“You deal with her then!” said an angry Azazel; what else was new?
Azrael looked toward the brunette and smiled before curling his fingers together, watching as Karma’s arms crossed across her chest, squeezing. She let out a pain filled groan, watching as her eyes closed, rolling into her skull before opening them with narrowed eyes. “You don’t have to do this, you know?”
Karma’s voice was like velvet, but so was Azrael’s; he knew the game. He was the best smooth talker that had come out of Heaven or Hell -- so with a wide, lazy smile, he looked toward the brunette, “Do what?”
Stuck against the wall, Karma tried to adjust her arms into a more comfortable position, but Azrael had all control over her body, before continuing, “Do this.” She gestured with her eyes by looked down at her arms and then back to him. “You could just let me go. I could snap you both back out of here and we could just be done with it.”
With a breathy laugh, Azrael snapped his fingers, watching as a chair scraped across the sand and blood covered floor before turning it to sit in it backward to face her. He placed his elbow on the back of the chair, perching his chin against his palm and looked at the young brunette. Bright green eyes stared back at him as they morphed into a dark brown.
They looked familiar.
“You must think me, stupid, Karma,” said Azrael as he shook his head once more, dropping his perched palm before curling his fingers inward once more. Karma’s arms closed tighter around her small frame as she threw her head back and let out a scream. The pinching pain against her internal organs were enough to make a human person pass out, but not her.
She was something else and Azrael was determined to figure out what she was and why she was here. “Why did Uriel send you?” asked Azrael as he released his palms, easing the pinching pain before looked down at his clothes that were covered in spattered blood and sand. Wiping the sand from his garments, he stood up with the help of the back of the chair, swinging his leg over the back and walked toward the brunette.
Her cherry colored lips were plump, almost as if they were swollen. Her ever changing green and brown eyes opened to stare at him as she let out a breath, the ease of the pinching torture relaxed. “He said that you needed to be put down.”
“Well, he’s got one thing right,” muttered Azrael as he grabbed the cigarettes from the front pocket of his button up and leaned against the table, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. With a snap of the fingers, a flame ignited and lit the end of his cigarette. Taking a deep inhale, Azrael watched as the cloud of smoke let his lips with an exhale before continuing, “And why you?”
“He said you couldn’t resist a pretty brunette,” said Karma with a look of disgust. Azrael threw his head back and laughed; the laughter echoing off of the walls and reverberating throughout Karma’s ears. “What is so f***ing funny?”
“You,” began Az as he took in another deep drag of the nicotine before standing up, leaving the cigarette hanging between his lips as he spoke, “You’re not a pretty brunette, let alone a woman at all.”
With a hiss, Karma turned her head as she watched as Azrael tugged at the arm that crossed across her chest, tightening the hold he had. Grabbing the pocket knife from his pocket, Azrael dragged the blade against her ivory skin along her forearm and up to her hand. “I am Karma,” said Karma between gritted teeth.
Another eye roll was awarded to Karma from Azrael as he pressed the blade into the skin at her wrist, watching as blood dripped from the cut and rewarding him with another hiss from the woman. But before he could speak, the blood dried and absorbed into her skin as if nothing happened. “Ah, yes. Not a woman at all,” continued Azrael as he brought the blade up to her pointer finger.
With enough pressure, Azrael clipped her finger off at the knuckle. The bone cracked under the pressure of his blade and hand, but fell, loosely, into his hand. Karma’s mouth opened and let out a guttural scream that shook deep in her belly. Vomit rose in her mouth, but wouldn’t come forth. As Azrael stepped back from the tortured brunette, he watched as the finger began to morph and absorb, forming a brand new finger tip. As if nothing happened.
Looking at the finger tip in his hand, he watched as it began to rot and decay before turning to dust. “Not a woman at all,” he repeated to himself with a smile, looking back at Karma who was leaned forward, breathing heavily, eyes closed. “Did Uriel name you Karma?” asked Azrael closing his pocket knife and placing it back into his pocket before reaching up and taking the burning cigarette between his fingers.
Smoking rose around them, dancing against the fluorescent lights above them as Karma continued to breathe out. Eye closed. Lips agape. “He gave me a profile,” Karma finally uttered out, opening her eyes to show Azrael those emerald irises.
Before he could speak, the blonde celestial returned back; a new wave of rage caressed against her golden aura that normally surrounded her. “Actually. No. I'll take this one. Let's send a message to our dearest f***ing Uriel,” Azazel spat. She seemed to be shaking with wrath.
Azrael stood from his perch and looked away from the emerald eyes to the blue ones as he shook his head, “Sister, I’ve found out something.”
As he began to tell her the secrets that Karma held, Azrael felt the ground shake beneath his feet as he looked around. Liquor bottles clanged together, falling to the floor and absorbing into the sand. Looking over his shoulder, Azrael moved toward Karma, knowing that his hold had been corrupted. It had to have been Uriel. He’d shaken the hold while Azrael wasn’t paying attention.
With a loose arm dangling at her side, Karma brought her fingers together and snapped and everything went dark.
With a start, Azrael sat up in the sand. His eyes were wide and then closed them quickly. The sun was violent against his pupils. “Not again,” he muttered out, slowly peering through his eye lashes at the sandy beach.
His head pounded between his ears as he sat up, slowly. Sweaty arms and hands were covered in sand as he looked around. The beach was fully populated once again; people sunbathing, kids ran past playing tag or whatever the f*** kids did.
A man came walking toward Azrael and slapped him across the back of the head, beginning to ramble off in Spanish. “Where have you been? You’re late for work! Idiot,” stating the man as he shook his head.
