57. Levi
LEVI
There’s something so cozy about a bonfire. It’s soul-nourishing, really. Especially when it contains the corpse of your enemy. His shadow may be... alive. Somewhere. But Violette can’t perform courtship rituals, or marry Azrael if he doesn’t have a body.
Right?
That’s the logic I’m clinging to anyway.
Hopefully, if he has no body to return to, this so-called god will never return.
Perhaps he’ll reincarnate in another body and forget all about Violette.
And me.
I’m not even remotely surprised when an enormous wave of water crashes down on the fire as I hear Violette burst through the front door behind me.
I hang my head, not bothering to turn around, and brace for impact.
She surprises me, as per usual, by speaking in a cheerful tone—however false.
“You know, just when I thought you couldn’t possibly be any more charming, you decide to set fire to my front yard and perform a cremation.”
A grin causes the corners of my mouth to twitch, though I remain silent, as I watch her magic lift Azrael’s charred body from the smoking pile of wood. Her glare burns a hole into the side of my face.
“And oh, goodie, I see you’ve used the entirety of my winter wood stores.”
My head snaps up at that. Because, for some strange reason, I find the idea of her being cold more upsetting than committing murder.
“Don’t you use magic or something to?—”
My question is cut short at the sight of Azrael’s head, alive, gingerly cradled between Violette’s left arm and breast.
Fucking cunt.
My jealousy is dimmed only slightly by my shock. Something Violette scarcely notices by now.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, heathen, nothing replaces the warmth of a fiery hearth.”
What is this life?
Maybe this is all just some fucked up dream?
Maybe Beau spiked the water cooler with acid, and I’m just lying in Gideon’s barn having a feverish hallucination?
That seems a far more realistic possibility than whatever the fuck is happening here.
My human mind seems to be struggling to process this reality. At my stone-faced expression, Azrael smirks.
“You know, if you wanted to die, all you had to do was ask nicely.”
Violette growls as her hand smacks him atop the head. “Don’t you start, too.”
Azrael’s enormous winged shadow hovers just behind her and Azrael’s bedazzled head, jewels dangling prettily from his lobes—the juxtaposed cherry adorning this absolutely fucked mescaline dream.
“Nice earrings.”
It’s a lame response—humour to cope with the uncopeable, but Azrael’s face splits into a glittering white, fangy grin as he bursts into a laugh. When his laughter dims, his face nuzzles against Violette’s breast as he side-eyes me. “They are, aren’t they? She made them just for me.”
Violette smacks the top of his head again, but it does nothing to diminish his joy—despite being nothing more than a fucking cranium.
Violette places what’s left of his body in front of us. No more than a scrap remains of his clothing, and it’s doing nothing to conceal the anaconda lying between his legs.
Violette’s eyes land on it before leaping up to mine as I silently seethe, and Azrael’s grin widens like the smug fuck he is.
Violette clears her throat. “Don’t tell me you attempted to burn the collar with him?”
Mildly affronted, I pull it out of my back pocket.
“I’d sooner burn my own hand.”
My eyes slide to Azrael’s. “She made it for me”
I’ll be damned if Azrael?—
Suddenly, my hand is empty, and my collar is now wrapped around the rapidly healing wrist of Azrael’s right arm.
To add further injury, Azrael seems pleased. “Such pretty gifts you give me, darling. However, shall I repay you?”
“That’s my collar.”
Violette hits me with a glare. “It’s not your collar. Not after you said you would never love me or accept our bond.”
Guilt softens my growl. “I came here to make amends.”
She blinks, a maniacal grin tilting her lips as she speaks in a deceptively calm tone.
“Amends? You call this making amends?”
A scowl carves my face as my voice drops to a growl, all while Azrael watches our exchange with a placid expression—the way one does while dozing off to the horrors displayed on prime-time television.
“We were interrupted.”
She huffs. “And thank fuck for that, lest I have yet another lapse in my sanity.”
My laughter feels like gravel in my throat.
“You weren’t complaining when you were squirting all over me.”
She gives a bitter chuckle. “Truly darling, you possess the charisma of a soggy boot.”
The wittiest of retorts is poised on the tip of my tongue just as Violette lets out a shrieked, “NO!” A too-loud thump reverberates through my skull as my vision tunnels with fuchsia before narrowing to black.