I took a deep breath – though it didn't do a whole lot to calm my nerves – then said mentally, Rephael, we need to talk.
Rephael was Azriel's real name, a name known and used only by those very close to him. Which meant I couldn't say it out loud simply because, in the reaper world, names were a thing of power, and knowing someone's true name gave you a measure of control over them. That he'd told me meant he not only trusted me, but he cared more than he'd let on. Only I'd been too damn lost in my own misery and anger to even realize it.
For several minutes, nothing happened. Sweat began to trickle down my back and my heart thumped so fast it felt as if it was about to tear out of my chest. God, what if he didn't come back? What if he couldn't? He might have said I only had to say his name and he'd hear me, no matter what he was doing or where he was, but he'd also warned that the powers that be might not allow him to come back once I'd sent him away.
If I had to spend the rest of eternity as a goddamn Mijai, I sure as hell didn't want to spend it alone. Or with any other reaper, for that matter.
"There would never be another reaper in your life," he replied quietly. "In that, also, the choice has gone."
I spun around, a turbulent mix of relief, happiness, and fear surging through me. He appeared near the end of my bed, the electricity of his presence playing gently through my being, a sensation as intimate as the caress of fingers against skin. Longing shivered through me, but the fear sharpened. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in his expression, and not even the slightest whisper of warmth in the mental line between us. There was no sign whatsoever that he was, in any way, happy to see me.
I swallowed heavily, but it did little to ease the sudden dryness in my throat. "Thank you for coming."
"It is not as though I had any other choice, given you used my name." He crossed his arms, an action that not only emphasized the muscles in his arms and shoulders, but brought into stark relief the jagged pink scar that now marred his left arm.
My fault, I thought, feeling sick. I'd sent him away, not only disgracing him but ensuring punishment in the form of being ordered into the battle being waged against escaping demons at hell's second gate. I swept my gaze over the rest of him, searching for other signs of injury. His face – which was chiseled, almost classical in its beauty, but now possessing an even harder edge than before – was untouched. But his well-defined torso bore a new scar, one that ran from the left edge of his belly button and up under his arm, slashing through the middle of the stylized black wing tattoo that swept around from his spine, the tips brushing across the front side of his neck.
Only it wasn't a tat. It was a Dušan – a darker, more stylized brother to the lilac one that resided on my left arm – and had been designed to protect us when we walked the gray fields. That the scar swept through the middle of the Dušan suggested that perhaps it, too, was battle scarred.
My gaze rose to his again. His blue eyes – one as vivid and bright as a sapphire, the other as dark as a storm-driven sea – gave as little away as his expression.
"Azriel, we need to talk —"
"So you said," he interrupted coolly. "About what? I was under the impression you had no desire to see me again, let alone talk to me."
Anger slipped through me, brief and sharp. It wasn't like he was the only injured party here… I took a deep breath, and thrust the thought away. Calm, cool, rational. That's what I had to remain. It was acting in anger that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.
Well, that and his actions.