Reaching a hand out, Azrael grabbed Enrique’s hand, watching as he tugged him to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, I know. F***.” As Azrael stood up, he began walking back toward the bar in search of Azazel.
“Aye, are you still drunk, señor?” asked Enrique as he followed behind the demon, “You’re late. I need you to cook. Now.”
It was almost as if Enrique had a script. We’re they actually in Mexico? Was this even a real god damn place? “Yeah, yo sé,” responded Azrael as he continued to walk toward the bar that sat off the beach.
As they approached the steps of the bar, Azrael walked back toward the area where all the women were gathered around, whispering. “Azazel, where are you?” asked Azrael as he’d found the young blonde before. “I know what she is,” he finally said, but stopped dead in his tracks.
This time, Karma had taken a spot as one of the waitresses. Her dark hair, covered in curls, surrounded her face as she smiled at him, “Hola Papí.” With a wink, she grabbed the tray and headed out toward the crowd, strutting around with tiny shorts that barely covered her ass. Shaking his head, Azrael looked toward the corner that he normally found his sister in, “Azazel. Where are you!” He called out. Where was she?
“Please,” cried out a weak voice from the young female. Matted blonde hair hung near her face. Blood and dirt coated the strands of her hair, sticking to the skin of her neck which had multiple cuts and burns in the skin. Raw and angry red skin stared back at the perpetrator.
He had yellow eyes.
With a smack of the back of his hand to the woman’s face, she let out another weak, shaky cry. Her hands were bound above her head and discolored due to the fact that she hadn’t had circulation in many days. White, pale skin morphed into angry redness near her shoulders. “I don’t want to die,” she cried out once more, leaning her head back against the wall behind her.
He had brown hair.
The sound of a spring knife made the female open her eyes, staring at the gleaming blade that she’d become accustomed to over the past two days. Goosebumps erupted over her thighs as she tried to maneuver away from the knief, scrambling her feet to try and get under her.
He had tattoos over his knuckles.
“Please,” she cried out, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks and along her neck, creating a pale trial from the water against the dirt. “I’ll do anything. I won’t tell anyone,” she tried to barter with him, anything. She’d do anything not to die.
She was pathetic.
The muffle of his laugh echoed through the dirt infested hotel room. Cockroaches crawled along the floor, touching the soft skin of her feet as she cried. Drawing the blade closer to her, she was unable to move any further. His hands grabbed ahold of her wrists that hung above her as he held her torso into place, climbing over her. A thigh on each side, one hand now covering her mouth, he began to carve one word into the ivory cream skin of her stomach.
Cries muffled against his hand as her eyes rolled back into her head, shutting. She tried to think about being anywhere else, but here. In that moment. She thought of the beach; when she was younger, her father used to take her to the beach. She remembered the way the sand would curl under her tiny toes.
“Please,” she cried out once more, feeling the string as he continued to carve, deeper and deeper. She could have sworn he could see her insides by now. Her body began to shake as it went into shock. Her hands curling against the restraints and her feet moving back and forth against the cool tile floor.
She tried to remember the sand under her toes; the way her dad used to pick her up and swing her around in the air. Like she was flying.
Blood pooled under her as he continued to his masterpiece against her flesh. Once satisfied, he sat back, looking at the letters that adorned her torso before moved to her exposed chest. He carved at her breasts, removing them from her body and laying them across the bloody tile.
On her last breath, the female shakily pleaded once more, “Please God.”
He leaned forward, feeling the blood of her midsection soaking into his button down shirt. His lips grazed her ear with a breath, “Your God can’t save you now.”
NEW YORK CITY / PRESENT DAY
Rain pattered against the windshield of the black Crown Vic. Not his most exciting vehicles, but it fit the part. He hadn’t been to New York City in many years and much had changed. The darkness fell upon the city like sheets against a bed. He watched as the sun slowly fell and then surrounded those who walked the streets.
New York at night was very different from New York in the day time.
Popping in the last contact, Azrael stared at his eyes. Brown. It was a strange sensation, seeing himself looking so human. He hadn’t tried to fit the part in centuries -- having just enjoyed being the demon he was and causing as much havoc as he could.
But with things changing, the apocalypse coming, Azrael was pulling out all the stops.
Grabbing the handle, Azrael stepped out into the wet night and looked up at the building. It stood tall in the New York night sky, coated in water as it slid down the sides of the windows. “Sir?” said a voice that drew Azrael’s eyes toward the front door of the apartments. The door man gestured for him to come under the awning and out of the rain.
“Sir, you can’t park there, I’m afraid,” said the man.
Azrael reached into the breast pocket of his long, tan raincoat and held up a badge: FBI. “Yes I can,” said Azrael with a mutter as he pushed passed the doorman and toward the elevator.
The ding of the elevator echoed throughout the lobby as the doorman helped Azrael onto the contraption and looked to him, “What floor, sir?”
“Whatever the floor with all the cops are on, aye?” said the demon with sarcasm dripping from his lips. Pressing 43 on the elevator, the doorman stepped out of the way of the doors and back into the lobby.
As the doors shut, Azrael stared at his reflection in the elevator doors. His vessel hadn’t looked this good in many years. It must have been the blood bath that he’d soaked in the night before. With a ding, the doors opened and split the reflection in half, exposing a long hallway.
Azrael could already hear voices and the clicks of a camera as he turned the corner, seeing the havoc. “Woah, woah,” said a cop that had been standing on duty to keep civilians out.
