43. Chapter Forty-Three
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
MORTE
M y hands shake as I press a kiss to Azazel’s forehead, my tears staining his cheek where they fall in earnest. “Come back to me,” I whisper.
Az’s body lies still on the ritual table, pale and lifeless. My fingers trace his tattoos, his piercings catching the light as I summon fae lights above us so I can see better now that the sun has slipped below the horizon.
His eyes remain closed, a stillness to his form that fills me with a sense of dread. The absence of his usual spark, his larger-than-life presence, leaves an ache deep in my chest. My fingers brush his jaw, and for a moment, I pretend he’s only sleeping—that any second, his eyes will fly open, his lips twisting into that warm smirk he only reserves for Emeric and me.
Aggonid moves to the other side of the platform, shadows gathering at his feet, restless. They writhe, as though desperate to reach out to me, but he keeps them in check. Caius stands at the foot of the stone slab, his focus pinned on Azazel, fascination mingling with hope in his narrowed eyes.
Emeric and Wilder crowd around me, offering a comforting warmth at my back, their hands braced on the table .
I place Azazel’s soul in the carved recess of the altar beside him, its warmth slipping from my grasp, leaving an ache in its absence. It shivers, a pale glow emanating from within, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat struggling to find its rhythm.
Aggonid gestures for me to take my place. He stands across from me, Wilder and Emeric spreading out on either side, forming a circle around Azazel’s body. A cold draft sweeps through the room, swirling around us, lifting Aggonid’s shadows until they stretch like tendrils, reaching across the room, binding us in this ritual.
My soul bond’s deep voice cuts through the quiet, the words ancient, the language harsh against my ears, each syllable carving through his usually smooth bass. The fae lights darken, and shadows thicken around us. Wilder’s hand shifts to mine, a gentle squeeze that steadies me as Aggonid’s powerful chant crescendos, filling the room, and reverberating off the walls.
I draw in a sharp breath, lifting my other hand to hover over Azazel's tattooed and pierced chest, right where the giant black X resides. Quickly, I drag a blade over my palm, and I turn my throbbing hand, letting blood drip onto Azazel’s skin. It seeps into him, crimson lines spreading, each droplet an offering—a call to bring him back. The soul beside him pulses in response, light within brightening as it reacts to the blood, almost as if reaching for him with the tendrils.
Emeric speaks next, his voice smooth, melodic, weaving through Aggonid's guttural incantations. He calls upon the River of Souls, demanding it release what belongs to us. His words carry power, resonating deep within me—a pull that thrums through the air.
Shadows tighten, Aggonid’s stare locking onto mine. This needs to work. For Azazel. For all of us. I press harder against Wilder's hand, and I close my eyes, drawing on the magic that lives within me—the ancient, untamed fire that courses through my veins, craving freedom, demanding to consume.
Heat blooms beneath my skin, a spark igniting in my core, and I channel it into Azazel. Magic flows through me, scorching, raw—it meets the shadows twisting around us, merging with the darkness, threads of power weaving together, wrapping around Azazel’s immobile form. The glow of his soul flares, light intensifying as it spills over Azazel’s sternum, tendrils reaching, reaching?—
The air shivers, and then the glow bursts outward, blinding. I feel it—the connection between us all, thrumming through the magic, a shared energy pulsing, stronger and stronger until it reaches Azazel’s heart. My breath catches in my throat as his chest rises—a shallow, hesitant inhale, but movement.
Life.
Giant tears spill down my cheeks, and I don’t dare breathe, for fear of snuffing out his light.
Aggie’s shadows undulate, almost sighing in relief, and his voice softens, shifting to a low murmur as he finishes the incantation. Em’s chanting slows, his voice trailing off as he keeps his eyes fixed on Azazel. My stare locks onto Az’s face, and I lean forward, every inch of me aching for him to open his eyes, to look at me—to show me he’s still here.
His fingers twitch, just barely, and then his deep blue eyes open, the silver of his irises dulled but unmistakable. His eyes find mine, unfocused, and I swallow the sob building in my throat.
“Az?” I whisper, barely a breath, my hands trembling over him.
His lips part, a faint, raspy sound escaping—a whisper of something that could almost be my name. Wilder’s hand tightens around mine, and Emeric lets out a bark of laughter, eyes glistening, shoulders sagging in relief. “Welcome back, brother,” he murmurs.
Aggonid leans forward, shadows retracting as he reaches out, brushing against Azazel’s pulse, expression softening.
Caius claps his hands together, the sound sharp, breaking the fragile moment. “Well, look at that. The bastard lives. Now, let’s make sure he stays that way, huh?” He grins, teeth flashing, tail flicking as he moves closer, an assessing gaze roaming over Azazel.
I let out a breath, tears slipping down my cheeks as I look at Azazel, heart thundering against my ribs. He’s here. Weak, barely hanging on—but he’s here, and that’s all that matters.