67. Levi
LEVI
Dressed in nothing but a loose-fitting silk robe, Violette gives Azrael and me a saccharine smile.
“Sweet dreams.” She punctuates her words by swiftly shutting the bedroom door before either of us can issue a protest. Azrael and I exchange a look just as a large pile of sheets, blankets, and pillows appears out of thin air and thumps to the ground between us, followed by... pajama pants?
Head unmoving, Azrael’s eyes dip towards the mound of linens. “Would you mind getting that? I’m afraid that if I bend over, I might... lose my head. No pun intended.”
I snort, bending at the waist to retrieve the pile. “Am I supposed to make your bed, too?”
“It’s the least you could do considering you beheaded me and I let you live.”
I grumble something—I’m not even sure what—turning to make my way back to Violette’s living room.
The moment we stepped out of Gideon’s house, Violette immediately told Azrael our plan and began supplying logical reasoning for our road trip and why it was a good idea, as if she needed to hear it herself; needed to be reassured this wasn’t going to turn into a complete disaster.
“You never really know someone until you either travel together, commit a crime together, or experience trauma together.”
Lucky for us, we’re about to experience all three.
Azrael, to my surprise, seemed oddly excited by the idea. Even with me being there.
And she didn’t even prompt me to divulge the original inspiration for this misadventure... killing my father’s usurper.
Azrael follows me into the living room, tailed by his shadow. The three of us stop short of the loveseat that’s far too small for either of us. I drop the pile of sheets and pajamas onto the couch—quickly realizing there’s only one blanket hidden beneath the gratuitous number of throw pillows.
“Goddamn it.”
Azrael twists, angling the top half of his body so that he can trail the source of my scowl.
“Any chance you can make more blankets appear?”
He huffs a mirthless laugh. “Nope.”
“But you made that dress for Violette.”
“Ah. That would be his doing,” he gestures vaguely towards his looming shadow, “As I previously explained, when you relieved me of my head, my energetic body remained intact and took most of my magic with it.”
“But isn’t he you?”
“Yes... and no.”
Azrael sighs, angling himself towards his shadow.
“Would you be so kind?”
His shadow doesn’t move. Just stares, its gaze dancing slowly between the two of us.
Azrael gives it a displeased smile. “Splendid.”
“So with the dress…”
“I willed him to do so, but it appears that the longer my energetic body remains out of my corporeal body, the more separate from me he becomes, and thus, less inclined to heed my desires.”
“... And what happens if he separates entirely?”
Azrael heaves a sigh, eyes squeezing shut as he brings his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No fucking clue, but I’m sure everything will be fine.”
His words lack the conviction I don’t feel.
“Fine?”
“Fine. Not fine. Pain. No pain. I try my best not to worry about things beyond my control.”
Interesting choice of words considering he’s a god, but apparently even he has his limits.
I give a noncommittal grunt and resume spreading out the sheets and blanket. Although I’m not even sure whose bed I’m making: mine or his.
In my peripheral vision, I can see Azrael beginning to peel clothing off his heavily muscled form. With each article shed, the strange, brewing tension in my chest grows, and it takes more effort than it should for me to complete the simple task of bed making.
Just as I finish and straighten, Azrael drags his boxer briefs down his narrow, sculpted hips to reveal a trim patch of dark hair that leads to a long, thick cock some shades darker than his bronze skin.
Suddenly, I can relate to a lonely grape left to dehydrate into a raisin beneath the heat of the sun, because dear God—all the fluid in my body seems to evaporate...
or at least travel south, and much too far away from my rational mind that is now failing to supply the myriad of reasons why I hate this man.
When my eyes linger for a breath too long, Azrael notices, but in a bizarre and undeserving display of politeness and humility, he says nothing. Just clears his throat and proceeds to massage his brow as he continues our conversation as if he didn’t just catch me ogling his enormous dick.
“I am older than I can count, literally; have been alive, in one form or another, since before the birth of this world... Most worlds. Physical, anyway. Not only that, but I am a god that presides over death. Death and endings…”
Dropping his hand, his gaze meets mine, glistening as he releases a heavy breath.
“You cannot begin to fathom the horrors I have witnessed—the birth and death of countless worlds, countless people. Countless... loved ones. Which speaks nothing for the near infinite versions of myself that have been birthed continuously throughout my own evolution. Versions of myself that I cannot even recall.”
Azrael must see something in my expression that makes him catch himself. Compassion perhaps. Or my tiny human mind being blown away.
He straightens—carefully, so as not to jostle his precariously glued head—clearing his throat, offering me a smile weighed down by resignation. “After all that, what’s a little beheading?”
The silence is heavy between us, and I get the feeling this guy is a hair away from having a breakdown, so I offer the only consolation I can give.
“At least it’s not your dick.”
A surprised laugh rumbles from Azrael’s chest, the smile on his face true. “A merciful fate, indeed.”
As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something... affable about Azrael.
Unhinged, but affable.
And if he weren’t trying to court my soulbound, I’d probably like him. Would probably be inwardly geeking out at meeting someone I’ve read countless variations of in mythology and comic books.
My stomach seems to form a knot at the realization.
Silver lining: my slightly thickened cock is completely soft in the wake of Azrael’s depression. With the beds made and my desperate need to end this bizarre fucking day, I yank my shirt over my head.
Azrael offers me the other pair of pajama pants.
I shake my head, tugging down my jeans and underwear before I kick them aside.
“I sleep nude.”