With an eye roll, Azrael flashed his badge once again before pushing himself through the crowd that surrounded the small hallway. “Move,” he demanded before reaching the door finally and stepping inside.
“I’m Special Agent Az Duivel,” said Azrael as he moved through the waves of detectives, looking around at the crime scene. His coat dripped from the bottom and onto the wood floor beneath him. Drips from his hair ran across the tip of his nose and down his lips before setting eyes on what he’d been looking for this whole time.
His handy work.
A crowd gathered around the bathroom as many spoke to one another, voices echoing off of the tile walls. Clicks of the camera caused Azrael to blink, annoying the contact in his eyes.
“Hello! Who is in charge here?” he called out, gathering the attention of the room.
The slide of the narcotics across the small counter was enough to peak Azrael’s interest. As he looked at the baggie full of white powder, Azrael brought his tattooed hand up and slid it across to himself, inspecting the bag.
“Where’d you get this?” he questioned, but was only met with a wink as Azazel walked away, swaying her hips and swinging her pigtails with each step. Inspecting the baggie once more, Azrael moved away from the counter and back toward the sizzling meat on the grill.
Dipping his pinky into the bag, Azrael brought the coated skin to his tongue, tasting the bitterness. Oh, it was pure, alright. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as Azazel interacted with those out in the front. Where had that little minx gotten this from? Taking another dip into the bag, Az grabbed a bump and brought it toward his nostril, inhaling the powder.
Like f***ing dagger to your insides.
“F***,” he hissed out, tossing his head back as he felt the powder turn to liquid and slide down his throat, coating the back; like the slime that slugs left behind. “Much better,” he hissed out, returning to his normal stance and pinching his nose a bit, sniffing again to ensure he’d gotten it all.
Smoke began to gather at the top of the kitchen as Azrael continued to enjoy the much needed high before he looked back toward the grill. “Ah f***,” he laughed out, high out of his mind. The baggie now gone and all the food he’d been working on, ruined. “Oops,” he said as Enrique came up behind him, smacking him on the back of the head.
“Que mierda, cabrón?” said Enrique as he looked at the grill, pushing all the meat from the sizzling core and onto the ground with a hiss.
Red eyes and laughing mouth, Azrael couldn’t help but stare at the meat on the ground. That seemed like such a waste; those peasant humans would have eaten anything given to them. That’s all humans were to Azrael -- a waste or food. And Enrique was on his way to becoming food.
“Don’t hit me again,” said Azrael as he stared at the steaming meat on the ground between the two men’s feet. Silence fell between them as Azrael looked up through eyelashes at the young Hispanic.
“Or what?” Enrique asked as he stepped forward, one hand up to slap Azrael across the face. As the force was headed toward Azrael, Az reached up and grabbed the wrist the young male before turning it and hearing a crack. A vibration of broken bones beneath his hand erupted as Enrique cried out, falling to his knees, which landed in the now cooling meat below.
With Enrique on his knees in front of him, Azrael growled before laughing at the Hispanic boy. “I told you not to hit me again.”
“I-I didn’t,” stammered out Enrique as he stared at the yellow, glowing eyes.
This was true -- the young male hadn’t hit Az, but why wait? He thought he could bluff this demon? “You bluffed,” said Azrael before grabbing the hispanic by the back of the head and the chin, turning until his neck snapped.
With a thud, the body fell to the ground. Still high, Azrael tossed his head back and took a refreshing breath. Not kill anybody? Was Azazel out of her f***ing mind? Killing is what Azrael did -- it was in his very marrow. He’d been the Angel of Death, for f***’s sake. Death was all he knew.
Grabbing the dark, curly hair of Enrique, Azrael began to drag the body into the front room, tossing him onto the ground at the feet of the customers. Familiar screams, much like last time, echoed throughout the bar as Azrael’s eyes narrowed, glowing. “I’m starving,” he said as he watched as the crowd began to stumble from their chairs, running toward the door.
“At, at, ah. Not this time,” said Azrael as he snapped, watching as all the garage doors of the bar began to fall and closed up. With that said, Az bared his teeth and crouched down, jumping on the nearest body.
Screams began to erupt from those who were stuck in the bar as Azrael continued his massacre. The doors of the bar began to shake from the outside. It was a glorious sight. Once every human had been consumed, Azrael snapped his blood covered fingers and watched as the garage doors released their hold and slid back up, allowing the bright Mexican sun inside.
As sun basked against the demon and the Angel, Azrael licked his pointer finger, looking to Azazel. “Don’t kill anyone? Ha!” laughed out Azrael. He couldn’t help himself.
But something made him stop. Something was coming -- this time, he was aware of it. Just as he looked to the opening of the bar, Azrael watched as the familiar brunette walked into the small bar, kicking at the limbs and decapitated heads. “I gave you a warning, Azrael,” said Karma as she crossed her arms across her chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Azrael as he stalked toward the brunette, but she held her fingers up, ready to snap, halting the demon in mid step as he looked to her fingers.
They needed answers.
“Don’t threaten me, Azrael,” said the brunette with narrowed eyes as she looked around the bar once more. Azrael, covered in blood, took a step back to where he’d been before. Bringing his bloody hands up, Azrael pushed back his matted dark hair, slick to his head now. The mustache that hung above his lip, holding a loose fingernail from his carnage.
Karma took a taunting step toward the demon; her eyes were on his as she inched closer. Hands at his sides, Azrael watched as she reached across and grabbed the nail from the coarse fur above his lip and winked. “You’re quite the messy eater,” said Karma before tossing the nail to the ground and rubbing her palms together, looking behind him. “Where is your sister?”
