Chapter 10 – AZAREL
AZAREL
The stench hits me even before I reach the entrance. Unwashed bodies, their fluids, and every illicit substance to ever exist.
I pull my scarf higher over my nose even though it does little to filter the assault on my senses. It's the only thing about my outfit that could possibly mark me as Surhiiran, but the crude material should blend in just fine in this shithole.
This underground market, this den of depravity, is exactly the kind of place I've spent my entire military career either avoiding or eliminating.
And now, I'm voluntarily walking into it.
For her.
I adjust the civilian clothes I've procured. They're simple, unremarkable garments that won't draw attention like my uniform would. The cilice remains wrapped around my forearm beneath my sleeve, the barbs biting with every subtle movement.
The sting is a constant reminder of my purpose. Of what I fight for. And the fact that once all is said and done, I must atone for every action. Every omission.
The entrance to the black market is marked by nothing more than a rusted metal hatch partially hidden beneath a collapsed building. Two bored-looking guards stand nearby, casually checking those who enter and exit. I could take them both down in seconds, but stealth serves me better here.
I hand over a few coins when they extend their palms, not bothering to speak. They barely glance at me before waving me through. Such lax security. This entire operation should be razed to the ground.
The corridor descends sharply, the air growing colder and danker with every step.
The poorly maintained lighting illuminates little more than the thick layer of grime clinging to the walls.
All it takes is one look around to know that if Cosima did end up here, it was out of sheer desperation.
She enjoys the finer things in life, and this is the polar opposite.
I emerge into a vast cavern that stretches farther than seems possible underground.
Stalls and makeshift shops crowd every available space, with narrow alleyways snaking between them.
The noise and stench is instantly overwhelming.
Bartering, arguing, laughing, and music blaring from establishments I don't care to identify.
The very thought of Cosima being forced to endure this cesspit makes my blood boil.
And the monster, the one Lex described…
Is it still hunting her?
I can't help but think of the monster she's always described in her dreams. I never believed those were real visions of something that actually exists. And yet I find myself praying in spite of everything that it's only a coincidence.
Because in those dreams, it killed her.
I force my rage down, lock it away. Emotions cloud judgment, and I need my senses sharp.
"Fresh meat, weapons, pleasures of the flesh!" a vendor calls out as I pass. "Whatever poisons your soul craves, friend!"
I ignore him, shouldering through the crowd. Eyes follow me. Suspicious, calculating, predatory. I'm an outsider, and they can smell it. Much like a pack of wolves can smell prey.
But I am no prey.
I stop at what appears to be an information booth, where a beta with more tattoos than visible skin sits hunched over a flickering terminal.
"I'm looking for someone," I say without preamble.
The beta doesn't look up. "Aren't we all."
I place a handful of coins on the counter. That gets his attention.
"Nikolai Vlakov," I say. "He operates out of the airfield. I have reason to believe he's come here."
The beta's eyes dart to the coins, then back to my face. He shrugs. "Never heard of him."
Lying. His pupils dilate and he shifts slightly in his seat.
"I'm also looking for an omega," I continue. "Silver hair, violet eyes, in her twenties. Vrissian. She would stand out, even in a place like this."
A light enters the beta's eyes. Recognition. My heart rate increases, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Haven't seen anyone like that," he says, turning his attention back to his terminal. "Though if you're looking for a silver-haired omega, we've got some at The Alabaster. Wigs, but good enough you won't know the difference."
It takes every ounce of self-control not to reach across the counter and crush his windpipe. The very suggestion that I would settle for some facsimile, some pale imitation of my mate, is beyond insulting.
"I'm looking for a specific person," I say coldly. "Not a replacement."
The beta shrugs again, scooping up the coins. "Can't help you then."
He's still lying. But pressing further here would only draw attention.
Seething, I continue through the market, stopping at various stalls under the pretense of examining wares while gathering information.
Most vendors clam up when I ask about Vlakov or an omega matching Cosima's description.
Some nervously glance toward what I assume is the direction of whoever runs this operation.
Others simply pretend not to hear me at all.
The black market operates on its own code, its own rules. And rule number one seems to be protect their own.
