Death is a Bitch

by Masters, Cate

  Just as Death had always known there could be no other in her heart than Azrael. “We’re here.”

  She guided him to the entrance and waited. He ran to the gate as it opened. Beneath the archway stood a youthful Jo. As she rushed up to him, the years dropped away from Harry until he appeared to be in his early thirties.

  At Death’s touch on her radio charm, strains of music swelled. Etta James crooned “At Last.” Harry and Jo glanced over, then stared into each other’s eyes, totally absorbed as they swayed to the song.

  Taking a soul never felt so satisfying.

  ***

  How had existence turned to shit? Since time began, Damien had fucked up countless times. Never with such overwhelming consequences.

  All because of her. Death.

  He slammed his glass onto the bar. “Another shot of tequila, por favor.”

  The bartender studied him while pouring. “You all right?”

  Damien tossed back the shot, relishing the burn along his throat. “No. But that’s what love does to a guy.”

  The bartender wiped the counter with a rag. “Yep.”

  “How did I let my heart overrule my head? I’d never thought twice about anyone else. But Death…mmm. Her beauty puts the moon and stars to shame. I’d have given her anything, stolen the colors from the rainbow to please her.”

  Brows knit, the bartender paused. “Death? A little harsh, aren’t you?”

  “Not as harsh as the ruins I once called my existence. Now I must dodge the other immortals or face gods know what.” His elbow slipped against the polished wood. “I can’t allow them to confine me, though I’d have happily kept Death company in her charm bracelet. Yeah, I could have made her so happy, if she’d let me.”

  The man’s stare hardened. “You in some sort of trouble, bub? ‘Cause I don’t need no trouble in my place.”

  Trouble? Only if the screw-up of all eternity counted. A laugh bubbled up in his throat. “Don’t mind me.” Tequila always loosened his tongue. He flashed a smile. “I’m rehearsing for an off-Broadway production.”

  The bartender gave a wary nod. “Right.”

  Damien knew what he was thinking: go rehearse somewhere else. Unfortunately, Damien was running out of ‘somewhere else’. He could sense them closing in on him. It was only a matter of time.

  Stifling a hiccup, Damien weaved toward the door. The question was: what would he do once they found him?

  He stumbled along the sidewalk, gratefully anonymous among the throng even at two a.m. Letting a fool’s grin fill his face, he yelled, “I love New York!”

  “Yeah.” A scruffy man gave the thumbs-up, then attached himself to Damien. “Show me a little love. Got a ten spot?”

  Shrugging the barnacle away, Damien laughed. “You think money will solve your problems?”

  Like a mirror image, the man matched his dodging and weaving steps. “Well yeah. A five, if you don’t have a ten. Come on.”

  Damien stopped short to study the man with disdain. He reached into his pocket and drew out a hundred dollar bill. “Here.”

  The man’s eyes lit with disbelief. “Wow. Thanks!”

  As soon as he clasped the bill in his hand, it burst into flames. “Sonofabitch!”

  Turning away, Damien spun into shadow, his laugh bouncing off the glass along the tall buildings.

  ***

  The universe never seemed so immense as when an immortal hid from punishment. Responding to petitions from humans needing aid in dealing with the passing of their loved ones, Azrael expanded his path to search for Damien and Sisyphus in out-of-the-way places. No one had seen or spoken to either.

  Lately, Death had made herself scarce, too. Of course, she had to catch up on the backlog of souls. Probably better that work kept them busy. Seeing her at the gathering, he ached to hold her. It had nearly destroyed him to walk away.

  Every time he’d so much as glanced at her, all he heard was Damien, whispering about how he and Death were a couple, though they kept it under wraps. How Damien fucked Death every chance he had. How Death had laughed when she’d admitted screwing Azrael to get him off her back about work. Damien forgave her, but he respectfully requested that Azrael not try to fuck his lady again, or he’d have to take the matter to the High Council for review. Sexual harassment wouldn’t look good on Az’s record, and so soon after his appointment, he’d said with a tsk tsk.

