Chapter III

Present time

Azazel could feel his smile slipping by millimeters, the happiness a tiny bit harder to fake as every second passed. It almost made him laugh: he had been alive for decades, but abstaining from a kill still affected him profoundly, made him grumpy and disagreeable and twitchy. Of course, he was careful not to show any of this to his human "peers," but that didn't mean that hiding it wasn't annoying. He was just very diligent about keeping it under wraps because, well, when you've killed over a thousand lesser immortals and managed to live a very long and productive life in spite of that, you pick up a trick or two about blending in.

That would all be over soon.

He felt a spring creep into his step as he walked toward the warehouse, a duffel bag in his hand and a whistled song on his lips. It had been a long and difficult wait, but his planning and ensured this would go over perfectly-but while that was a joy in and of itself, it was the act of the thing that really made him happy. Tonight he was going to kill another mortal, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

The warehouse door creaked open on rusty hinges, light from the nearest street lamp pooling in the doorway. He heard a low moan and couldn't help but break out into a smile.

"Honey, I'm home!" he declared gleefully, doing something akin to a dance. A shaft of moonlight through a hole in the roof was the only thing that illuminated The great Berek, his head hung in defeat and his wrists restrained by pure silver shackles attached to the ceiling by long chains. The position reminded him of the crucifixion of Jesus-well, minus the wood and the eternal worship by humans. He was actually rather pleased with himself for thinking this up, because it was something new, something different, and god, he needed change desperately. How he'd actually managed to think up a new position to torture someone in after this long he didn't know, but it was truly a relief.

He could practically smell the mortal's skin burning from his place near the door. His smile still painfully wide, he strode up to his victim and examined his wrists, pleased by the burns he saw there.

"Fuck you," came a weak voice from Berek and Azazel almost laughed.

"Hardly something you want to say to your captor, sir," he replied, allowing his bag to land on the ground with a thump and undoing the zipper to dig inside it. He withdrew a spoon, small and of pure silver, and held it between himself and his prey to observe. Grabbing his Berek's face in one hand and squeezing his cheeks together hard, he leaned in so their foreheads were almost touching.

"I'm gonna make you hurt, you spawn of Satan's asshole," he spat, the saliva of his rage making the Berek flinch, "and I am going to enjoy every fuckingsecond of it."

He started out slow-the spoon wasn't meant for anything serious, just a starter, really. He smiled as it sizzled against the Berek's skin, drawing a low moan from his throat. This part was always interesting. It was pain, but just a little, and it tested the victim's mettle enough for him to know how to make it last. This prey was tough, it seemed, but certainly not the toughest he'd killed. Tough enough, however, to really get some fun in.

Azazel smiled.

"I brought something for you." He dug around in his bag and pulled out a clear plastic bag. At first it was hard to tell the contents of the bag, but a closer perusal revealed shavings of what looked like some sort of metal.

The Berek's eyes widened as he realized what they were.

"You know, I was thinking," Azazel began, tapping the spoon against his chin, "and I thought 'if I'm gonna bring a spoon, why not also bring food to go in it?' I mean, that's what spoons are used for, after all. So I brought this. Thought you could have a bit of cereal... consider it my treat, really. Most of the others don't get fed, so you'd better enjoy this."

As he dipped the spoon into the bag and pulled it out, piled high with silver shavings, he watched the expression on the victim's face go from anger to pure, unrestricted terror.

"Oh, so it's finally sinking in, is it?" He put the bag down and used one hand to force open the mouth of his victim, holding it steady while he thrashed. As he forced the spoon in and clamped his hand over the lips to ensure he didn't spit it out, he laughed. "I told you I was going to make you hurt... and honey, I ain't even started yet."

He was enjoying the disgusted sounds the victim was making, the blood that tinged his lips when his mouth was forced open, but really, he only made it a few spoonfuls before he was bored. Setting the bag and the spoon down, he withdrew a long, wicked knife instead, holding it up to the light and letting its reflection glint on the victim's face.

"I could gut you right here, you know," he said quietly, like it was a secret between friends, "but I won't. Not yet."

As he was about to make the first cut, the voice of the victim stopped him.

"Why... why are you doing this?"

Azazel barked a laugh, short and quick and humorless. He pressed the knife up against his victim's skin and listened to the breathy gasp as he drew it down slowly, watching the blood bead and flow down toward his pants.

"You know, when I was new at this, they would talk a lot," he said, placing the knife at the top of the victim's chest again, but in a different spot. "I suppose I seemed less intimidating, more of an amateur, so they thought they could convince me to spare them." He dragged the knife down again, but he was hardly thinking about the motion; he'd gone on autopilot, his hands moving but his brain far, far away.

"The angels, you know, they would look at me as I pulled out my tools, tears streaming down their perfect faces, and they would say 'Azazel you beautifuldisaster, why must you do such ugly things? Release me now and I can save you, I can raise you up from this dirty life of sin and pain and anger, I can give you life-

"And you know what I would do? I would look at them real hard-I would go all squinty-eyed, you know, and I would laugh." He laughed now, echoing the actions of Azazel from long ago, but there was a glassy, wet look in his eyes. "And I'd lean in real close, like this, and you know what I'd say? 'I would rather die.'

"Cause there is no way to hold something that is truly beautiful ; not without consequences. There is a reason why roses have thorns".

As he finished the last word, he plunged the knife deep into the victim's chest, digging it in just below the sternum plate. The victim gasped, his hands scrabbling to break free, to stop this, but he could do nothing. Blood flowed down Azazel's hand, dripping in a black-red pool on the ground, making him smile with delight.

The demons would try to dissuade me too, you know, but their words were poison. Promises of monetary things; of sex, of love, of power, even, but none of it enticed me. Do you want to know why?"

In one swift, smooth motion, he tore the knife down through the vampire's stomach, his intestines pouring out like candy from a piñata and blood splashing against the floor in a torrential waterfall.

"Because nothing," Azazel continued, pulling the knife out and stabbing it into the open wound, "will make me forget the bitter taste of betrayal." He listened to the victim gasp for a moment, relished his breathless pleading and the tears now openly streaming down his face. "And nothing-" he stabbed again, twice, each one quick and deep, "-will erase the scars of being hated by all!"With that he plunged the knife into the victim's chest, squinting against the blood that spurted out, and left the knife there to reach for his stake, which he'd luckily stored near the top of the bag.

"I hope this has been a valuable learning experience for you, sir," he said, his voice shaking with grief and anger. "I'm afraid the lesson is over."

With that, he slammed the stake into the victim's chest and put him out of his misery.

It was miserable afterward-always had been, always would be. The cleanup was always swift and quick, but the sensation of the blood drying on his hands and his face kept reminding him that it was over, that everything had played out, that he'd have to go through yet another cycle of watching and planning and hating before he could do it again. This one was fun, though, he had to admit. Not as great as killing an angel-those were always the best-but it was an interesting experience.

I'll definitely have to try those chains again, he thought as he zipped up his bag, looking back at the clean, evidence-free warehouse one last time. As he carried the bag of the victim's ashes to his car, he squared his shoulders and sighed.