Air ripped into my lungs, cold and sharp, dragging me back from the suffocating darkness of the vision. I gasped, stumbling back from Azrael, my hand jerking out of his grasp. My heart didn't just hammer; it jackhammered against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
My eyes burned. The vision still blazed behind them – the disorienting plunge through blackness, the gut-wrenching fear, and then him. Azrael. Appearing in the void, vast and inevitable, reaching out to catch… to catch me. My soul. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he was simply collecting what was his.
"What the actual hell was that, Azzy?!" The nickname slipped out, a desperate attempt to cling to something familiar, something ridiculous, in the face of the impossible. My voice was shaking, my entire body trembling.
He watched me, his face impassive, but I saw the subtle shift in the air around him, the way the shadows seemed to lean in. He wasn't smirking now, but that unnerving calm was just as infuriating. The mansion around us was silent, the whispers momentarily hushed, like even this ancient place was holding its breath, waiting for his response.
"A glimpse," he stated, his voice low, measured. "Of a moment. A significant moment."
"Significant?!" I yelled, my voice tight with panic. "You showed me… me… falling! And you were there! Catching… catching my soul?! What does that even mean?!"
He took a slow step towards me, his void eyes fixed on mine. "It means precisely what you perceived, Sera Quinn. A point of intersection. Your end."
My end. I stopped shaking. Cold dread washed over me, colder than the mansion's chill. "My… end? Are you saying… I'm… dead?"
He didn't hesitate. "Your body ceased function. Your soul began its journey. It was… premature."
Premature? My death was premature? What kind of cosmic screw-up was this? "Premature?! How is death ever premature?!"
"There are designated paths, expected timelines," he explained, his tone frustratingly clinical. "Your thread was severed before its appointed moment."
My thread. The fate threads Lucien had mentioned? Mine was cut? But… if I was dead, how was I here? Arguing with Death in his mansion?
"But if I'm dead," I said, my voice a bewildered whisper, "then how am I… here? Talking to you? Not… you know. Doing whatever dead souls do?"
"That," he said, and I saw a flicker of something in his void eyes again. Annoyance? Frustration? "Is the complication. You should not be fully here. Not yet."
Not yet. So I died. But not at the right time. And because of that, something was messed up. Something went wrong.
"Something went wrong?" My mind leaped to the slick-haired recruiter. "Was it Lucien?! Did he mess this up with the contract?!"
"Lucien is an agent, not a cause," Azrael replied. "He delivered the Pact. The issue lies not with the contract itself, but with the timing of its activation. It was triggered by your… untimely departure."
Untimely departure. My premature death. This was getting more unbelievable by the second. I died, something went wrong, and now I was stuck in the In-Between, married to Death, because he needed an anchor and I accidentally signed the wrong contract. It was the most Kafkaesque situation imaginable, only with more gothic architecture and significantly hotter cosmic entities.
"So, what?" I demanded, throwing my hands up again. "I'm just… half-dead? A zombie bride?! What happens now?!"
He was silent for a moment, considering. "Your soul is bound to me, anchored here. But your mortal form still exists. Weakened. Fading."
Fading. The word sent a fresh wave of panic through me. My body. My actual body, back in the real world. It was still there, but it was weakening? What did that mean? Was I in a coma? Lying in a hospital bed, like in the vision? No, the vision was just falling...
"My body's fading?" I asked, my voice thin. "What happens if it… fades completely?"
"You become fully bound to this realm," he stated. "A soul, severed from its physical anchor prematurely. It presents… challenges."
Challenges. For him, probably. For me, it sounded like the end of everything I knew. My life, my body, my connection to… to Cam.
Cam. Oh my god, Cam. She was probably freaking out. She'd heard me on the phone, rambling about glitches and whispers before the shadows dragged me through the mirror. She must think I was crazy. Or worse. Was she okay? Was she safe?
"What about… the real world?" I asked, my voice softer now, a knot of worry tightening in my chest. "What about… my friend? Cam?"
Azrael's gaze seemed to pierce through me. "The mortal realm persists, for now. Your connection to it is… tenuous. Like a thread stretched too thin."
A thread. My life thread. Stretched too thin. Because I died when I wasn't supposed to, and my soul got snagged by a marriage contract to Death. This was just… monumentally unfair.