“Behind you, bitch,” said Azazel from behind Karma before reaching up and grabbing the brunette’s hair, tugging her down.
As the scene unfolded in front of him, Azrael reached forward, grabbing Karma’s hands and lacing them with his own. “Get something to tie her up! I’ve got her hands,” said Azrael in a growl as he looked to Azazel who reached her knee up, connecting it with Karma’s nose.
Azrael heard the crack of her nose breaking. “NOW!” screamed Azrael. “NOW AZAZEL!” They couldn’t let Karma get away -- not if they wanted to get out of this terrible remake of Ground Hog’s Day.
With Azazel off scouring through whatever Enrique kept in this hellish bar, Azrael stared at Karma as she fought against his hands. Pushing her back toward a wall, Azrael had her trapped under his hands. “You won’t be able to get out of this,” said Karma, inches from his face.
Glowing yellow eyes, Azrael smirked toward her. Blood stained the pale skin of his face as he tossed his head back, laughing, “If I kill you--”
“You’ll be stuck here,” said Karma. “Magic can’t help you here.”
Furrowing his brows, the smirk fell from his face as he stared at her, “You’ll let us out..One way or another. I promise you that.”
“Oh, I will?”
“I just promised, didn’t I?” asked Azrael, sarcastically.
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t trust the word of a demon,” said Karma as she continued to struggle, which was barely movement to Az. “Uriel was right,” said Karma.
“What did you just say?” asked Azrael as Azazel came over, eyes wide.
As Azazel took off after the young lad, Azrael stayed deep in his reverie, staring at the red pool of blood that had soaked into the sand underneath his feet.
He f***ing hated sand.
The now caved in skull cracked and hissed as gravity took over. Stepping away from the view, Azrael looked toward his foot which was now covered in a coat of bloody sand. Pulling one of the chairs from the table, Azrael continued to stare down to his feet. Bodies moved around him, screamings erupting and echoing throughout the small bar.
The screams of “Diablo” continued throughout the small town that they were now stuck in. How had they got here? He’d hoped that stirring some sh*t up would raise eyebrows, presenting whoever was behind that stick joke -- but nothing. Just silence.
“I need a f***ing drink,” echoed Azazel’s voice throughout Azrael’s head; his yellow eyes still fixated on the bloody sand that mashed between his toes as they moved them about. Before long, the young celestial moved toward him, placing a drink at the table in front of him and sitting down. He could hear the soft sips of her pink lips against the straw.
There was a bit of comfort in the silence, knowing that he didn’t need to speak to fill the void with Azazel -- they could just be. It was nice. That was, until, he heard a noise behind them.
Looking over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. A young, brunette took the few steps up from the sandy beach below and stepped into the now empty beach bar. Her dark eyes peered at the dead body and then toward the two. “That didn’t take long, I’m afraid,” said the voice. It was smooth like velvet against Azrael’s ears. Her dark features matched the shadows that danced across. Her high cheekbones widened as she smiled, taking small steps toward the two.
“Azazel,” said the brunette and then turned toward Azrael, “Azrael. It has been some time.” Her voice had the smallest hint of an accent, although, Azrael couldn’t place it. He’d traveled all over and yet, he was unable to place the tiniest accent.
“Who are you?” he barked, grabbing Azazel’s small forearm and tugging her behind him as he stood up in the sand. Teetering as he gained his footing, Azrael muttered under his breath, cursing at the sand. When he took over the 4 planes, he would banish all sand. That was the first ruling he’d make.
“I am Karma,” said the brunette as she tugged out a chair from the table and sat down. Her crisp white suit hugged her. She’d had it tailored to fit, Azrael was sure of that. Her legs crossed as she leaned to the side, showing off her slender legs as she leaned, smiling at the two. “And you two have been causing havoc -- this is your punishment.”
Azrael rolled his eyes and laughed, “Karma isn’t real. Who are you?”
Karma pretended to be offended, scoffing and rolling her eyes, “I’m real, baby. I’m right here.”
It was impossible. Karma? Karma wasn’t real -- you made your choices and you owned your consequences; Karma wasn’t handed to anyone and it sure as sh*t wasn’t a 5’9” woman with brown hair and eyes like Lilith’s.
“I’m much older than you, you little bitch. Now,” said Azrael as he leaned forward on the table, his hands flat against the surface, staring the brunette in the eye, “who are you?”
Karma brought one finger up to her lips and whispered out a “Shush” before everything began to shake and it became dark.
With a start, Azrael sat up in the sand. His eyes were wide and then closed them quickly. The sun was violent against his pupils. “F*** god dammit,” he muttered out, slowly peering through his eye lashes at the sandy beach.
His head pounded between his ears as he sat up, slowly. Sand surrounded him, covering his lap and hands. Sand, he f***ing LOATHED sand. Grabbing some sand in his balled up fist, Azrael launched the sand across the way -- watching it danced back down into tiny particles that lined the beach.
A man came walking toward Azrael and slapped him across the back of the head, beginning to ramble off in Spanish. “Where have you been? You’re late for work! Idiot,” stating the man as he shook his head.
Reaching a hand out, Azrael grabbed Enrique’s hand, watching as he tugged him to his feet. “Enrique? Is that you??”
“Aye, are you still drunk, señor?” asked Enrique as he looked at Azrael and then smiled, “Come -- you’re late. I need you to cook. Now.” Grabbing Azrael’s arm, Enrique began to tug, but Azrael stood still; his feet planted in the sand.