  Their first time together, he’d found the sex amazing. Just thinking about it made him hard and hungry for more. Could she truly be such an evil bitch? Or had Damien screwed him over with his lies? Azrael wanted to trust her, but for now, could trust no one.

  Lately, she was preoccupied, maybe even obsessed, with finding Damien and Sisyphus. It gave him time to breathe. Time to think. In any case, he’d never be able to pursue a relationship with her until they brought both king and demon to justice.

  Checking the log book only he and a few others in the business were privy to, Azrael scanned the listings, his index finger gliding down the stream of names, the infinitesimally thin parchment. The scroll disappeared beyond the gilded podium in an eternal roll, with the waiting souls’ names illuminated across the podium’s top.

  Far fewer names shone on the log than his previous check. Death had nearly caught up on her workload. She’d criss-crossed the border between worlds at a record pace, leaving a maze of fading light trails too entangled to follow. The consummate professional, she wouldn’t rest until she’d minimized the wait time of every last soul. She always ranked her work ahead of everything else. Including him. Tonight, the schedule put her at the home of a two-year-old who’d wandered outside at night and fallen into a pond. Azrael absently tapped the page. Death wouldn’t use the remote harvester for the child, though having to ferry the boy would upset her a great deal. A good excuse to be there for her. With her.

  He marked the soul’s identity and exited the chamber, his sandals barely touching the white marble floor. The gilded door sealed shut just as his wings finished grazing the jamb. Within seconds, he crossed the corridor, which emptied into the expansive foyer and finally the patio, the highly polished white marble gleaming under the stars.

  With a whoosh, his great wings unfurled and he shot into the sky, senses attuned wholly to the child. He soared at meteor speed, locked onto the Earth’s grid, landmarks diminishing in size. The United States, then Ohio, then Columbus. The northern outskirts. A development, a street. The house on the cul-de-sac, at its farthest point. Just beyond, the pond, a manmade sort. Soon to be filled in, he’d guess.

  A thin wisp of light floated like a glistening ribbon from the pond and disappeared into the depths of the sky. Gods. Either Death had recently arrived and waited out of sight, or he’d missed her by moments.

  He drew in his wings, ready to fly off, when a movement caught his eye.

  What was this? Two children? One stood beside the pond, staring at the smaller child, who lay face down.

  Goldfish darted through the water, less than a foot deep. But deep enough.

  Azrael knelt beside the boy and took his hand. When the child looked up, Azrael sent strands of reassuring energy flowing toward him to erase his confusion and sadness. “It’s all right. Go tell your parents.”

  The boy stared in silent acknowledgement, then ran to the house.

  A closer inspection of the toddler revealed his soul had already been taken. It must have been a narrow miss with Death. The ribbon of light now faded to near nothingness.

  Touching the child’s head, he graced him with an unfettered burial, one of the few blessings he could bestow. The emergency team who would find him, the funeral director who would prepare the body, even the counselors at the daycare the boy had attended, none would find any obstacles in fulfilling their duties because of his visit.

  Azrael bowed his head in a final farewell. In standing, he took flight, following the now invisible trail of light. He arrived at the Waystation for Souls in time to see Death releasing at least a dozen r
ecently deceased from her bracelet.

  “Death, I’m glad I found you.”

  She glanced up, but continued dispersing souls. “You were looking for me?”

  At that moment, the toddler appeared in a burst of light.

  “You harvested the boy.”

  Her mouth settled into a grim line. “It was his time.”

  “But you ferried him inside the bracelet?”

  Her brows knit above fierce eyes. “Yes.”

  Taken aback by her callous response, Azrael wondered aloud, “Would that have confused him or comforted him, being with so many other souls?” The process of dying had various effects on people. Some went willingly, others clawed to remain and howled their anguish.

  Death snapped her gaze to his, the glare within enough to wither another being. “You’re doubting my method?”

  “Not doubting. Merely stating my surprise.” And disappointment that he couldn’t assist her.

