Dark Kiss Of The Reaper (23 page)

She couldn’t really say why, but she felt like she’d been dumped.

* * *

Vitus extended the silver tray bearing Azrael’s dinner a second time.

“I told you I’m not hungry.” And he hadn’t been since he’d left Sara’s hospital room. He rolled her wedding ring in his fingers. Keeping it warm helped him pretend she’d just taken it off, that she was close by. But pretending couldn’t fill the gaping hole inside him. Not even the two separate occasions when Chronos and Kol had come to visit. Admittedly, the visits had been quite a surprise until he realized they’d probably come to remind him they’d been right about his involvement with Sara. Not letting them in had been a wise decision.

Vitus still stood over him.

“What?”

The Shade’s brows drew together. He notched his head to one side and stared his master down, urging the tray forward a third time.

“Enough. You can’t guilt me into eating.” Azrael slumped back into the leather chair, his gaze focused on the world beyond his windows. He saw nothing but a future of misery.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and starve to death,” he mumbled, knowing the impossibility of his words even as they left his mouth. He rolled Sara’s engagement ring in his fingers, staring at the sparkling diamond that had brought such a huge smile to her face.

Why had he succumbed to the Fates’ wishes and given her that vial? He slipped the ring onto his pinky. What if he’d stayed away long enough for her to get well, then explained he could only see her once in awhile? A hard sigh hissed from his mouth. He could no more stay away from her than he could stop reaping souls.

Leaning his elbows on the chair’s arms, he cradled his head in his hands and wished for a soul so that he could die and end the tremors of longing that racked every bone in his body. Every sensation brought Sara to mind. Even reaping souls, the work that had once brought him a sense of place and purpose, irritated him due to the necessary trip to the Fates to gather the allotted threads.

Then there were the past days and nights – how many, he didn’t know because time had lost meaning – he’d spent wandering the grounds of his home, studying the passing Shades to see if he could distinguish one from another.

He couldn’t.

Not only had he lost Sara, but if she didn’t recover and ended up passing into his world some other way, he’d have no way of finding her once she became a Shade. His only chance was that she’d find him and discover a way to make him understand who she was.

Unless the Fate’s potion extended beyond the grave and even her Shade form had no memory of him. The thought severed the few remaining strands of hope he’d been clinging to. His heart plummeted.

“No!” He jumped from the chair, knocking it to the floor with a loud thud. Vitus, who now stood empty-handed by the great room door, didn’t budge. Azrael tucked her ring back into his pocket for safe keeping, then grabbed the chair, lifted it overhead and aimed it at the windows he’d just been looking out. The need to destroy something surged hot in his veins.

Vitus was instantly in front of him, shaking his head.

“Get out of my way. This is my home, I’ll do what I—”

Vitus reached into his pocket, retrieved something and held out his clenched fist.

Azrael held the chair ready, his muscles clenched and ready. “What?”

Vitus opened his hand. In his palm lay his own life thread, returned to him when he’d come into Azrael’s service as a promise from the Fates his life would never be tampered with again.

Azrael set the chair down and stared for a moment without understanding.

Vitus thrust his open hand out again, using his other to jab a finger down on the thread repeatedly. His mouth strained, his eyes wide.

Realization smacked Azrael. He nodded, did his best to breath evenly. Amazing how astute a Shade could be when given a chance.

“Vitus, my friend, you’re absolutely right.”

* * *

Intense pain wrapped a band around Sara’s head, but the rest of her body floated. Or drowned. She couldn’t tell. Moaning softly, she opened her eyes a slit.

Fuzzy starbursts sprouted from the dimmed lights overhead. She blinked a few times, but they didn’t budge. Her teeth chattered and her entire body began to shake.

She was freezing. Arctic cold.

“You’re awake. Good, good. Don’t try to move. You’re in recovery. How’s your pain?”

The voice belonged to Linda, one of the day nurses, but Sara couldn’t see her from her position in the bed. Her teeth started to chatter and shivers ran through her body.

“Being cold is a normal reaction. You’re coming out of anesthesia. I’ll get you another blanket.”

She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness swept her. She collapsed back down onto the bed as Linda returned.

Linda tossed the new blanket over her, tucking it in around her legs. “It’s okay, honey, you’re in recovery. Just rest now. No need to get up.”

Still shivering uncontrollably, she moved again, just wiggling her toes this time to be sure she could. She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Her tongue was a useless piece of cotton. She tried again.

“D-dry.”

The single word was the best she could manage through the fog of pain and meds. Linda came into view above her, holding a cup with a bendy straw.

“I bet you are. Let’s get some water into you, okay?” She lowered the cup and guided the straw to Sara’s mouth. “Slow now. Don’t want you getting sick.”

Tepid water splashed down her throat, bringing relief in a wet rush. Nothing compared to how good the first sip tasted, not coffee, not coffee chocolate chip ice cream, nothing. She drank until she’d emptied the cup, her teeth creasing the straw as they clenched reflexively from the unshakable chill.

“Thanks. More?” she asked.

“I’ll bring you more in a little bit. Too much and you could get nauseous,” Linda said, patting her arm. “Now, how’s your pain level?”

“S-seven. Six.” After managing her headaches for so long, the pain was something she could deal with. She struggled to break the mental ropes left behind by the anesthesia and put voice to the question in her head. “When will I be out of here?” The words tasted like clods of dirt, even after the water.

Linda rested her hand on Sara’s arm. “You’ll be on your back for four or five days until some real healing begins. The best they could do was debulk the tumor, so now it’s up to radiation to get the rest.”

“Radiation?” She hadn’t expected that. She’d thought the surgery would be the worst of it, but then, she should that would be the result if they couldn’t remove the tumor in its entirety. A wave of self-pity washed through her. She shoved it back, determined to fight. “I want...a mirror.”