“Señor?” asked Enrique as he walked back toward the yellow eyed man. “Que pasa?”
“Where are we, Enrique?” asked Azrael, slowly. He was getting a feeling he knew the answer.
The man rolled his eyes, “Aye, sí, still drunk. You’re in Tijuana. And you’re late for work.” And with those words, the man took off toward where he’d come from.
Mother f***er. He was getting Ground’s Hog Day vibes left and right. What the f*** was going on? Taking off after Enrique, Azrael padded through the hot sand, trying to keep up with those who were familiar with the terrain as he was like a fish out of water or a toddler learning to walk.
Walking up the steps and into the small bar, Azrael looked around. Many of the tables were empty, but there were a few full ones. People stared at the two as they walked in. “Enrique,” said a voice from across the bar.
This was all too familiar. Peering around the empty bar, Azrael didn’t take any longer to find his sister. “Azazel?” he called out, toward where he’d found her last. Oh f***, please let her remember him.
“Azazel,” he called out again, pushing passed the brunette who smell of Camel Reds and spearmint. Looking over his shoulder, he stood in confusion as she stood before him: healthy and smacking those f***ing red, plump lips. Little bitch.
“Hola Papí,” she whistled out as she grabbed a tray, turning on her heel and walking toward the small crowd in the front of the bar.
“F***, Azazel, where are you?” Azrael called out as he raked his fingers through his hair. Karma? Did she remember Karma?
Little pig tails laid near her ears, adorned with these...white flowers? Oh, f***, what if she was different? What if-- Wait. Azrael thought to himself as he gathered control. Karma wasn’t real; this was the magic of something else, but what?
Reaching out, he placed his hand on Azazel’s shoulder, turning her around, “F*** you. If you aren’t you, you’re the first person I’m killing.”
The bloodline had been something that Azrael was aware of, but was never really bothered by. That was, until Manon’s existence.
Having been directly related to the son of God (by the way, he was such a whiny little twat), she had a specific skill set. She was cursed with the birthright to go against the antichrist, Samuel during the end of days.
Now this was a problem that Azrael had an issue with.
Staring at the dark house on Peachtree Lane, Azrael leaned against the post, cigarette between his lips. Taking a deep drag, Azrael filled his lungs with nicotine, watching as the ember turned a deep orange in the dark of night.
Flicking the cig to the ground, Azrael let out a breath of smoke before taking a step toward the dark house. It was a two story, white shuttered home. Red brick adorned the outside with vines crawling from a small garden that sat outside above the front window. Rose perked from the vines, peeking just the smallest of buds toward the edges.
A sign of the royal bloodline.
The swish of his long hanging black trench coat was the only sound you could hear as he took a step up the short walk way and to the door. As he crossed, the roses began to welt and hang like a body hanging from the end of the noose.
Swaying to and fro.
His hand hovered over the knob before closing his hand around it, hearing the click of the lock being turned to open. With just a simple push, Azrael pushed the door open, staring into the rather ordinary home.
It didn’t look like the home of a Fallen and a Hunter. Needle point hung on the walls, pictures of the tiny baby, crosses, etc. As Azrael walked past, the crosses began to slide down the wall, turning upside down to mark his presence.
He wanted them to know.
His dark hair fell into his eyes as he rounded the corner of the stairs, taking them two at a point. Raking his fingers through his hair to push back, he began to whistle. The tune was to a popular song of the Heavens that only the Fallen would know.
It echoed throughout the home as he made his way toward the baby’s room; he’d end this today and now.
”What’re you doing here?” said an airy voice from behind. He stood at the baby’s door, his hand hovering at the knob before turning on his heel to see.
She was beautiful; long, blonde hair cascaded around her face, falling from a messy bun atop her head as she stared at him. Her blues orbs reminded him of Michael’s, his once Brother.
“Sister,” he began as he turned fully to the Fallen and smiled, “it’s been ages. Why do you never write?” “Azrael,” she breathed out and looked at the door of the baby behind him. “Leave and pretend like you never stepped foot on this property.”
The threat was dead on him as he threw his head back, laughing lightly. The house beneath him shook just slightly in time with his laughter before he dropped his head back, looking at the celestial once more. “Come now, Sister. Let’s talk this through -- just give me the child-”
“Never,” she interrupted, which was even more of a pet peeve than disobeying him.
His fist clenched as his arm hung near his side, gritting his teeth as he continued his conversation, “- just give me the child, and I will let you live to see another day with your.. human.” Azrael nodded toward their open bedroom door now, wrinkling his nose.
Of course the Fallen would have chosen a pesky human -- typical. How poetic of her. Remaining tight lipped, the celestial brought her hand up to her side, glowing from the palm. With a quick movement, she shot a bolt of electricity toward Azrael.
However, he’d taught her combat in Heaven -- he knew how she moved. With a swift move, he jumped out of the way, watching as the bolt hit the door of the baby and burst open, casting splinters throughout the bedroom and hallway.
Taking a deep, heaving breath, the celestial looked at the now busted door and around the hallway for the demon. But he was nowhere to be found. That was until a deep, burning pain erupted from her spine as her back arched.
Azrael stood behind her, knife with symbols carved into it with it deep into her spine. One hand at her shoulder and his mouth at her ear, whispering, “She’ll die tonight because of you.”
Without another word, he turned the knife, pushing it deeper into her frail body, watching as it exploded into a thousand bursts of light.
And the celestial was gone.