  Nostrils flaring, she widened her stance, shoulders square as if readying for battle. “Duly noted. Thank you for sharing your opinion, Azrael. Now if you’ll excuse me….” At a touch of her bracelet, her form thinned to a dazzling veil.

  “Death,” Azrael muttered on a breath, reaching for what remained of her.

  But she disappeared, leaving only a trail of glowing haze.

  ***

  Azrael doubts my professionalism? Hot tears stung Death’s eyes as she traveled through black space at the speed of sound. How dare he?

  “He had to know how many thousands awaited.” Relieving the burden equaled opening a dam, the flood nearly overwhelming her. Even now, her tattoo tingled with two new souls.

  In a blaze of blue, Azrael appeared beside her. “Where are you going?”

  “Do you need the specific location?”

  “I hadn’t finished telling you—”

  “Oh, yes. You definitely finished.” She spurred herself to greater speed.

  A huff sounded behind, and Azrael caught up to her. “How goes the search for Sisyphus and Damien?”

  Now he’s going to ream me out for not finding them? “Fine.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t been caught yet.”

  “I’m doing my best to find them, but it’s difficult with such a large backlog of work.” Her attempt to keep an even tone failed as her voice cracked.

  He swirled around her and flew inches from her, his face too beautiful for words. “I’d love to help. If you’ll let me.”

  She slowed, and he kept perfect pace.

  “All right.” It would be awkward working closely with him, but she welcomed all extra assistance in the hunt.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’m asking everyone to follow any suspicious leads, conduct searches… I haven’t had time to coordinate efforts.” The overwhelming burden of the dual tasks weighed on her like leaden armor.

  “Let me do it for you.”

  Resisting the urge to ask why, she let herself float and studied him. “But you have your own duties.”

  “As do we all. But if coordinating the available resources helps us find Sisyphus and Damien faster, it will be worth it. I’m skilled at such efforts. It’s part of my duties.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “I wouldn’t have offered.” The words he spoke sounded kind, but his face appeared pained.

  She resisted the urge to ask again what had gone so terribly wrong between them. “Thank you.”

  No one would accuse her of buckling under pressure. Not even Azrael.

  Chapter Nine

  A lead. Azrael’s wings snapped to readiness, listening to Tiel’s harsh whisper. The Watcher Angel clearly reveled in conveying this knowledge, his eyes darting as he spoke of sighting Damien in Paris.

  Azrael imagined Damien there, sidling up to a Parisian woman or three, forgetting his need to stay out of view. Lust would be the fool’s downfall. Disgust washed bile over his palate, wondering how many times Damien imagined Death in his embrace.

  The thought erased all courtesy. “When did you see him? What street?” Azrael blurted.

  Eyes wide, Tiel shrunk away. “Mere hours ago, my lord. Along the Rue de la Paix.”

  A bitter chuckle escaped Azrael. The irony, that Damien might contribute to his own discovery along a street named for peace. And that being a slave to fashion would make him a slave after capture in the fashion district. “Many thanks.”

  Azrael asked the trumpeter to sound the alarm, then shot down to the blue planet, a legion of angels in his wake. He first homed in on France, then Paris, then the shopping district. Azrael slowed his flight above the crowded street. With the intensity of an x-ray, he scanned the faces of passersby.

  If hours had passed since Tiel’s sighting, Damien surely would have bedded the females by now, and would have exhausted their lust. Maybe he searched for new lovers?

  His focus heightened at the sight of a tall male with layered black hair in a stylish, casual suit, strolling with a curvaceous woman, his hand snaked around her waist. Damien. Azrael flew ahead, landing inches in front of him.

  The man was whispering in the woman’s ear, so focused on seducing her he paid no heed to the rush of warm air, the flash of blue and purple. These were the only signals Azrael allowed, so no living mortals would notice him.

  The couple continued walking, unaware of Azrael’s presence.

  Curses. Not Damien. Any otherworldly creature would have seen the angels flocking through the skies, peering in the windows of apartments overtop the boutiques.

