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Azrael

Spoiler alert: it did not, in fact, have to get better from there.

Logic claims the more I practice, the more my aim should improve. It’s what every fake cheerleader in our lives has spewed in their generic encouragement—put in the work and reap the rewards. Simple cause and effect.

But it didn’t get any better.

Somehow, against all odds, it got worse .

Three days have passed since the Home Depot incident, and in that time, I’ve answered eighty-six calls.

Eighty-six.

And out of those eighty-six, I matched sixty-three.

There was the lovely couple on the train.

The confined space bought me time, but the rocking of the compartment triggered a wave of nausea that turned my almond skin a sickly green. It was an extraordinarily inconvenient occasion to realize Cherubs can be affected by motion sickness.

Stomach heaving, I rushed for the bathroom, tripped, and ended up falling on top of my targets.

Ever realized that your last fuck was given? It was in that moment for me, sprawled over their laps. I grabbed two arrows, waited until they looked at each other in bewilderment, then jabbed them both in the thigh. I skittered away, hunched over and giggling like a hysterical gremlin, and poofed home as soon as I was out of sight.

For the next ten minutes, I floundered on the floor with my cheek pushed against the solid ground, swearing I’d never again smile at the clickity-clack of a train.

After that, I met two lovely women in the mall, both questioning the sexuality of the other. Cautiously flirting over the rack of flannel shirts, it was a prime opportunity for me to try again.

And again, and again, and again.

“Look at the rips in this one!” the blonde said to the brunette, lifting a button-up shirt that was absolutely riddled with holes, thanks to yours truly. “Is that the fashion now?”

Who knew my arrows could affect clothing if I missed?

Certainly not me.

But as they shared a laugh, holding the shirt up and looking at the… good lord , seven holes in the fabric, I suppose I can’t deny that truth.

At that point, only one logical option remained—I got on my hands and knees, and I crawled.

After a precautionary puff of my inhaler, I shuffled underneath the clothing display, looking too much like the overgrown tiny-winged baby once again, and poked both of them in the ankles.

It worked, so don’t judge me.

My days have been filled with finding new and exciting ways to stab people without garnering too much attention. Never in my existence as a celestial being did I imagine needing parkour to be a trick up my sleeve—yet, here I am, needing it daily. Ducking behind walls and leaping over fences.

And we’re not going to talk about the number of times I’ve tripped... or the fence that almost pantsed me when my waistband snagged on a loose board.

Or the black eye I gave myself when I held the bow too close... you know what? We're just not going to talk about any of it.

I’m fucking exhausted.

It’s not mandatory that I answer every call. It would be impossible anyway, given that they often arrive in clusters rather than one at a time. The Cupid is allowed to sleep, of course.

Hell, if Seraphiel had rested more, I wouldn’t even be in this situation.

But, as usual, my brain is fighting against me, and I’m desperate not to fuck this up. I’ve only gotten a few hours of sporadic rest here and there. My bloodshot eyes burn, rimmed in angry red that screams ‘look what’s in my creepy van’ rather than ‘looking out for humanity’s future.’

If I was more confident, I might turn this into a new trend, but I’m too awkward to pull off artsy.

My internal calendar dings with a reminder that it’s my usual time to wallow in self-pity, and I can’t possibly miss that. Routine is important, after all. A loud puff of air hisses as I bellyflop onto my bed, my wings stretching wide.

Opalescent pastel pink canopies over my body, hiding me from this nightmare. As a child, I’d often disappear into my feathery cocoon when life got too overwhelming.

Why did I fill that form out?

What made me believe that I , Azrael Veyron, the clumsiest Cherub in the history of Heavenkind, could do anything other than mess this up?

Pitchers of Angel Ale washed away our apprehension that night, bolstering our confidence to dangerous levels as we scrawled our names for the lottery. Everyone else laughed and giggled at the idea of being in charge, but me?

In the back of my mind, I thought…

What if?

What if I could actually be good at something?

