Two days had passed since the meeting. After Azrael had stormed out, the Spectrals debated, finally agreeing to allow Azrael to train them as long as he wore the cuffs. Azrael bristled at the thought. He hadn’t earned the title of Angel of Death because of magic.
Amycus and Kord left to visit neighboring towns before Azrael gave the blacksmith his answer. If he decided to do this, to train his former enemy, then he had sealed his fate. The option of rejoining the Watch Guard was off the table, and Drexus would never forgive him. Of course, he could always lead the Spectrals into a trap and get back into Drexus’s good graces, but that idea repulsed him. What would happen to Tillie and Maleous if Kord was killed? And the thought of handing Kenz over to Drexus made his skin crawl. He’d only known Amycus, Kenz, and Kord and his family for a short time, but he felt closer to them than he ever had with Bronn or Sabine. Well, not Kenz—she still hated him.
It was late afternoon on market day when Azrael strolled through the town on his way to the tavern. He nodded at a group of ladies standing at a nearby stall selling fresh fruit and vegetables. The booth, awash with colors and smells, tempted him, but the glint of metal reflecting the sun caught his eye. The corner of his mouth lifted. He had known the minute he entered the marketplace that Kenz was following him. She may be excellent with throwing knives and her crossbow, but she was horrible at shadowing. Maybe he would add stealth to their training program. For now, he let her tail him, pretending to be unaware.
He stopped at a stall selling knives and swords, missing the weapons he had made at the Bastion with Nigel, the quality of those superior to the ones here. Even the blades he and Amycus made for Lord Rollant’s soldiers were better than these. Azrael assumed the blacksmith was from another village as he surveyed the table, running his fingers over the sharpened steel and wondering what it would be like to have his own forge, to have a different life where he worked at something he loved and went home in the evening to a wife with sparkling green eyes. He snorted—those were the aspirations of a fool, a dream he didn’t deserve.
“Put it down.”
Azrael rolled his eyes, placing the weapon on the table. Kenz leaned against the stall, her crossbow peeking over her shoulder. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, which was belted around her trim waist. Her green tunic, exposing her slender throat, turned her eyes into emeralds, and the form-fitting pants made his stomach tighten. He wished she would wear something baggier.
He leaned against the table, crossing his arms. “Hello, Kenz. Do you enjoy following me?”
“No, I don’t. But someone has to keep an eye on you.”
Azrael smiled. “You can keep an eye on me any time. Maybe we could take turns.” He pushed off the table and stepped closer, unable to stop his eyes from traveling down her body.
Kenz huffed but didn’t back away. “You really are arrogant.”
“A woman like you needs a confident man.” Azrael winked, smiling at the flush that spread up her neck.
Kenz tried to shove him but he grabbed her wrists, anchoring them behind her back.
“Let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Why? Do I make you nervous?” Azrael’s pulse thudded as he pulled her closer, knowing he needed to push her away. Her breath hitched, and he couldn’t hide the shiver that ran down his spine when she licked her lips. She pulled her hands free and pressed against his chest, his racing heart betraying the desire coursing through him. Her eyes darted to his mouth and he smiled, the redness now brightening her cheeks.
“What you make me is—”
The sound of a warning bell echoed through the town. Azrael squinted into the distance while she pushed away and turned toward the forest. Dust swirled and hooves pounded as ten hooded soldiers rode toward Carhurst. No skull masks in sight, just the Watch Guard emblem on their cloaks.
Villagers hurried toward their homes and vendors locked up their stalls. In the chaos, Azrael seized a throwing knife, tucking it into his boot while picking up the dagger. His eyes darted down the main road.
Where were the town guards?
Azrael stepped into the middle of the empty street, facing the Watch Guard as they dismounted. His hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger as he analyzed the movements of each soldier, their faces obscured.
“Your people, I assume?” Kenz said, her voice tight. Azrael was grateful to see her crossbow already loaded.
“Not exactly.” He wasn’t a member of the Watch Guard anymore, even though he still had the tattoo inked into his arm. He also wasn’t accepted as one of the Spectrals. He didn’t have a people. It was just him, which is what he always thought he wanted. He didn’t want to think about the sudden relief he felt when Kenz joined him in the street.
“I need these cuffs off. Do you have the key?”
“No, it’s with Amycus.”
“Well, you may just get your wish then,” Azrael said, walking toward the soldiers, squeezing the dagger. “Feel free to start shooting anytime.”
The soldiers ran forward as Kenz let loose arrow after arrow, her technique flawless as she took down three guards.
Seven to go. Azrael crouched into his fighting stance.