N O W
Cracking his jaw, Azrael leaned back against the diner seats. He was annoyed. Sam and Dean had disappeared after opening Hell’s gate, letting all these little f***ers back onto the Earth plane and they were driving Azrael nuts.
”Oh my, Sire,” they’d say with a kneel to which Azrael would grip his fist and watch as he sent them back to Hell.
Pesky little bastards.
“Another cup, hun?” asked the waitress as Azrael closed his eyes, annoyed with everyone at the moment. He’d lost the Winchester’s because of some idiot lower level demon and now he was stuck to using magic to find them.
There was a spell around them of the Heavens thanks to that blasted Angel Castiel hanging around with them, knowing what Dean and Sam were both meant for.
He couldn’t wait to get his hands on Castiel for this betrayal. All of Heaven knew what Sam was to become and yet, they were trying to hide him from it. Like it wouldn’t come out eventually. Grasping at straws, really.
“Hun?” asked the waitress, but Azrael slammed his hands down on the plastic table, opening his eyes and looking at the frightened human. Her processed red hair was pinned back with gel and bobby pins. Her lips smacked together as she chewed on Bubblicious, which she’d now swallowed due to his fright.
He could hear the swallow.
With a smirk, he eased back, sitting back down, leaning into the seat as she backed away, coffee sloshing from the pot she carried around. Whispers echoed around the small diner as Azrael raked his fingers through his dark hair, tugging at the strands.
He needed blood and needed some soon -- exhausted, tired, and hungry: those were a bad combination for the literal hire to Hell.
Az slid himself out from the booth and stood up, tossing a $20 on the table and walking toward the door. As he turned to push the door open with his back, he looked to the red head. She now had red rimmed eyes and her cheeks were a blotchy red from crying. With a wink, Azrael smirked and pushed himself out of the diner and toward his car.
The Aston Martin sat very out of place for the small town USA he was in. Dust covered the rims of the tires and gravel stuck in between the rigids of his tires.
Azrael muttered to himself as he stared down at the grill; the food began to sizzle and crack against the heat, much like flesh to a flame.
Pathetic. What the hell was he doing here? Cooking humans food?
He needed to focus on a way out. Another ding at the window, “Ay, Papí, where is my lunch special quatro?” Looking over his shoulder, Azrael side eyed the brunette. She had bushy eyebrows, red lips, and smacked on a pack of spearmint to hide the fact that she went to the back and smoked like a chimney in between food runs.
“It’ll be up in a f***ing second,” snarked back Azrael as he turned back to the food and began work. Assembling the taco plate, Azrael got into a routine of how he’d place the food against the hard shells of the tortillas.
Finally, once his masterpiece was completed, he slid the tray through the window. “Finalmente,” said the brunette once more, scoffing as she walked off, still smacking that gum.
Yellow eyes gleamed over his shoulder once more, staring at the sauntering hispanic. “I can’t wait to f***ing kill each of you,” he muttered to himself as he turned back toward the grill, gritting his teeth.
The day continued on as such: cussing out the waitresses as they came to him for their food, making taco plates, and staring at the sizzling animal flesh. Over time, he found some solace as he cooked, thinking of all the ways he was going to torture every single employee once he figured out what the hell he was doing here.
“Order up,” he called out as he turned his attention back to the grill. He placed his hand at the warm grill, enjoying the sting of the burn -- like Hell, he thought to himself, reminiscing on the Hellfire that was his home.
“Ay, Azzy, que pasa?” said Enrique as he ran toward the cook and grabbed his wrist from the grill, pulling his hand up to inspect it. “You can’t do that!” Looking at the raw, red flesh, Enrique turned toward the first aid, but Azrael waved him off -- the skin already beginning to repair itself.
Enrique’s eyes widened as he stumbled backward, falling into the 3 tier shelves that held most of the supplies that Az used to create the taco plates that these imbeciles were ordering. “Diablo,” whispered Enrique as he turned on his heel and walked away leaving Azrael to chuckle to himself.
After another 20 minutes, Azrael tossed down his apron before walking toward the front where Azazel had been mixing drinks. “I need a cig,” he said to her as he pointed toward the back door. With quick steps, Az found himself back out into the Mexican heat and sand.
“F***in’ sand,” he muttered to himself as he stuck a cigarette between his lips and snapped his fingers. A flame erupted from the tip of his pointer finger as he brought it to the end of the cig, lighting the butt and watching as the ember turned orange, sucking in the nicotine.
“No sé you smoked, Papí,” said the brunette as she peered around the corner, cigarette between her red lips. With a nod, Azrael blew out a puff of smoke. “De donde eres, Papí?” the hispanic spoke in between sucks and blows of the cigarette.
She was already on his nerves.
Az looked at the ember at the end of his cigarette before looking up toward the brunette as she inched closer, leaning on the wall next to him. He had his foot hiked up against the wall and one hand to his side. “The south,” he muttered with a lazy smile attached to his features, “Way south.”
“Further south than Mexico?” she asked, inching closer to him. He could smell the mixture of mint and Camel reds.
Moving the cigarette to his empty hand by his side, Azrael turned his head to look toward the brunette. “Much further,” he whispered as he leaned forward, brushing his lips against the loose strands of brown at her head.
She took in a ragged, deep breath as she felt his closeness. But before she could react, Azrael grabbed her narrow throat with his free hand, pinning her against the wall. Her slender legs dangled in the air, kicking against the grimey outside of their establishment. His yellow eyes gleamed, even in the high Mexican daylight.