  His senses prickled, and Azrael turned toward the source.

  In the shop across the street, a black-haired man stood in front of a full-length mirror. Still as a statue, eyes blazing with fear and anger. Watching Azrael.

  There. Enjoy your frivolous pursuits while you are able, demon. Today marks your final day of freedom.

  Damien spun twice, leaving only a shadow where he once stood.

  No! Azrael signaled the other angels, who swarmed around the building. You will not escape. He’d never be able to face Death if the demon got away.

  A blur of black whirled from the back of the shop like a puff of smoke, and disappeared. In a heartbeat, the fleet of angels were on Damien’s trail, faster than a human eye could follow. Demons left sooty marks as they traveled. Smudges for the angels to track him through crowded streets, darkening as the sun sank below the city’s skyline. Through a restaurant kitchen, narrowly missing the workers, passing through the swinging doors to the tables full of diners, then out into the street again.

  Despite being outnumbered, Damien avoided their grasp.

  A smile widened his mouth. Notre Dame. Glancing at the nearest angel, Azrael nodded. The angel knew what to do.

  Circling the cathedral spires, he tapped each gargoyle on the head. Loud cracks resounded through the night. Stone softened to thick skin, eyes blinking after remaining open for centuries, stretching to relieve their stiff limbs, too long dormant. Wings snapped to their full span. One by one the gargoyles let out a screech that split the dusk before climbing into the red-streaked skies. The flock divided to swoop down each street, looking for Damien. He’d surely hear their screeches, inaudible to human ears.

  Azrael nearly passed the door of the rectory, but a familiar figure banged on it frantically, begging to be let in.

  The door opened, and Damien glanced back. “Sanctuary!” A surly smile curled his lips as he crossed the threshold.

  Sanctuary? No! Azrael sped to the door as it closed. Damn that demon, invoking the one thing not even an angel could trespass upon.

  Azrael stood at the threshold, barely able to contain his wrath and frustration. Sanctuary for now, demon. For now.

  ***

  The stench of purity rent Damien’s nostrils. He followed the priest to an inner office and sank into a chair, gagging on the sickening sweet bouquet of holy water staining the air.

  “Are you all right, my son?” The priest lai
d a hand on Damien’s shoulder.

  The touch seared through his clothes like a branding iron. He howled and shrank away. “No, stay away!” One more layer of disgusting goodness would destroy him. He wanted to puke, a great flood of putrid green like in The Exorcist, head spins and all, but then the priest would deny him his wish.

  Oh, so rich a revenge! To hide in a cathedral, revered by the holier-than-thou angels. Azrael would want to rip his head off. Damien could smell his hatred. That he was able to make the angel go against his do-gooder pledge made the demon want to happy dance.

  If only this priest would back off. He hovered like a vulture, as ready to tear into his heart as the others. “Please,” Damien forced out. “I can’t bear it.” Literally, dude. Your sanctimonious self is freaking offensive.

  The priest moved to the other side of the desk. “What can I do for you, my son?”

  Besides stop calling me ‘son’? Damien shot a glance at the windows. Whew. No one outside. “Others followed me. Meant me harm.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “No,” Damien blurted, stifling a laugh. Right, the police. Big help they’d be. “If I could sit here for a while, I’ll be fine.” Except for that painting of Jesus, glaring down at him from above the priest’s head. Hey, I’m not to blame. You created me like everything else. A foil for the angels, villains to make them look good. That’s why demons existed. Mayhem was encoded into their DNA. All part of the plan.

  “All right,” the priest said, sinking into his chair. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No.” Damien hung his head, hoping to appear distraught but mostly because looking at the priest hurt his eyes. So pathetically pious. Why the hell did he have to watch him like that? “If you have something to do, I’ll be fine.”

  “No, I have nowhere else to be.”

  Wonderful. So they could stare at each other like moon-eyed idiots. A giggle escaped.

  “If you’d like to talk….” The priest extended his hand, a gesture of invitation. Openness.