84. Levi
LEVI
As I make my way downstairs, I can hear the distant melody of Azrael’s sonorous voice humming—something ethereal yet somehow vaguely familiar.
It seems unfair that someone so seemingly perfect should also have such a beautiful voice, but I find myself swooning regardless.
My steps slow as I take a moment to decipher the hypnotic, haunting song that only an Egyptian Flute can produce as Azrael’s voice bends and slides to harmonize with deep, silken notes.
I step through the archway that leads to the expansive kitchen, and my breathing comes to a halt.
Shining through the panoramic windows, the sun casts Azrael in gilded light, illuminating the deep bronze tones of his skin—still shirtless. It even lends his dark hair a halo. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice me staring as he continues to sing while expertly de-seeding a pomegranate.
My voice is little more than a deep husk by the time I can manage to speak.
“Spend some time in Egypt?”
Azrael’s song wanes as he lifts his gaze to mine, lips quirking. “Quite a bit, actually.” Mischief dances in his gaze as he pauses and a grin parts his lips. “I may or may not have had something to do with some of their more renowned architecture.”
Holy fuck.
That dazzling smile fades a moment later.
“But I haven’t gone back since Cleopatra’s untimely death, Akash rest her soul.”
My brows leap. “You knew her?”
The Adam’s apple of his throat dips as sadness shadows his gaze. “She was my closest friend and confidant for many years.”
I don’t know enough about ancient Egyptian history to recall much about her death outside of suicide. Azrael accurately interprets the question in my eyes.
“I’d spent too much time there, and needed to go back to my realm—when I’m away from my domains for too long, my power and the vitality of my realms becomes jeopardized…”
He pauses for a moment, gaze growing distant, before he manages a sad smile.
“When I returned, only just under a year had passed in my realms, but on earth, fourty-four years had passed since she’d committed suicide to avoid becoming Octavian’s captive.”
This man has spent his entire life living my actual nightmare in perpetuity.
The urge to hold Azrael in my arms is borderline painful.
“Was Octavian still alive when you arrived?”
Setting down the pomegranate, fingers drenched in a bloody hue from its juices, his gaze darkens.
“Akash lent me the small mercy that he was. I ensured that his death was not swift, nor merciful. Though history will tell you it was from natural causes or that his wife poisoned him.”
The silence that settles between us is heavy, and he gradually returns his attention to the pomegranate.
My heart sinks as I speak the words, somehow intuitively knowing the answer.
“Are you able to visit her in one of your realms?”
He shakes his head as the stiff flesh of the fruit cracks beneath his fingers.
“She isn’t in either of my realms. She’s in Mors’ realm.”
Fuck.
I close the distance even as I hold back from asking anymore questions. He answers them anyway.
“A neighboring death god that, in many ways, is like an estranged brother to me. The dead of this world find their karma in Avernus–whether it be good or bad.”
He tosses the quartered pomegranate peels into the garbage before looking up at me again. The expression on his face suddenly grim with determination.
“While we’re on the topic of death... I would like to offer my blood to you as well. When the time comes.”
Emotion clogs my throat.
He cares what happens to me?
“Why?”
His throat dips again. Expression softening.
“I am an eternal, primordial god. At the very least, my blood would make you... less vulnerable. I might even selfishly hope that it might persuade some essential part of you to find me when, many millenia from now, you go to Mors’ afterrealm and are ready to reincarnate.”
Again, I feel this weight, drawing us together. Like gravity bending, shortening the distance between us.
His eyes dip to my lips, now only a foot or so away from his.
I feel like my heart is being gripped in his hand. I barely manage to draw breath as I hover in the space between fear and fuck it.
My brows tense as I draw in a steadying breath. “Az…”
Insecurity causes his gaze to falter, and he quickly passes me the knife handle-first.
“Here, wanna finish cutting up the fruit while I check on the quiche?”
If my heart wasn’t squeezing in pain, I’d laugh at the revelation that the God of Death makes quiche.
Purposely letting my fingers graze his, I grasp the handle of the knife.
My heart flutters.
His throat dips.
“I would... search for you. Ask Mors to help me find you when I reincarnate.”
Fuck, I feel like an idiot. Why would I say that?
He gives me a smile that seems burdened by eons of heartbreak. Eons of experience.
“That’s... sweet of you to say.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Azrael must see it because his expression softens. The backs of his fingers brush mine where they rest on the counter. “Not because I doubt you, darling. You just... won’t remember me.”
Fuck.
Why do those words—that thought–hurt so much?
“There’s a river there, called Oblivion. In order to reincarnate, you have to drink from it so that the soul may be birthed anew, unburdened by memory.”
The admission has grief spreading through my chest.
I don’t want to forget him.
I might barely know him, but I feel tied to him in ways of which I have no words.
I set the knife down. Heedless of the pomegranate juice coating his fingers, I drag him against my chest. The action not unlike the way I might pull Beau or Gideon into a bro hug. It isn’t my intention to make it feel so platonic, but I don’t know how to hug a male any other way.
Much less kiss them.
My heart thumps heavily in my chest—right against his–as he settles against me; arms wrapping around my waist before bracing his arms against my back. Azrael’s chest expands on a deep sigh that, to me, signals relief.
The fullness in my chest threatens to spill over and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to quell it.
I am so fucked.