Azrael's Nemesis

Chapter Two

AZRAEL POV

“Come on — please, give me something to go on,” I urge Echo as we stand in the wide, marble-floored sitting room of her and Lucifer’s place on Mount Olympus.

Mount Olympus has changed a lot since Lucifer and Echo made it home. More angels have chosen to move here with their soulmates; it’s quieter than heaven and people — human and immortal both — find a strange comfort in the place.

Lately the fates have admitted what everyone whispered for years: the old gods can have soulmates, too. Mortals and immortals; the rules are messy. A few pairs are already paired — Zeus and Hera, Aphrodite and Hephaestus, Athena and Hermes. Ares pretends he doesn’t care. He’s lying; he’s always lying.

I’m not pretending. I’ve been searching since I felt the pull. Word reached me that a child was born on Olympus sixteen years ago — a child of God by energy. If the stories are right, that child is my mate.

Today should be her birthday. I can feel her presence like heat under my skin. Not exact location — not yet — but alive, stubbornly alive. The urgency is a physical thing in my chest.

Echo looks to Lucifer, eyebrows raised. “She is of age, and he has felt her,” she says.

Lucifer is careful. “This isn’t ours to decide. How would her guardians feel if we just appeared? What would it do to her life?”

Echo snorts. “How did Hephaestus and Aphrodite feel when they found each other?” she asks. “Do you think any parent of a child wants their child torn between worlds? Maybe, maybe not. But this is different. This is not a trivial thing.”

Lucifer spreads his hands. “No one’s getting ripped out of their bed tonight,” he says with a tired smile.

Echo turns to me. Two words land like a stone.

“Boise, Idaho.”

Boise. The geography resolves in my mind, like an outline filling with ink. It takes me two hours to arrange passage, permissions, and wards. I will not move impulsively. I learned that with Echo. There are rules — practical ones and the old ones. If she is truly a child born on Olympus, she will be watched now, and demons that track soul-signatures will be interested. I am not careless with a life.

When I arrive in the neighborhood, I let my presence be careful and small. The scent of rosemary and strawberry is there, soft and human, and it threads to a house tucked into a quiet lane. I do not break in. I do not make myself visible. I listen.

The piano lifts from inside the house — Chopin, careful and intent. It is a human moment, private and steady. I let myself watch from the edge of the yard, taking in the way she leans into the keys, the tilt of her head, the concentration that pulls at her mouth. Long dark hair, a profile that could be carved, hands that know music. She is real, stubborn, unexpectedly ordinary and therefore impossible to ignore.

A voice cuts through it — a boy’s, sharp. “Nemesis, are you coming? Dinner was ready ten minutes ago!”

She answers without turning off the music. “One of us has a life outside of sleeping around, Austin. I’m practicing. Start without me.”

The exchange is ordinary sibling friction: careless, loud, fierce. She stands when he storms in, and even then she keeps her posture steady. Short shorts, tank top — typical human armor. She speaks back to him with a hard, quick humor that snaps like a twig.

I feel something like protectiveness, not ownership. My pulse is loud, and a dozen plans outline themselves in my head: how to meet her as a person first, how to keep her out of sight of things that would harm her, how to approach her family without tearing their world apart. I am not a monster. I am not a thief. I am a guardian who has always been impatient.

“Finish that sentence,” she tells Austin, voice low and dangerous enough to quiet him. He storms out. She returns to the piano, a small, tight smile on her face, and then she looks straight at the window — right where I stand hidden.

My breath stops. She can see me.

“Care to tell me who you are, and how the hell I can see you?” she asks, voice flat. “I don’t normally see spirits, only sense them.”

The surprise in her tone is clear, not fear but disbelief. I step forward as if in answer, hands empty and nonthreatening.

“No spirits,” I say. “Not like that. My name is Azrael. I’m… I was drawn to you. I mean no harm. I only wanted to watch for a moment — to know you’re safe.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not a salesperson, are you? Because I will absolutely hang up.”

I allow myself a brief, crooked smile. “Not a salesperson. Not a thief. I promise.” The truth is bare and simple and enough for now: I will not force her. If she is to come to Olympus, it will be with her consent, or not at all. For now, I will wait. For now, I will protect.

She studies me another heartbeat, then shakes her head, part annoyed, part curious. “You better not be following me on social media,” she says, and the thing between us — curiosity, caution, a spark of recognition neither of us can yet name — tightens.

I stay until the house settles for the night, and when I leave I set wards around the block. Predators should not find her while I breathe. I will find a way to meet her properly. I will learn her name the right way.

But she can see me. That changes everything.