I smiled and whooped with the rest of them, desperate to fit in when I’ve always been an outsider. Desperate to be seen as someone other than klutzy Az, with his two left feet and wheezing lungs.

A quiet spark of ambition inside me wanted more. To prove to everyone that I could do this.

But you can’t, a little voice in my brain says, and I fight with the lump in my throat as my wings curl tighter to my body. “I’ll talk to Micah,” I say out loud, “and explain I can’t do this. The magic will just have to find a different way. Someone else will have to be The Cupid, because…”

Another summons silences my words, and I groan, thumping my fists into the mattress in a child’s tantrum before I take a deep breath and pull myself together.

One more.

I can do one more.

Sunlight heats my face as my wings lift, returning me to the real world. The magic sings to me, tugging at my middle as I close my eyes and smooth out my shirt. Allowing it to guide me, I poof out of existence.

Humid, suffocating heat hits in a wave, sweat beading on every inch of my skin and clinging to me like a clammy film.

Oh, no.

Dear God, I’ve been summoned to Hell… what the fuck am I going to…

“Y’all got any of that new alcoholic Mountain Dew ‘round here?”

Ohthankfuck. Only East Tennessee.

“Which one?” It’s a man’s voice this time, accent just as thick as the woman who asked the question. “They’s seven or eight diff’ernt flavors now.”

“Lord, I don’t know,” she responds, “but I sure like that Baja Blast they sell at the Taco Bell.” She pronounces the J in Baja, and I finally catch sight of my intended targets.

“Huh,” I say out loud, trying to decipher the complicated souls in front of me.

Frankie is written in sharpie on his weathered name tag, with Asst. Manager scribbled underneath. He’s average in every way—mousy brown hair, a bushy mustache under his crooked nose, and a faint impression of sunglasses on his sunburned skin.

Unremarkable, except for the dark soul that simmers beneath his surface. He’s not into serial killer territory—not yet, in any case—but his moral compass is definitely skewed. To him, things like cheating and lying are just what people do sometimes. Bar brawls are typical Saturday night entertainment.

Compared to my previous pairings, who were on the light end of the spectrum, his is intriguing. Barely contained shadows swirl inside him, and I forget discretion as I stare longer than I should.

“Why dontcha take a picture?” The woman’s drawl ignores the C completely, so it comes out as ‘ pitcher,’ and my eyes swing in her direction. “It’ll last longer.”

If I thought his soul was tainted, hers is worse. Murder might not be in her history, but it’s certainly not off the table for her future—sooner than later, even. She sneers at me. “Well? You onnathem mute boys?”

“I heard about that,” Frankie adds with an intellectual nod. “It’s because of them Yankees flooding in from New York and Warshington D.C.”

She nods in agreement. “And Cally-fornia. That’s what they’re sayin’ on the news.”

“Um, right, I apologize, and I'm just gonna...” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, hurrying into the next aisle while I take a moment to clear my head.

“What a fuckin’ weirdo,” the woman—Delilah—laughs, and the man joins her. “Now, about that Baja Blast…”

This is a predicament I hadn’t seen coming. Should've seen it coming, just didn't.

The Cupid doesn’t only match pure souls—recent politicians are proof of that—but handing such a gift to two people who seem so unworthy is profoundly unsettling. Why do they deserve love?

Micah’s words from class pop into my mind. “ You aren’t the judge of these souls, Azrael, you are matching those who would complement each other. ”

Dark souls taint pure ones. History has shown us that. We like to believe that someone’s light could brighten up the shadows in another, but true redemption is rare. In a sea of white, a single drop of black ink creates gray, but a drop of white in darkness disappears.

An evil soul’s influence on a virtuous one will corrupt, darkening it over time. That’s a fact.

Compatibility is vital. And these two? As much as I hate to hand over the key to happiness, they are compatible.

Remembering to stay hidden this time, I activate my glamour and peek around the aisle. Frankie and Delilah are still talking, their voices drifting in my direction. Their conversation has shifted from the latest Hillbilly Hooch to their plans for the weekend, so the magic didn’t lie—there’s already a connection brewing.