Her face began to turn purple as the cigarette fell from hand at her side, sizzling out against the sand that they stood in. Baring his teeth, Azrael brought his cigarette up to her cheek, running the warm ember against the olive toned skin. A scream began to bubble up in the brunette’s throat, but because of Azrael’s grip on her, it came out weak and tiny.
“Hm,” he breathed out before pressing the ember against the corner of her mouth, hard. Another weak scream broke from her lips, causing him to move the cigarette to her red, bottom lip. The skin was raw and angry as he traced it along her lips like lipstick. “Beautiful,” he whispered to himself, watching as he created another masterpiece.
“Let’s see what it does to you from the inside,” he whispered as he pushed the cigarette into her mouth and closed her mouth, holding her jaw tightly shut with his hand. She screamed under the muffle of his hand, feeling the tobacco burn the tastebuds of her tongue and the insides of her cheeks.
Before long, the ember fizzled out due to the salvia of her mouth. “Such a pity,” said Azrael as he dropped his hand from her mouth. Her lips were red and raw, burnt to a crisp. She spit out the cigarette butt as tears ran down her cheeks.
The salt of her tears burning the burn along her cheeks. “These will be wonderful scars,” he whispered as he pressed his forehead to her chin. His grip still tight on her neck, her legs still dangling and kicking against him; he pulled back and smiled at her, ”Bonita.” And without another word, Azrael dropped her to the ground and stepped back.
He watched as she scrambled; her mascara now running down her face, falling into the divets now left because of the burns. The brunette crawled through the sand and slid back into the back door of the establishment.
“Well, this should be fun,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair and looked toward the crawling woman against the hallway of the back door. She tried screaming, but he came out as silent wails.
Taking one slow step, he followed the young, crawling woman into the main part of the bar. Gasp erupted around them as others pushed themselves from the tables and to the aid of the young woman. “Que pasõ?” asked a woman as she leaned against the ground, protective hand against the back of the brunette.
Tears dripped to the ground as Azrael stood above them now, one foot on either side of the young woman’s tiny torso. Her midriff was showing as he turned her over to face him on her back.
“Por favor, señor! No quiero morir! Por favor!” she screamed out in between cries.
Onlookers stood and watched in horror as Azrael smiled widely. The woman who’d come to help the young woman crawled backward in a flash; terror graced her face as she looked up toward Azrael, gripping onto the pillar of the table. “Diablo!” she screamed.
“Aye, yes I am,” he whispered before bringing one of his feet up and landing directly on the brunette’s head. The crunch erupted against his heel as he felt her nose break. He brought his foot up once again, stomping on the skull again.
Crunch. Stomp. Crunch. Stomp.
Blood stained boots, Azrael threw his head back and laughed as he watched her skull cave in -- the woman was long gone. Breaths ceased, but he continued to stomp, thriving in the pleasure.
Azazel stared from the bar before rolling her eyes and bringing her hand to her forehead, “So much for a low profile,” she muttered.
The road toward the impending apocalypse was straight ahead and Azrael was this much closer to the end of the world and the rise of his Father. He’d watched as Lilith died at the hands of his son, watched as Lucifer raised, and watched as the Horsemen began their plagues.
Now he was going after the rings -- Azrael knew with all 4 rings, he’d be unstoppable against his Father. With the power of God and the knowledge of Lucifer, Azrael would rule both Heaven and Hell and both Earth and Purgatory.
He’d bring about a new world; one that would be laced with beauty and pain, all mingled into one. And with the help of Azazel as his right hand, he’d be set for victory.
Azazel was a young fallen Angel, one he’d known since his reign in Heaven, before the banishment. And because of Uriel, she’d been pushed to Earth to live out her immortal life. With the promise to return her Home, Azrael had her on his side, easily.
She was gullible, but in awe of his power. She’d watch him defeat their brother, Michael. Watched as he’d hunted and sought out the Horsemen and now, on the road toward Pestilence.
The night sky was now painted red as the sun began to set in the west. The clouds, sparse across the sky, moved slowly. His hands gripped the steering wheel as they drove toward their destination.
Azazel sat in the passenger seat, eclipse with red from the sunset. “Are we almost there?” she whined as she slapped her hands against her knees.
Rolling his eyes, he looked toward the blonde and laughed out, “Would you relax, little one? We will be there when we get there.”
As they drove, the ground underneath began to shake. Azrael felt his palms shaking against the steering wheel before gripping it tightly. “What the-”
And with those words, a bright blinding light appeared in front of them. Azrael squinted his eyes, looking ahead before bringing his free hand up to shield his eyes from the light. “Azrael?” called out Azazel from the right of him.
Looking over, he watched as the young blonde began to drift from him. Her arm was stretched out, trying to grasp her brother. Fingers curling in the empty air as he watched her be torn from the car and into the light.
And soon, he was too.
Azrael opened his eyes, wincing at the sunlight. His head pounded between his ears as he sat up, slowly. Sand surrounded him, covering his lap and hands. He f***ing hated sand.
Looking around, he found himself on an overpopulated beach. “Where the f*** am I?” he said as he pushed himself up from the sand.
As he stood, he wiped off the sand that had gotten caught in his .. these were not his pants. He looked down at a loose pair of khaki chinos. Wiping the sand from the loose clothing, he looked toward his hands, which were bare.
No tattoos. No scars.
These were not his hands. A loose white button up adorned his torso as he looked away from himself and around him once more.
“Azazel?” he called out, searching for anyone that could resemble his sister.
