71. Levi
LEVI
The scent of BBQ brisket fills the silent cabin of my truck as I get us back on the interstate. “You seem annoyed.” Azrael’s words are both a question and a statement, and for some reason, I feel a tiny pang of guilt.
“Not annoyed, just... anxious.”
Azrael passes me a brisket sandwich, followed by a water bottle. “Pray tell.”
Steering with the top of my thigh, I partially unwrap the foil-backed paper to reveal the meat and semi-soggy bun.
Still better than an MRE.
I take a bite, speaking from around a mouthful. “You remember when I mentioned something about us blending in and trying not to attract too much attention?”
Azrael frowns. “That woman’s arteries are lined with plaque, and she’s, at best, got another eighteen months to live. I just wanted to usher in a little relief for her in the meantime.”
My food is swallowed on a heavy sigh.
I want to hate this guy so badly, and he’s making my efforts to do so an exercise in futility.
Azrael observes me as he tears into his own brisket sandwich. “And why, may I ask, do we need to sneak around like cat burglars?”
Violette stares straight ahead, resolute not to give anything away as she interjects. “Considering we aren’t exactly human, it would seem prudent.”
My heart thumps with affection at her attempt to save me from having to divulge the truth.
“Because I’m on my way to murder someone.”
Azrael huffs a laugh around another mouthful. “You could have told me that.” He juts a thumb at the shadow sitting silently behind us. “And I could probably save you the trouble.”
Hah.
“I don’t want to be saved the trouble. I very much embrace this trouble. I’ve been waiting twenty fucking years for this trouble.”
Azrael’s chewing slows. Swallows. “I see.”
A beat of silence passes. Violette’s hand lands on my thigh, administering a squeeze of solidarity.
Twisting in his seat, Azrael attempts nonchalance. “And what might this fellow’s name be?”
“I don’t have a name. Just an address.”
Azrael’s brows lift. “Which is?”
“369 Harbinger Lane, Sagaponack, NY 11962.”
A thoughtful look settles on Azrael’s face. “Interesting.”
I glance at him. “Is it?”
He lowers the sandwich to his lap and stares into the distance like he’s just lost his appetite.
“Not really. I just know someone who lives in the general vicinity.”
Violette’s attention shifts from the winding mountain road ahead of us. “Who?”
Azrael folds the wrapper closed over the half-eaten sandwich. His voice takes on a tone laden with aeons of disappointment and heartbreak, and the singular word is spoken on an exhausted sigh.
“Persephone.”