t hit the target.

Three weeks of archery training culminated in that anticlimactic moment. Because yes , that single arrow was the result of twenty-one days of practice.

Twenty-one.

One tiny revelation gives me hope, though. It doesn’t matter how close to the humans you stand as long as the pointy tip strikes. Images flash through my mind of using the arrows like daggers, stabbing instead of shooting, and honestly… the idea holds merit.

Cherubs have magic that helps us blend in, for several reasons. Wings must be hidden, for one, and although we can put them away at will, there are times it’s a better idea to leave them out and disguise them. A prime example might be if you're trying to outrun a pissed off queen's guard.

Hypothetically, of course.

A few times in history, Cherubs were spotted with them on full display, and now libraries are filled with an entire genre of romance novels surrounding men with wings. It’s a wild phenomenon to witness, really.

Of all the Cherubs, humans only care about The Cupid. There’s even a holiday celebrating his existence. Valentine’s Day is the human’s designated day of love, something that's a lifelong search for many.

Because let me just tell you, they are terrible at picking a mate.

Red flags are handed over like a bouquet of roses, and suddenly they become colorblind.

Humanity’s distinct inability to choose a fitting partner has been noted by the Heavens since the beginning of their existence. The Cupid was created to fill that gap.

Contrary to popular belief, we don’t shoot people at random.

Well…

Usually.

Current situation excluded.

Our innate magic allows us to see the very essence of a person’s soul, giving us an all-encompassing understanding of their perfect match. Hopes and fears, preferences and moral compass… displayed for our inspection.

The Cupid is summoned when complimentary souls meet and form a genuine connection. One might think that such an event should forge its own path. Makes sense, right? People who already have a bond, with all signs pointing to compatibility?

Why, then, is The Cupid needed?

The answer, and I believe we’ve already covered this, is…

Humans are idiots.

They’ll walk away from a true soul connection for several moronic reasons. Sometimes it’s because they’re too shy to put themselves on the line. Other times, someone with a better ass walks past.

Fickle creatures.

Human idiocy is the very reason The Cupid is a necessary position. Our arrows don’t create artificial infatuation. We can’t make people fall in love. The magic reinforces attraction and feelings that are already there—accelerates the growth of those newborn emotions inside that person’s soul.

Connecting the dots yet?

That aforementioned straight man finding love at the wedding? He was already a raging queer—he just hid it with terrible clothing and lots of pockets.

The President and Queen of England?

Yeah…

We won’t touch that one.

The effects of the arrow don’t last forever. That would be a manipulation of our powers, because, despite how much we’d like to believe otherwise, people change. They grow, they learn, and sometimes… they move on.

Forcing two unmatched souls to stay together would only create more hate in the world, and that defeats the entire purpose of our existence. Our influence lasts a few weeks, maybe a month, or until everyone affected accepts their love bond.

The process is pretty straightforward. Point, shoot, and watch the product of our matchmaking come to life. There’s only a single rule.

Well, besides Don’t Miss, but I feel like that one is self-explanatory.

Their attention has to be focused on the other person. Otherwise, we could just be pairing people up willy-nilly. It doesn’t have to be complicated—a shared glance from across the room, a polite conversation, a passing smile, holding a door open… but timing is everything .

The moment the arrow strikes, that flirty grin the single mom is giving the bag boy? Amplified to a thousand. Now there are mere moments to snag the bag boy while his attention is still on her before we have a stage five clinger situation.

Timing, see?

And this right here… this is why I’m currently freaking the fuck out!

I cannot be trusted with a pet fish, much less the love lives of an entire species!

I should just be a normal Cherub… doing normal Cherub things. The rest of us have an important mission in life, too, although the stress levels of a typical day are much lower. Our ability to see inside a human’s soul means we also notice when that soul needs a pick-me-up.

Have you ever been in a foul mood, and something small happened that made you feel better? A stranger’s smile, perhaps? A flower blooming from the crack in the sidewalk? Chances are, one of us realized you needed a boost and sent a touch of magic your way.

This whole Cupid business may be brand new to me, but inspecting a human’s soul is not. For two years now, I’ve been peering into the depths of humankind.

Two years.

Only two years.

Cherubs aren’t considered adults until the age of thirty, which means a man barely past his adolescence is now in charge of true love for the next month.

Why is no one else panicking about this!?