My frustration builds with every dead end, every lie, every evasive answer. She's been here. I can feel it in my bones, in the marrow of my being. The mate bond may be subtle without a mark, but it exists.
And it guides me still.
I find myself in a quieter section of the market, where the stalls give way to more permanent structures—small shops carved directly into the cavern walls.
One of them catches my eye. A storefront displaying an array of wares, from small statues to clothing to elaborate constructions of metal and leather.
I enter the shop, ducking beneath hanging displays. An elderly woman sits in the back, her knobby fingers mending a relic of a sword with surprising dexterity. She doesn't look up as I approach.
"Excuse me, madame. I'm looking for information," I say.
"You and every other asshole," she replies in a weathered voice. Seems she isn't an open book, either.
"I'm looking for someone," I clarify. "An omega in her twenties with silver hair. Violet eyes."
The old woman finally looks up, her gaze sharp despite the milky film. She studies me intensely, tilting her head back to peer through her spectacles down her nose at me even though I'm standing over her.
"You're a soldier," she says. Not a question, but a statement.
I've been careful to adopt a more casual stance, to blend in. My uniform is gone, replaced by nondescript clothing. "What makes you say that?" I ask, frowning.
Her laugh is more like a bark. "The way you stand. The way you walk. Like there's a stick up your ass." She returns to her work. "Soldiers all walk the same. You can dress like a commoner all you want, young man, but you can't hide from this old lady."
I don't know what to say to that. Especially the part about the stick.
"I'm looking for an omega," I repeat, refusing to be distracted. "She may have been traveling with an alpha. Tall, possibly wearing a metal mask." I hesitate, then add, "Or she might have been alone."
The old woman's hands still for just a fraction of a second. It's so subtle, I would have missed it if I hadn't been watching closely. She knows something.
"Haven't seen anyone like that," she says, her tone dismissive.
I reach for my coin purse. "I can make it worth your while."
Her head snaps up, her good eye blazing with unexpected ferocity. "Keep your coin," she spits. "Shop's closed. Get out."
"Please," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "I need to find her. She's in danger."
"I said get out." The old woman rises, pointing a painted finger toward the door. "Before I call someone to throw you out."
I hold her gaze for a long moment, weighing my options. I could press harder, but something tells me it would only make her more resistant. And I can't afford to make a scene. Not yet.
"Very well," I murmur, turning to leave.
As I exit the shop, I'm certain of one thing. Cosima has been here. The old woman's reaction was too strong, too immediate. She's protecting something, or someone.
But why? What connection could an elderly shopkeeper have to my mate?
"Gifts for your lover!" a voice calls out as I pass another stall. "A handsome man like you must have someone special!"
I pause, turning toward the voice. A vendor with a smile too wide to be trustworthy gestures at his wares, an assortment of trinkets and jewelry spread across a tattered blanket.
"Something beautiful for the beautiful woman in your life?" he continues, holding up a pendant that catches the light. "Silver for silver hair, perhaps?"
I stiffen. There's no way that's a coincidence. Which means word that I've been asking around about Cosima has traveled quickly through this gutter. The man's smile doesn't falter, but there's a darkness behind his eyes that makes me wary.
"I'm not interested," I say, starting to turn away.
"Something else, then?" he persists. "I've got scarves, knives, and whores across the way, if you're tired of looking."
Before I can respond, something light brushes against my hip. I reach immediately for my coin purse only to find it gone. A flash of movement catches my eye. A small figure darting through the crowd.
"Stop! Thief!" I call out, pushing through the throng of market-goers.
The boy glances back, my coin purse clutched in his dirty hand. He flashes me a devilish grin and flips me off before slipping into the crowd and vanishing between the stalls.
He's quick, but I'm quicker.
My hand shoots out, catching him by the back of the shirt, and when he whips his head around to bite me, I grab his wrist. His shrill cry pierces the air, but he still isn't letting go of my coin purse.
"Let me go!" he shrieks, twisting like an eel.
The commotion draws attention. Heads turn, and I see other children—three of them—converging on us from different directions. A coordinated effort.
"Please, mister," one of them, a smaller girl with hair bleached white by the sun, begs. "Let him go. He didn't mean nothin' by it."