"This isn't fair," I whispered, the words heavy with a helplessness I rarely allowed myself to feel. "None of this is fair. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this."
He took a step closer. His expression remained calm, but his void eyes held a flicker of something that wasn't patience. Something older, perhaps weary. "Nothing about death is," he said, his voice softer, almost… vulnerable.
It was a fleeting moment. A crack in the ancient, impenetrable facade. It vanished before I could really grasp it, but I saw it. A hint of the immense burden he carried.
"Then I don't want to be dead!" I cried out, the helplessness giving way to a fresh surge of defiance.
His lips thinned. "You think I did?"
The question hung in the air, raw and unexpected. He didn't elaborate, didn't explain. But for a second, I felt a resonance, a strange understanding of immense, unwilling responsibility. He didn't choose to be Death. It simply was.
"Look," I said, taking a shaky breath, trying to regain some of my usual snark to cover the raw emotion. "This is… a lot. Bride of Death. Prematurely deceased. Fading body. You collect souls like… like Pokémon cards."
He raised an eyebrow, a subtle gesture that somehow conveyed ancient judgment. "You think I enjoy it? The endless procession? The sorrow?"
"You smiled when I choked on a fry that one time," I shot back, remembering a particularly embarrassing moment from my past. "Cam says I have a death wish. Maybe you just appreciate the repeat customers."
His expression smoothed into something closer to his usual calm. "That was your third time that week," he said, his voice dry. "I was impressed by your consistency. A certain… dedication to the precipice."
We argued. We bantered. It was insane. Standing there, arguing about near-death experiences and fry-choking incidents with the actual embodiment of Death, who was also apparently my husband now. It was the most surreal, twisted conversation I'd ever had, and somehow… it felt weirdly real.
He explained, in his calm, factual way, that my soul needed an anchor. Something solid, something connected to the mortal world, to keep it from fading entirely, to keep the link to my body from snapping. And the strongest anchor was routine. Purpose. A connection to the living.
"A job," he stated. "A routine. Something to keep you tethered to that world while I fix this one. While I find the breach that caused this."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. "You want me to work?! While I'm half-dead and wholly married to you?! In my old life?!"
"It is necessary," he said simply. "Better than spontaneous combustion, or dissolution into the aether."
Spontaneous combustion vs. a job. Okay, when you put it that way…
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered. "So I get to go back to… waiting tables? Making ridiculously overpriced lattes?"
"I have made… arrangements," he stated. "A position has been secured. Suitable for your… current status. You will wake in your dwelling tomorrow. With a new occupation."
He'd already arranged it? Just like that? Like ordering takeout? A job. A real one. Real location. Real manager. Real risk. And him.
He must have seen the exhaustion, the fear, the sheer overload on my face. "You are weary, Sera Quinn. You require rest. Your form requires stability."
"Rest?" I scoffed. "How am I supposed to rest when I've just found out I'm dead, trapped, married to you, and apparently need a job to prevent myself from fading into existential dust?! I have questions! So many questions!"
"They can wait," he said, his voice firm. "For now, you must anchor yourself. Begin with sleep."
"No way," I protested. "I'm not sleeping. Not yet. Not until I understand…"
He didn't argue further. He simply reached out, placed one arm gently but firmly behind my back and the other under my knees. Before I could even gasp, he lifted me.
His touch was cold, like always, but there was an undeniable strength to it. Being held by the literal embodiment of Death was… weird. Terrifying. And in that annoying, hormone-betraying way, kind of… not terrible?
He carried me, silent and fluid, down the hallway, away from the library and the grand staircase. The whispers seemed to part for him, a rustling deference. He opened one of the dark, carved doors – this one wasn't locked or illusory.
Inside was a bedroom. Palatial, gothic, just like the rest of the mansion, but it had a large bed draped in dark, heavy blankets. He walked to the bed and gently, carefully, laid me down on top of the covers.
He straightened, then reached down and pulled the heavy blanket up over me. It felt cold and heavy, like a physical weight pressing me into the mattress.
I immediately tried to sit up. "See? I told you! I can't sleep! My brain is going a million miles an hour!"