When I look up again, it's to find a certain softness in Azrael’s gaze as his eyes unabashedly rake over me.
Unlike me, he has no shame in admiring my body—or my dick and the tattoos that drift down to the base of my cock.
Even as it begins to thicken again. My cheeks flame with the unfamiliar sensation of embarrassment, and the all-too-familiar sensation of shame.
Perhaps I should take those fucking pajamas.
My gaze locks with the floor as I reach for them. The action is done so abruptly that it causes my fingers to graze his.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself while completely ignoring the tingling it inspires in the head of my dick.
I yank the pajamas on, wishing God would strike me down with a bolt of lightning if only I didn’t have to endure a moment more of this humiliation.
I take it as a small mercy when I hear a loud thump hit the floor behind us, severing the back-breaking tension between us.
We both turn to find, lying at the feet of his shadow, a small, dark green leather-bound book engraved with whorls of gold and an illustration of two people—both bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Violette with their wings, horns, and tails—holding hands, heads bowed towards one another.
The words above it are in a script I can’t read.
Azrael’s shadow stares at me.
My gaze slides in question to Azrael.
“I think he’s giving you a gift.”
My brow pinches with suspicion, but I squat to pick it up.
Opening it, the soul-soothing scent of old book fills my nostrils as I scan the pages.
Foreign script coupled with beautiful, intricately detailed illustrations decorate every page.
When I settle on one in particular—a female of formidable build carrying a griffin-like beast, shot through with arrows—the picture shifts into a black and white animation.
She trudges endlessly through a wintry forest with the creature on her back.
My brows knit together in realization.
“This is a book on syrith courting rituals.”
Azrael gives me a noncommittal shrug. “It would appear so.”
“But why?”
Azrael briefly glances at his shadow. “Guess he thinks you should have a fair chance.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. Not that I had one. While holding his head in place, Azrael carefully lies down on Violette’s rug. Leaving me with the blankets.
“Pass me a throw pillow, will you?”
Feeling a little dumbfounded, I toss him a pillow.
“You can have the blanket.”
“It’s alright. I’m used to not sleeping on a bed anyway.”
I grab a blanket and toss it at him anyway. “Why’s that?”
“Oh, you know... dungeons, imprisonment, karma. That old chestnut.”
I lay down on the sheet, staring up at the ceiling.
Imprisonment?
“... And how long ago was all of that?”
He hums thoughtfully. “... Day before yesterday?”
I lift my head to see his expression.
Is this motherfucker joking?
“Or was it... a hundred and fifty years ago?”
I heave a sigh.
“Mind me asking what you were imprisoned for?”
“On which occasion?”
“How many times have you been imprisoned?”
Azrael grumbles something unintelligible. “A few dozen times or so? More?”
“What the fuck for?”
His words come out as a weary mumble. “Murder, mostly.”
My brow pinches. “... But you’re the God of Death.”
Azrael gives an exasperated laugh, throwing his arms up.
“That’s what I said!”
A chuckle escapes me, cut short by the fact that this fucker is competing with me for my soulmate.
A few moments of silence pass before Azrael quietly adds, “No matter how good you innately are or wish to be, eventually, time makes villains of us all.”
Jesus. If that isn’t the truth, I don’t know what it is.
“I’ll help translate that book for you tomorrow, but to give you a vague idea, syrith courtship rituals are as follows: Hunting to prove one’s capacity to provide, Grooming, which is more so about pampering and spoiling, Survival to gauge your capacity to cooperate and thrive under duress.
Slaying one another’s enemies to prove your ability to protect each other… ”
My brow furrows at how bizarrely serendipitous this actually is. Between mine and Violette’s dual needs for revenge, it would seem the stars have aligned.
“And then the last two, sexual compatibility and blood exchange.”
I’d been expecting this. Intuition had whispered many times that somehow sex would be part of these rituals, but having it confirmed by Azrael still ignites the jealousy in my chest like a fucking bomb.
The words are spoken low as a slight tremor takes residence in my body.
“You’re telling me... that sex is an obligatory part of the rituals?”
“Technically, no—either party can refuse the other at any point of the courtship.”
My sigh of relief feels like the exhalation of flames.
“But, my bargain with Violette explicitly stated that she and I perform all of the courtship rituals together.”
Whatever wholly misplaced, purely biological arousal I’d felt earlier is extinguished. The only reason I’m not snuffing the life out of this motherfucker right now is that I have already learned for myself that he, in fact, cannot die.
“And if either of you fails to perform the courtship rituals?”
“Our vow was sworn with blood and magic, so the one who refused to uphold their end of the bargain would be stripped of their magic and die an excruciating death.”
Despair sinks like an anvil into the pit of my gut.
There was no way around it.
And just as Violette had said... It’s all my fault.
The lamp in Violette’s living room flicks off, and the darkness swallowing the room feels as though it were intent on consuming my soul right along with it.
I roll over, seeking solace in the hint of moonlight peeking through the windows, only to find the glowing eyes of Azrael’s phantom staring at me.
For a few moments, I stare back, unrighteous fury burning in my chest, only mildly doused by my despair.
Like a predator that’s higher up on the food chain, logic would tell me not to meet its gaze. Azrael’s specter looks like a thing of nightmares, but for some reason, my body and mind are calm despite my inner turmoil.
Intuition’s silent way of saying, not a threat.
After all, he already chose not to kill me when his hand was around my throat.
Why, however, is a question that continues to linger in the back of my mind because my intuition tells me that it’s for more reasons than merely wanting to stay in Violette’s good graces.