Arrow nocked, I aim towards Delilah, drawing on my lessons as I steady my breath. Air fills my lungs, and I hold it there, fingers ready to release.

“Excuse me, sir,” a deep voice rumbles, and it’s like slow motion as everything happens at once.

Frankie and Delilah both turn to stare at the newcomer at the exact moment the bowstring twangs softly. Fletching scrapes my cheek as I instinctually reach for another, my fingers wrapped around the shaft. A tall, broad-shouldered man steps forward, with smiling eyes, a thick dark beard and the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen.

So pure, it’s nearly blinding.

He flashes a giant, friendly smile, and Delilah’s eyes widen as much as mine do… right as my arrow lands true, piercing her square in the chest.

While she’s looking at him , not Frankie.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” I mutter, watching as her eyes glitter. “This is bad, this is… so bad.”

The newcomer clears his throat, his smile turning uncomfortable as she stares at him with stars in her eyes.His attention turns to Frankie, though his eyes dart back to her a few times. “Could you point me to the boxed cake mixes? Momma’s sick, so I’m in charge of my cousin’s birthday cake this year. Can’t say that I’m much of a baker.”

Frankie’s irritation shows as he jabs a curt hand behind him. “Aisle seven.”

The tall man nods his thanks, and I focus on him as he walks away. His name is Beau, and his soul is breathtaking—one that could be used as a doormat and still find something good in the muddy boots walking over him. He’s bisexual, but that part of him is buried so deep it might as well be fossilized.

Delilah speeds after him like a lost puppy, and I curse to myself. Of course she’s infatuated with Beau. Not only is he gorgeous, but she’s been hit with a heavy dose of Cupidity that’s erasing her already loose restraint.

Frankie is out of the picture, no thanks to me. She is too focused on her new prey to pay attention to the man she actually needs. Beau walks towards the cake mix, oblivious to the stalker trailing a few steps behind him.

I almost feel bad for her.

Almost.

She will obsess over him for the next few weeks, get her heart broken, then the effects of the arrow will wear off and she’ll move on with her life.

Karma is served through a handful of poetic justice.

A beat too late, I realize they’re walking right towards me. The crowd is too thick for me to teleport home, so I dig into my magic and focus it into hiding. It won’t make me invisible—that is saved for my wings and weapon. Glamour just makes me harder to notice and even harder to remember. A human can still see me, but the instant their attention shifts, the memory slips from their mind.

But there’s a factor at play I haven’t considered.

History.

“What are you doing here, ya weirdo?” I glance up to find Delilah staring at me as Beau does a double take, head whipping behind him in shock. Since she noticed me earlier, her attention snags on me easily, standing here gaping like an idiot.

“Hey,” Beau snaps, and my gaze flickers to him as my tongue ties itself in knots. “That’s not very nice.” He frowns at Delilah, and my heart kickstarts in my chest as his dark blue eyes find mine.

What a fucking disaster. I need to get out of sight and get the hell out of here before I find a way to mess up something else.

My mouth opens, an excuse still forming on my lips as I take a step forward, but Delilah has a different idea. Her foot kicks in front of mine and I trip, arms pinwheeling as I lose my balance.

I’m as graceful as a newborn foal on a good day, but with interference?

The clumsiest.

Beau dives to the rescue, grabbing me by my arms as I crash into his chest, and everything just fucking stops.

The world around me blurs at the edges, tunnel vision turning everything else into white noise. Electrified blood courses through my veins, branching out in lightning strikes from my toes to my fingertips. Beau’s hands on my skin are tiny conductors, creating static charges everywhere he touches me and drawing that lightning into concentrated bolts.

And my heart, that silly, useless, stupid organ, plays a wild rhythm on my ribs like a xylophone, each thud a tiny mallet against bone.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks, and even the sound of his voice makes my brain tingle.

My eyes fall to the ground.

To the arrow sticking out of my foot.

My gaze travels up his enormous body to those concerned eyes, deep as ocean waters.

“Uh oh,” I whisper.