Chapter Twelve
Azrael Arceneaux raised a sleek, manicured eyebrow above the sparks coming off the welding torch he held close to his unprotected face the moment Schuyler spotted him upon arriving at the barn Azrael had reclaimed into a multifloored art studio.
Azrael cocked his head back, licking his thin lips into a welcoming smile.
Artist, activist, and Schuyler’s ex, Azrael had carved out a niche spot in the art world for themselves.
Never hid his sexuality, his identity, or his craft.
His art moved—and offended—in every form of media he dabbled in, and as such, he’d stretched fifteen minutes of fame into thirty, gaining no small amount of notoriety.
Interviews, magazine covers—he even claimed to be friends with Stevie Nicks for a time—but the full shine of such celebrity had dulled.
Azrael was volatile, hot-headed, and dedicated only to himself, art, advocacy, and sex.
They dated briefly when Schuyler was in his mid-thirties.
Their sex was hot and intense every time—a tryst in a bathroom once burnt down a truck stop in Tuscaloosa.
Schuyler lost himself with Azrael, easily regressing to his wild twenties anytime he was with Rae, his personal term of endearment for Azrael.
From the deep south, Cajun born, bayou raised, Azrael maintained a firm grip on the dark magic that made him ooze gothic sensuality.
His angelic yet angular face, sharp, with a spotty yet seductive beard, and a slim, fit, hairy body to match.
Tatted and pierced, with dark eyes and thick hair, he possessed an even thicker accent—one that could open anyone’s legs after five minutes of conversation.
It was a drawl he had never lost, despite not having lived in the South for over a decade.
Their relationship had lasted a steamy and eventful year before Schuyler called it off. The crew Azrael ran with were on another level, and as much as Schuyler enjoyed a good time, a full-time party-lifestyle and a writer’s lifestyle did not mesh.
There had been an incredible amount of fun in the year they dated, but the low times, especially the fights, were epic and often.
Even when warranted, Sky did not have the stomach for fighting; he’d heard too much of it from his parents before living with Beau and Marshall.
He would throw down, if pushed—and Rae’s irrational, dark magic-filled states did push him.
The breakup wasn’t as messy as Schuyler had feared.
The friction and anger he expected then arrived a couple of years later, when he fully ended the sexual side of their relationship.
Their sex had become an addiction he needed rehab from.
Rae made his displeasure over losing his lover clear, throwing curses and nearly threatening Schuyler to a duel.
With time, tempers faded, anger cooled, but their yearning for one another never ceased.
They found a way to coexist, and every so often, the Goddesses placed them in each other’s path.
Schuyler had not expected this to be one of those times.
Not with Issac along. Certainly not post-threesome with a Voodou Priest.
The way Issac had held him during the ritual sent a range of feelings flooding through Schuyler, nearly overcoming him.
A kinetic warmth came from Issac’s touch, and Sky’s body had reacted more strongly than he anticipated, welcoming him more deeply than he’d allowed anyone since his ex.
The butterflies had hopped back on their brooms and were once again zooming around his stomach.
Was there a future with him? So many times, he had referred to Issac as a kid in his head, noting a juvenile annoyance, but after a few times, he stopped minding the infractions. People grow. People change. Maybe he’d want a life in Bairwick. Maybe there was something worth pushing for with him.
Over the sound of multiple people welding to rock music, Schuyler warned Issac—something he’d wished he could have done before Papa ported them over. “I want to tell you this is another friend of mine.”
“I guessed that,” Issac replied slyly. “Didn’t realize you were so popular. I see guys all over giving you that little smile as they pass us. I know what that smile means.”
“I’m friendly. Seriously though, this isn’t some buddy—he is a legit ex.
And Azrael can be very intense. He enjoys making things uncomfortable.
It amuses him. And I love Rae, he’s a great person, a talented artist, but he’s a dark witch, first and foremost, and things will always remain a little messy between us.
” Schuyler hesitated. “There is a good chance any terms presented to us for the dirt are going to be unreasonable.
“I want to help you, but I cannot owe Azrael Arceneaux any favors. I’m sorry.” Schuyler worried what Issac’s reaction would be, but there would be no outcome where Schuyler would be indebted to Rae.
Issac reached out and grabbed his arm lovingly with a squeeze. “It’s okay, I wouldn’t ask you to. We’re resourceful. We’ll just see what he wants and go from there.” Issac fell silent when Azrael began walking toward them.
Schuyler recognized the messy, paint splattered dickie overalls and Timberlands, and saunter in his walk, all too damn well.