He put a hand on the blanket over my chest, holding me down. Not with excessive force, but with an absolute, unmovable weight. "You must rest. To regain equilibrium."
I struggled against the blanket, frustrated. "Are you going to force me to sleep?!"
His void eyes met mine, calm and unwavering. "Mhm."
"You can't just—" I pushed harder, trying to get out from under the heavy blanket.
He didn't apply more pressure. He just… held. Held me down with the blanket, his hand a steady, cold anchor.
I struggled again, twisting my body. Useless.
"Okay, okay!" I huffed, letting my head fall back onto the pillow. "Fine! I'll stay! Just… stop pinning me with the blanket!"
He slowly removed his hand. The blanket remained heavy, but the pressure was gone. He simply stood there, watching me.
"Good," he said, his voice soft. "Now, rest."
I glared up at him, exhausted, terrified, and utterly resigned. Married to Death. Literally. And he tucked me into bed like a toddler. My life was officially a cosmic joke.
Then, the edge of my vision blurred. A familiar surge of energy, stronger this time, pulsed through the room. The gothic walls seemed to waver, the shadows lengthening and stretching, dissolving into nothingness. The heavy, cold air grew thin.
Azrael leaned in, his face close to mine. His voice was a low whisper near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "You'll find me there too, of course. Can't have my bride getting too far from Death."
The mansion crumbled around me, not into rubble, but into swirling, inky shadows. The cold faded, replaced by a sudden, jarring warmth.
And then…
I woke up.
Not in the gothic bed. Not in the In-Between. I was in my bed. My slightly-too-soft mattress. But something was wrong.
The air felt… lighter? Warmer? I looked around my apartment. It wasn't the same. The walls were freshly painted a soft, warm cream. There was new furniture, simple and practical, but definitely not mine. My listing ceiling fan was gone, replaced by a simple, modern light fixture. It was… clean. And organized. Like a professional had come in and staged the place for sale.
My messenger bag was gone. Replaced by a neat backpack on a new desk, next to… a brand new laptop and a sleek, dark phone. My old dead phone was nowhere in sight.
I sat up, bewildered, still wearing the clothes I'd been in yesterday. But draped neatly over the back of a chair was a crisp, unfamiliar uniform. Dark pants, a plain black polo shirt, and a small tag pinned to it. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the embroidered name: Sera Drevane.
Drevane? My last name was Quinn. Sera Quinn. Who the hell was Sera Drevane?
The new phone on the desk buzzed. I picked it up. It wasn't my old clunker. It was a brand new model. The notification on the screen read:
From: Management
Subject: Morning Shift - The Daily Grind Cafe
Orientation at 9:00 AM sharp. Ask for Mark. Don't be late.
Below the message was a map link to an address I didn't recognize.
Panic, cold and sharp, returned. This wasn't just an upgrade. This was… a new life. Or his version of one for me. A barista? Seriously? After facing down Death himself, I was going to be steaming milk?
My gaze fell to my left hand. The black ring was still there, matte and unyielding, catching the morning light filtering through my now-clean window. It felt heavier than ever.
Drevane. Azrael's last name. He'd changed my name. Legally? Supernaturally? He probably just snapped his fingers and made it so.
I scrambled out of bed, my heart pounding, and ran to the mirror. It was new too, larger, clearer. My reflection stared back, wide-eyed, messy bun, cat-eye liner somehow still mostly intact. Sera Quinn. Sera Drevane.
And the ring. Still there.
I looked outside, driven by a sudden, terrifying instinct. My apartment was a few floors up, overlooking the street. It was morning. People were walking by, heading to work, clutching travel mugs. Normalcy.
And there, leaning against the lamppost directly across the street from my building, looking completely out of place, was Azrael. Tall, pale, dressed in his dark clothes that looked like they belonged in a different century.
He wasn't looking up at my window. He was looking down, at something in his hand.
A small, paper carton. The kind you get from a take-out place.
He reached in, plucked out a golden, crispy stick, and brought it to his lips.
He was eating my fries.
My accidental husband from hell. He was here. In the real world. Eating fries outside my window like it was the most normal thing in the universe. And I had orientation at 9 a.m. at 'The Daily Grind Cafe'.
Just another Monday. Or whatever day it was.