Page 144 of Wicked Believer

I turn to find Azrael holding the half-drunk glass of whisky Lucifer abandoned on his desk. He splashes it into Lucifer’s face, but Lucifer doesn’t stir until Azrael hauls back and slaps him.

I sputter.

“Fucking hell, Reaper,” Lucifer growls, finally rousing as he paws at his cheek. “Next time use somethingbottomshelf.” He groans before he lurches to the side and spits out a glob of blood onto the office floor, from where he must have bitten his cheek.

Azrael ignores him. Abruptly, he grips Lucifer by his hair. Lucifer grumbles, attempting to swat him off as Azrael roughly pulls his head back, shining a penlight he snags from his back pocket into Lucifer’s eyes.

Meanwhile, all I seem capable of doing is standing there, my throat constricted with worry as I watch the Angel of Death manhandle my future husband.

Nowmightbe the time to say something.

“What the hell is going on?” I cross the room to Lucifer’s side, shouldering Azrael out of the way with a chastising frown as I perch on the edge of the armchair so I can get a good view of Lucifer.

His face is pale, the dark circles under his eyes I’ve been so concerned about even darker than usual. Some of the color’s returning to his cheeks, though his eyes are still hazy, and a clear sheen of sweat coats his skin.

I place my hand to his forehead, my eyes widening in shock as I realize ...

Holy hell. He’s burning up.

“What’s happening?” I ask, glancing toward Azrael. “Why’s he like this?”

Azrael looks toward me, a hint of confusion and then pity in his eyes, before he turns toward Lucifer. “You didn’t tell her?” he growls.

“Didn’t tell me what?” My eyes dart between them.

Azrael gives Lucifer a furious glare, like if he doesn’t start talking fast, Azrael will give him arealreason to pass out.

And to my shock, Lucifer actually listens.

“I lost my power,” he whispers softly, his eyes narrowing into thin slits as he casts daggers toward Azrael with them.

“Youwhat?” My gaze flits over him, my hands moving in tandem in search of what injury could have caused this.

Lucifer mumbles something unintelligible in Azrael’s direction as he pops open one of the buttons of his dress shirt before unceremoniously ripping it open the rest of the way. He lifts the undershirt he’s been wearing lately to reveal—

I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth.

His torso is covered in stitches. Dozens and dozens of them. Someone used a blade to run him clean through. The skin around the stitches is red and inflamed, like it might be infected, and over his heart there’s a new puckered scar from where Michael must have—

I gulp.

Where Michael branded him with his angelic sigil. Azrael’s been giving me lessons in more than just celestial battle training. He’s seen nine apocalypses now—yes,nine—and my coffee dates to go over the play-party details with Azmodeus have been, well, enlightening.

“He needs a doctor,” I say to Azrael. “Ahumandoctor. Now. This is infected.”

“I’ve never needed a bloody doctor in—”

I shoot Lucifer a furious look, and he falls silent. Uncharacteristically prudent.

“I’m on it,” Azrael says, before he disappears.

No wonder Lucifer nearly passed out. If he no longer has his powers, that likely means he doesn’t heal the same way he usually does, and if he doesn’t heal like usual, does that mean he’s ...

“Mortal,” he finishes my thought. “Yes, though only when I’m topside.”

My fingers shake as I trace over the raised lines of Michael’s sigil. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears gather in my eyes as I think of all the agony he must have been in.

Without me.