Azrael let down his reddish-brown hair; it was several inches longer than when Sky had last seen him.
“Oh, hell” Azrael proclaimed, opening his arms. “Been a time since I seen yous. You like it like that though. No love for me, your one true.”
“Hello Azrael,” Schuyler said, embracing him but dodging the kiss Rae tried to place on his lips, aiming for the cheek instead—which Azrael noticed.
“Cher? What this? ‘Cause of him o’there, yeah? Who are you?” Azrael let go and slid over to Issac, circling him like a shark. “I smell the Gris-gris on yous. Straight from Oddie, huh?”
“Rae, Papa told us you may have-”
“The cemetery dirt—I do, I do, Cher,” he replied, the top of his overalls sliding around as he continued to circle them, showing off his tatted chest and pierced nipples.
“You see my new art, love?” Azrael motioned around to the four black gothic spires, in the process of having their accoutrements being welded on: bulbs, skulls, and various Celtic crosses.
“I don’t know what it is, yeah? Or what I’m trying to say.
Maybe it’s, ‘I hate Capitalism,’ but it’ll be some’ting powerful, yeah.
” He swung his head back around to Issac.
“Which brings me to why you need some’ting so powerful yourselves. ”
“For a spell,” Issac responded flatly, but with enough sass to provoke Azrael a tiny bit more.
Schuyler was proud, impressed, even, watching Issac not only holding his own against an imposing presence like Rae but also throwing it back. Issac kept his face like stone, shifting only his indifferent eyes in Rae’s direction.
“A spell,” Azrael mimicked, “well hells bells co’rse ‘for a spell. That don’t answer a dam’ thing to me. Why this dirt? This some’ting special, yeah? You even know what it is you askin’ for?”
“My uncle apparently operated with some unique tastes. We listen, and we don’t judge in our family. But no, he did not expand on the dirt at all.”
Azrael never stopped moving around them. He flung his head in Schuyler’s direction. “How them aunties?”
“They’re fine. I’d say they send their regards, but they don’t like you.”
“E’ryone’s a critic.” The overly animated Azrael spun back around to Issac. “Yous wantin’ dirt from the oldest, most haunted cemetery in the world, yeah? And dunno why? That’s hilarious.”
“I’m a humorous guy,” Issac replied. “I don’t know anything about the cemetery, or the dirt, and I don’t see why it’s your business.”
Azrael jumped back playfully, feigning being hurt. “Ooooo weeee, the sass on you, yeah? Yous in my studio—all this my fuckin’ business. What yous askin’ got a steep price attached. Yes, siree.”
“Rae, this once, for me, can’t you–”
“No, Cher,” he said sweetly but curtly. “Not this one, and not for him. Imma need some’ting valuable for what I got.”
“It’s dirt Rae, not like it’s precious.” Schuyler questioned. “I’ve never even heard of this cemetery, Rae—not until today. You could be peddling shit from the backend of this farm for all we know.”
“The nerve of you. I would neva’. Well, at least not to you. Few have heard of the cemetery, Cher, few have. He knows about the place tho, don’t ya lil’ thing?”
“I already made it clear, I don’t.”
Azrael mimicked his response again. “That so?” He stopped in front of him and gave a fake lunge.
Issac didn’t react. But Azrael did, laughing wildly.
He spun again; every time his movements were directed at Schuyler, there was no animosity, unlike with Issac.
He was relaxed—the most loving version of himself, the one he reserved only for Schuyler.
“You miss me at all? Them lonely nights? You come home but you don’t call? ”
“Rae,” Schuyler warned as he backed away from the leering Azrael, “I’m asking nicely.”
“And I’m saying nicely, the boy knows some’ting he ain’t tellin’, don’t he?” Rae zipped back around and threw another fake lunge, but Issac still did not flinch. “Whatcha know?”
“That apparently you’re an asshole.”
Schuyler laughed at the deadpan delivery.
Azrael only sneered, then stepped back to Schuyler. “The Spyders Gate Cemetery ain’t no joke, Cher, and neither is that dirt. You ain’t asked why he want it?
“It got eight gates, yeah? Something in the center, mais they say you can’t get to there though. After you pass each gate, the place gets worse and worse. Guardin’ some’ting, mais ain’t no one know though. No one can get past all them gates. Spooky shit even for us witches.
“Now you know. So, guess what it took to get some dirt from there, yeah? And yous want me to hand it over, for nothin’? Come now love, you don’t ‘xpect I was gonna do that? Especially not for some mystery boy here.” He glared at Issac.