The crowd around him wrinkled their noses and looked away from the man; a few walked toward him, stepping around in large circles in fright as he looked like he was insane. Waking up on a beach in clothes that weren’t his -- that was a normal occasion, but finding his hands bare and his tattoos, gone? That was beyond anything Azrael could comprehend.
A man came walking toward Azrael and slapped him across the back of the head, beginning to ramble off in Spanish. “Where have you been? You’re late for work! Idiot,” stating the man as he shook his head.
Az furrowed his brows and wrinkled his nose, “Who the fu-” He began to speak in Spanish. What the hell? “Where am I?”
The man rolled his eyes, “Are you still drunk? You’re in Tijuana. And you’re late for work.” And with those words, the man took off toward where he’d come from.
Azrael began to follow in hopes that this man who help him find his sister and how the hell he’d ended up in the armpit of Mexico. The two men came upon a local beach bar, Azrael stumbling in the sand.
Walking up the steps and into the small bar, Azrael looked around. Many of the tables were empty, but there were a few full ones. People stared at the two as they walked in. “Enrique,” said a voice from across the bar. The man who’d accompanied Azrael to the bar walked toward the name being called.
So his name was Enrique, okay. That was at least one thing.
Azrael took in the local area. The ground was covered in sand and dirt; the tables were made of rotting wood and steel. They were painted a rusty red color. “Get into the kitchen!” said Enrique as he looked away from who he’d been talking to and toward Azrael.
His hand was outstretched and pointed toward the back where the kitchen was located. Azrael moved his feet as if on autopilot.
One step in front of the other.
As he reached the kitchen, he looked around and got his barings. Chips were in the corner, all of the dressings as well as the guacamole and salsa sat in front of him where he’d dress the food before sending it out. It outlooked into the bar.
“Where the hell am I?” shouted a loud, shrieking voice.
That would be Azazel.
Az pushed himself back to the front of the kitchen and out into the front of the bar. In the corner, where the waitresses all sat was a blonde.
Her face was red and blotchy as she slammed her hands down. “Who are you people!” she demanded as the waitress’ looked at her, eyebrows raised at her tantrum.
Something he’d become used to.
Her blonde hair hung down her back. She had a cropped shirt on with some barely there jean shorts and sandals. It appeared to be the uniform of wherever the hell they were. “Azazel?” he questioned, walking toward the tantrum. She swung her arms around like a scorpion trapped in a blaze. She’d fight until her death.
Azrael caught her arm in his hand and widened his eyes, “Relax! It’s me. It’s me. It’s Az!” Hey eyes widened as she looked to Azrael, looking him up and down. She sucked in a breath and shook her head, “No you’re not. Where are all your tattoos?”
“I don’t know -- I woke up and they were-”
“AND WHY DO YOU HAVE A MUSTACHE!” she yelled out, slamming her free hand into his that hung on her arm.
He rolled his eyes once more before looking down to his upper lip. Well, sh*t, she was right. He had a mustache -- what the hell was going on? He wrinkled his nose and moved his upper lip about, wondering if it’d been real.
“Azazel, it is me!” he said, tugging her out of the bar and outside onto the sandy streets. He released her arms and took a step back, looking at her as she did him.
Her breaths came out ragged from rage as her chest moving deeply up and down. “Fine,” she began, “it’s you..”
As she trailed off, Azrael looked around them, squinting in the sun. “How the hell did we get here?” He looked toward Azazel just as she ran toward him, knife in hand.
“WHO ARE YOU?” she screamed before running the blade into his chest.
A mere pinch.
His yellow eyes rolled back in annoyance as she waited for a reaction. “Are you f***ing kidding me, little one?”
Azrael reached up and grabbed the handle of the golden knife that she’d brought with her on their trip -- the one Michael had given her. She still had that?
He examined the knife with his black blood staining the metal and then looked toward her. “It’s me,” he growled out, his eyes beginning to glow brightly.
The ground beneath them began to shake as he looked at her; the wind picked up and the lights that hung outside of the bar began to shatter.
Controlling the elements allowed Azrael to take his wrath out on the world.
Azazel stared, her eyes widening, “Fine okay. It is you.”
With a few short breaths, Azrael closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been put in many situations -- but this was a first. Literally just dropped into the middle of someone else’s life. It didn’t make sense. “What is the last thing you remember?” asked Azrael as he opened his eyes and looked to Azazel.
“You two,” said a hispanic accent from behind them. Azrael looked over his shoulder to see Enrique, “need 5 more minutes or are you going to actually work today, eh?”
“I can’t wait to kill you,” said Azrael in English as he looked toward Enrique -- the language barrier causing Enrique to furrow his brows.
Almost as if Enrique could understand English, he took a step back and back into the bar. Turning back to Azazel, Azrael allowed a sigh to escape his lips, “I remember the light.” He began.
“Me too,” began Azazel as she looked toward him, “I was reaching out to you and then something grabbed me -- pulled me from the car.” As she pondered, she began to pace in front of him.
Her skin was sunkissed under the Mexican sun while his stayed this dull, olive tone. He peered down at the bushy mustache on his top lip once more before reaching up to touch it. It felt real. He tugged at the hair and winced -- felt real.
“Would you f***ing stop that!” growled out Azazel as she tossed a rock toward Azrael. Wrinkling his nose, he growled back, “It f***ing itches okay?”
“GET BACK TO WORK!” yelled Enrique from the open door of the bar to the both of them. “What should we do?” asked Azazel as she took a step forward, grabbing at his forearm.
Azrael thought to himself for a moment. He placed a finger at his chin and pursed his lips, thinking. “I guess we should get to work, aye?”