The soldiers broke formation, two rushing toward Kenz, whose gauntlets glowed as she gripped her sword. She jutted out her chin and positioned herself just like he taught her. Azrael quickly snatched the knife from his boot and flung it at the soldier closing in on her. He swore when it missed the soldier’s neck, hitting him in the chest instead. Still, it would slow him down and give Kenz a chance. She glanced at him; her brow furrowed.
Five against one and all Azrael had was a dagger. His cuffs were debilitating shackles chaining him to almost certain death. Hopefully, he’d given Kenz enough time to get help. He peered down the street, again wondering where the town guards were.
“We’ve been looking for you,” the lead soldier said, pulling back his hood to reveal a scarred face. Azrael didn’t recognize him or the others as they removed their cloaks.
“Here I am,” Azrael sneered, holding his arms out as if welcoming them.
Two of the soldiers charged. Azrael used the first’s momentum, dodging his attack while side-stepping, grabbing the man’s sword arm, and using it to block the strike from the other soldier. Azrael landed a kick in the second man’s chest, sending him backward. In one fluid movement, he elbowed the first warrior in the nose, broke his wrist, and wrenched the sword from his useless hand. Azrael only had time for a shallow slice to the man’s body before the other soldiers attacked.
Weapons clashed, legs swept, and fists flew as the remaining soldiers tried to surround him. Azrael moved his feet, leading the men away from the marketplace, constantly keeping his attackers in view while sneaking a glance at Kenz. One soldier was down, the other was fighting viciously. Kenz used her shield simultaneously with her sword. Sweat dripped down her face.
Azrael swore as the sting of a blade slashed his arm. He instinctively raised his weapon in time to block the strike aimed for his neck, his teeth clenching at the vibration thrumming through his injured arm.
“You’ve gone soft.” The lead soldier stepped into the fray, a mocking sneer on his face.
“Just making this a challenge.”
Years of training, muscle memory, and instinct kept him alive. Azrael blocked another blow, sideswiping one of the attackers and knocking him off his feet. He sheathed his dagger and picked up the fallen sword, twirling the two blades and ignoring the blood running down his arm. He twisted and stabbed a man in the chest, but another soldier snuck under Azrael’s guard, steel slicing across his leg. He hissed, backing away from the soldiers.
His right arm and leg burned, his hand was sticky with blood, a drop of sweat stung his eye. He pivoted, tracking the soldier behind him while watching the two in front. His eyes flicked to the man on the ground and he turned slightly, trying to locate the other one when an intense pain slashed through his back, forcing him to his knee.
“Look, men. The mighty Azrael kneels before us,” the lead soldier said, laughing.
Azrael groaned, gritting his teeth against the searing pain. Kenz stood twenty feet away, the two soldiers dead and her sword hanging at her side. He recognized the look in her eyes. She was finally getting what she wanted—him dead at the very hands of those whose mission it was to destroy Spectrals. It was fitting, really, being killed by the Watch Guard. He regretted never finding the Fire Spectral or the vengeance he so desired, but at least he would die knowing that for once he was the protector instead of the Angel of Death.
Azrael nodded at Kenz and struggled to his feet. He needed to take down as many soldiers as he could to give her a better chance. He blocked another strike, fighting the pain in his back, blood spilling to the ground. Metal gleamed as the whine of a sword slashed through the air.
This was it.
The death blow crashed into a solid wall of indigo light. The lead soldier’s eyes widened, then burned with hatred as Kenz sprinted toward them.
“What are you doing?” Azrael growled.
“Saving your life.” Kenz’s shield surrounded them.
Azrael gathered himself to full height, relying on the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The smell of copper stung his nose as sticky wetness traveled down his broken body. He didn’t have much time.
The shield dissolved and blades clashed, Kenz fighting behind him as they took on the remaining soldiers. All the training and lessons clicked into place—they fought as one, anticipating each other’s moves, and within minutes it was over.
Azrael stared at the carnage, blood dripping down his face and off his swords.
The world tilted.
His grip loosened, swords clattering to the ground, and with a final groan, Azrael fell.
Kenz gripped his shoulders. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”
Azrael lay on his stomach, focusing on the scratchy wool against his cheek and taking controlled breaths to block out the pain. Kenz rustled through the bottles on Amycus’s bookshelf, mumbling under her breath.
The door crashed open and Linnette rushed in, her hands covering her mouth. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Azrael grimaced, his vision blurring. “What does it look like?”
“Linnette, I need you to have Tillie or Mal ride out to Hillford and find Kord. Then come back and help me stop the bleeding.” Kenz sounded like a commander barking orders.
