Page 50 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)
Chapter Forty-One
Lucifer
The Dead Sea Scrolls and other various family memorabilia, on loan from the Rockefeller Museum along with several more of my many museum contacts, have now taken over the space inside my study. I’m poring over one of the desecrated scrolls in a desperate, fevered search when Azrael enters the room.
“How are you feeling?”
I scowl. “Like Death warmed over.”
He frowns at the joke, his eyes tracking to where my hand nurses my rib cage. “I never envisioned you a scholar.”
“Clearly, you don’t remember any of my early obsessions between the fourth and twelfth centuries.” I take a step toward another artifact and wince slightly.
Healing at a mortal pace is bloody inconvenient, it seems.
Azrael nods thoughtfully, looking pensive. “I’m still convinced Arius and Constantine were secretly fucking.”
I smirk for the first time since last night. “Their chemistry was off the charts, wasn’t it?” I set down the sliver of ancient scroll I was holding as I look toward him. “How did she do?”
Azrael grumbles something unintelligible, clearly a bit perturbed that I asked, before saying, “She’s weak.”
“Of course she is.” I nod, turning back to my scrolls. “I’m learning that about humanity the hard way.” I shake my head. “Physically, she has a long way to go, yes, but mentally, I’d say that with a bit of training, perhaps someday she could—”
“Don’t insult me.” Azrael scoffs.
I look toward him then. Any jealousy he might have felt toward Charlotte isn’t particularly unexpected, considering our history, but I sense there’s more to it than he’s telling me.
Not that Death is ever particularly forthcoming.
The fact that he’s grumbled more than his customary two syllables is already a small feat.
Though I suppose when you haven’t seen someone in a few centuries, there’s quite a backlog.
I tilt my head to the side. “Is there something you’d like to share, Azrael?”
He remains quiet, contemplating, his gaze trained on the far side of the room. The perfect soldier at ease. “No.”
I draw closer, my right leg dragging a bit. “No, sir, you mean.”
Azrael’s eyes lock with mine, his jaw tight as we both go still. “I no longer answer to you that way.”
We glare at one another.
“No. No, I suppose you don’t,” I finally relent.
I abandon him as I return to my scrolls and the other loaned artifacts scattered about the room. The Book of Enoch. The Gospel of Judas. Even the Odes of Solomon and sections of the Gospel of Mary. Though I won’t pretend it doesn’t irk me that I must borrow my Father’s things.
I will reclaim what Michael has stolen from me.
As soon as I find who last had that ruddy spear.
When Azrael speaks again sometime later, I’m surprised to find him still there, watching me, but voyeurism was always one of his favorite things. “What is it you seek?”
“A family record.” I shrug. “Which of my angelic siblings last had control of the crucifixion blade.”
Azrael’s brows shoot up in an uncharacteristic show of surprise. “The Holy Lance?”
“One and the same.”
He’s quiet, neither of us saying anything. Then, almost reluctantly, he grumbles, “I ... might be able to assist.”
This time, he has my full attention.
“You’re offering to help me?”
This wasn’t part of our deal.
Death does favors for no one.
No one except for me.
Azrael glances away, his expression purposefully cold and distant. “Death follows wherever the blade goes.”
I smirk appreciatively. “And you would do that? Follow the blade to protect her?”
“Not her.” The piercing stare Azrael gives me is deliberate, one of cold fury. “If the blade is in play and you’re stripped of your powers, hers isn’t the only immortal life at risk.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I sigh, long and low. “You’re more sentimental than humanity ever gave you credit for, Reaper.”
“I could say the same, Deceiver,” he says, using the old nickname deliberately.
Reaper. Deceiver.
Lightbringer. Endbringer.
We once were both foolish enough to believe we were two sides of the same celestial coin. Though my Mother had other plans, it seems.
Despite that I’m no fan of fate, I can’t bring myself to regret those years.
I limp to the far side of my desk, casting the scroll aside and supporting my weight with my arms as I lean against the edge of its surface. “And my siblings?”
“Are you asking me to serve as your shield? For both Charlotte and you?”
“When I have my power back, which we both know that I will, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Azrael’s expression darkens.
I lift a single brow. “You’d do it for free?”
“Are you going to tell her?” he asks, instead of answering me. “About what you sacrificed for her?”
My spine goes cold.
I do not relish the idea of alerting Charlotte about my current ... predicament, the thought of her seeing me brought low.
“I’m not certain she would believe me,” I offer.
Not after all the ways I have lied to her.
To protect her.
It was never about anything more than that.
Azrael gives a curt nod like he understands me.
I cast him a sidelong look, considering him. “One would think you’d be more inclined to my brother’s bid for Armageddon, Azrael. You’re the final Horseman, after all. The Pale Rider. The Harbinger. Bringer of Ends.” I eye him up and down. “Wouldn’t the apocalypse suit you?”
Azrael shakes his head. “The others may be eager to spell humanity’s end when they awaken, but not me.”
I squint slightly, still unable to get a read on Death’s finer proclivities. “And why’s that exactly?”
Azrael’s eyes darken, more infinite and endless than mine will ever be. “Perhaps for the same reason you allow her to believe there is no bit of good in you, Radiant One.”
With that, he turns and disappears, leaving me standing there, still wounded and healing amid my family’s oldest heirlooms, lost in the past of more than one painful memory.