“You said your pain was a six, so let me get you some Demerol and I’ll be right—”

“A mirror.”

“I don’t think right after surgery would be the best time. You really don’t want to—”

“Yes, I do.” She wanted to see what was left of her hair. It hadn’t been that great to begin with. She shoved away another bout of pity. Not like the chemo wouldn’t cause her to lose it all anyway. She stared at the ceiling, listening to Linda’s footsteps fade away, then return.

Maybe her hair would grow back blonde and curly. That seemed a small repayment for this misery.

Linda returned, syringe in hand. She fished for the IV port. “The doctor will be in soon. How about you let him explain things better and we’ll go from there.”

“I’m going to see...” The warm flush of Demerol rolled over her like a weighty down comforter. At last, her shivering stopped. “...sooner or...later.”

“Later it is then.” Linda’s footsteps faded away.

The lights went off and Sara drifted back into the dark, weightless void she’d just escaped.

Chapter Twenty-One

Azrael hovered halfway between his visceral and Reaper forms above the stone balcony. In response to his mood, an artificial twilight had begun to silence the ever-present songbirds and cloak the perpetually blue sky.

Vitus was right. Destroying his own home was a poor decision. Especially when the Fates were the ones behind everything that had gone wrong. In the distance, thunder rumbled low and menacing.

Let them lose something precious. Find a way to rebuild life as it had been. He growled deep in his throat and thrust out his arms. Wind whipped through the tattered shadows of his form. He wrapped tendrils of control further around the foundation of the house. This storm would be unlike any the Fates had experienced before, of that much he was sure.

Clean lines of thought blurred as his visceral self took over. Foremost was Sara’s image, but sweeping past came tactile memories of her warmth pressed against him on Pallidus’ back, the softness of her lips on his, the sweet scent of her hair, the way their bodies fit, the hushed, fevered moans that had escaped her as they made love.

A low keening yowl ripped out of him. Lightning arced from the black clouds, cracking the balcony and leaving behind a charred chasm.

The doors flew open. Atropos, hair blowing wild around her leathery face, stood braced with her cane, one gnarled fist lifted. “You will stop this immediately! Go back to your world and leave us to ours.”

He shook his head. The Crone was most responsible of all, so she should be made to pay the most. It was only fair. He regained a small portion of control, enough to give voice and body to his rage. “You meddled in my world. Now I meddle in yours.”

Maintaining some of his Reaper form, he brandished his scythe in his right hand. The tool extended to its full size in a blinding glint of silver.

Her eyes rounded, but she held her ground. “It is our calling to set the paths of mortals.”

He hefted the scythe. Tested its comfortable weight. The tool came alive in his hands. Hummed with power. Soothed him. But not enough. Nothing would ever be enough again.

“Then you overstepped your bounds, Crone. I am not mortal. My path is mine to set.”

Swinging the scythe, he sliced cleanly through the limestone header above the door, sending a shower of dust and debris onto her old head. The clouds split as well. Rain poured down in tiny daggers.

Atropos wrapped her arms around her frail body. Klotho and Lachesis huddled behind her, strands of wet hair clinging to their cheeks. They tugged at Atropos, obviously imploring her to do something. She shook them off. “You’ll pay for this, Reaper,” she called through the howling wind.

He tipped his head back and laughed. “I already have. And now I have nothing to lose.”

Unfurling his wings farther, he snapped them forward, buffeting the house with more wind and shattering the newly replaced windows once again.

He arched his wings back for another blow, hoping this time to bring down a wall.

“Please, Azrael, don’t!” Klotho cried, darting out to stand in front of Atropos and Lachesis. Tears mixed with the rain on her face. “You must understand this is the way of things.”

“Why?” he snapped. “Why must I understand the pain and hurt you’ve caused?”

A second bolt of lightning shattered a huge section of the balcony, shearing a portion off and dropping it into the valley below with a tremendous crash. Klotho clutched at Azrael, but her fingers slipped through the vaporous strands of his robe, unable to touch him. “Please, stop it! You’re destroying our home.”

“You destroyed Sara’s life. My life. Our hope for a future.” Pulling his wings in, he nodded toward the crumbling limestone. “This hardly seems an equal trade, but it will suffice for now.”

“Please,” she begged, “there must be something else...”

“Bring Sara back to me.”

“No,” Atropos spat. “It cannot be done.”

“Then there is nothing left to discuss.” He spread his wings again.

“What if you could see her? Just for a few minutes?” Klotho wrung her hands.

“Klotho, no.” Lachesis shook her head but kept her eyes on him. “She may still be able to see him.”

A pinpoint of hope opened up in his heart. “For a few minutes with Sara, I would spare your home.”

Atropos hobbled forward to jab her cane into Klotho’s hip. She yelped in pain and ran back to Lachesis. Atropos’s acid gaze followed her. “Foolish girl. You should learn to keep your mouth shut.”

She turned her rheumy eyes on him. “I won’t allow it. As I said before, you’re too weak. Once you see her, you will want more and there is no more to give.”

Fresh anger boiled through his gut. He bent toward the old woman and met her with a gaze that would have seared her bones, had he been Kol. “I. Am. Not. Weak.” He punctuated the words with a sharp peal of thunder. “I gave her your potion. I did exactly as you asked. I have
always
done exactly as you asked.” Barely an inch separated his nose from the tip of the Crone’s. “I demand this of you.”

Her sudden, toothless grin rocked him back a pace. “You demand it of me? You are too bold by half.”

“Please, Atropos,” Klotho begged.

“He is too weak, but what do I care?” Shaking her head, the Crone raised her clenched fist. A pale, twisted thread dangled from her fingers, pulled sideways by the stormy gusts.