Linnette nodded and ran out, leaving Azrael alone with Kenz. The sound of dripping filled the silence. Azrael closed his eyes, trying to ignore the puddle of blood beneath him.
A chair scooted closer and he opened his eyes. Kenz placed bottles and rags on the table, her face pale. He remembered Kord mentioning her weak constitution when his tattoo was burned away.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“If I don’t stop the bleeding, you’ll die.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
Her eyes met his, her mouth set in a hard line. She shook her head. “I thought I did.”
“What changed your mind?”
Kenz tied bandages along his arm and leg and removed a knife from the sheath on her thigh. Azrael tensed, then relaxed at the sound of tearing fabric as Kenz cut away his tunic. He sucked in a breath as she dabbed at the wound across his back.
“I don’t want to be like you,” she said, methodically working on his back. “You deserved to die after all the people you murdered.” Her eyes brimmed as she stared at his back. “But then I saw the look on your face.”
“What look?”
She shrugged. “Understanding, I suppose. You knew I wanted you dead, and you accepted your fate. Instead of feeling gratified, I felt ashamed.” She shook her head slightly and continued mopping up the blood. “Kord warned me that bitterness would eat me alive. It almost did. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I watched you die, knowing I could’ve prevented it.”
When their eyes met, he couldn’t look away. They held hope, something he hadn’t seen in a long time. He slowly reached out to touch her hand; her skin was soft and warm. She looked down at his fingers but didn’t pull away.
“Kenz, I—”
The door burst open again. “I found Maleous,” Linnette said, rushing to his side. She gasped and he turned his head, not wanting to see the revulsion on her face. He knew what his back looked like—a crisscrossing of scarred flesh.
“Good,” Kenz said, and she gave more instructions to Linnette. Azrael peered at the fire, mulling over Kenz’s words. She had made a choice, in a matter of seconds, to not become a monster like him. He didn’t want to think about the choices he’d made over the past thirteen years—choices that created a man consumed by revenge to the point of killing his father, justifying the wrongs against him. What would his mother or sister think if they knew what had become of him? He closed his eyes. They would be ashamed.
“I need to clean the wound and stitch it back together,” Kenz said, interrupting his thoughts. “This is going to hurt.”
“Pain is unavoidable; suffering—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Suffering is a choice,” she said.
Azrael’s chuckle turned into a groan when she poured alcohol along the wound. He gripped the edge of the cot, his knuckles turning white.
“Here, have some.” Linnette offered a bottle to Azrael, who gulped the contents down.
“Where is Kord when I need him?” Kenz muttered, focusing on the needle and thread. “Better bite down on this.” She handed him a wooden dowel.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“No.”
He swiveled his head, frowning.
“Yes, I know what I’m doing. Amycus taught us wound care, just in case we were without Kord’s magic.”
Azrael nodded and bit down on the wood, wishing the alcohol’s numbing effects would kick in. His muscles twinged when the needle went through his flesh. His jaw ached and sweat dripped down his face as he silently repeated his mantra every time the needle pierced his back.
Pain is inescapable. Suffering is a choice.
Linnette wiped his forehead, pushing the hair off his face.
“You’re blocking the light, Linnette,” Kenz said, her voice hard.
Azrael moaned, trying to stay conscious. His fingers twitched, reaching again for the bottle.
“Almost done,” Kenz said.
Finally, she let out a sigh of relief and tied off the last stitch. Azrael stared at the blood-soaked rags covering the floor, trembling as she gently rubbed an ointment on his back. Linnette gathered up the rags, saying she’d be back later with food.
Kenz walked to the window, her hands shaking while she lit the candles. The sun dipped below the horizon and the sky glowed a deep orange.
“Are you all right?” Azrael asked, his voice strained.
“I need to look at your other wounds but thought you could use a break.”
“Kenz,” Azrael whispered. “You should sit.”
Her shoulders tensed. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do.”
“Your face is pale and your hands are shaking.” Azrael took a deep breath, wincing. “Please, sit. Have a drink.”
Kenz sighed and turned from the window. She sat near Azrael, drinking straight from the bottle. The room darkened and the candlelight flickered. Kenz rolled the bottle back and forth between her palms.
“I don’t blame you,” he said, his voice slurred. “I wouldn’t want to be like me either.” He took the bottle, taking a long drink, and handed it back to her. “I wasn’t always a cold-blooded killer. I had a family once, a little sister I adored. I used to dream about being part of something special, being a hero.” He sighed, surrendering to the oblivion of the alcohol.
“That’s a wonderful dream, Azrael.”
“It does me no good to dream. I’m not worthy . . .” As his voice trailed off, he felt the gentle caress of her fingers wipe the hair off his face.