The Angel Prophecy (original)

31) milk

Elizabeth:

There was an imprint of myself in the tree I've continuously been tossed into throughout the week. Azazel and Abbadon were a relentless duo, teasing and criticizing my every move.

Shaking out my aching joints, I gathered myself to a standing position once more. We were practicing agility, yet I was still getting tossed about. Although I must admit, I was much better than before.

"Faster." Was all he said. Faster faster faster.

We worked on cardio, obstacle cources, balance, even breathing, as well as weapon and fist fighting.

There's only so much speed a person can execute when they're lethargic and in pain. We drilled the sequence a few more times before Azazel finally called it quits.

"I think that's enough. All we can to do now is relax and wait for the eclipse."

It was three days away now. Two more sleeps. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. The fate of the world depended on this moment and if I failed.... I didn't even want to think about it.

I'd never felt less capable of doing anything in my entire life.

And to think a few months ago all I was worried about was homework and my job at the autoshop. Sure, I had a knack for fixing things, but the whole entire world? That's crazy ambitious.

I'd already fixed the doors and windows in the shack. There was nothing left for me to fiddle with.

I knew my body needed the rest after all the training, but I couldn't. I needed to keep myself occupied or I would lose it. Maybe I could convince Damon to break something?

The two of us sauntered back into the cabin as the sun kissed the horizon. It was nearly dark outside, the others would have left by now.

Azazel was still in a pissy mood. He would slander everyone with cruel, witty remarks whenever he got the chance. And he would always put up a fight when it was time for me to apply Apollo's ointment to his back, which had just barely began to scab over. It was a disgusting purple-ish yellow color, with two long, gaping gashes down the middle. He refused to wear his bandages during the day, nor would he wear a shirt, claiming that they stick to his wound and restrict his movements. But at night I give him no other options. He either wears the bandages, or I get the bed and he has to sleep on the floor.

He tried it once. I had spent all morning carefully peeling him off the floor while he did nothing but hiss and moan at the pain.

I gathered some food from the kitchen and tried my best to set myself up with a decent meal. I was wary of food that should be kept cold. I didn't even want to touch the cheese that Miles had been snacking on this past week. There was no such thing as refrigeration in the 1400s and I couldn't bear to think about what would happen if I ate any of the raw food that had been sitting in the cupboards.

Azazel glanced at my plate of bread, fresh apples, and nuts and laughed condescendingly. His plate was piled sky-high with meats, fruits, and cheeses.

He picked up a piece of cold meat that had been cooked over the fire a few days ago and waved it in my face, "You sure you don't want any?"

I scrunched my nose in disgust. "Yes, I'm sure."

"More for me, Cosset." He shrugged, a hint of a smile crossing his face at the crude nickname. I shot him a scathing look as I sat down to eat.

It appalled me how different he was. I had only seen glimpses of his wry, droll remarks before, and they were hardly ever cruel. Now it seemed that these were the only things he said if he was not hounding me or the seven to be more useful or planning what is going to happen on Sunday, the lunar eclipse.

He was smart. Scarily so. Of course, I'd known that, but it had been shadowed by the behavioral problems caused from the loss of his scythe. Those strange breakdowns suddenly made sense to me... this, this is what Azazel was really like, not what I've known. He was collected, perceptive, and wild.

"Can you pass me the milk?" He asked, a hint of something undescribable in his voice.

I absentmindedly grabbed the glass in front of him and passed it to him, the tips of his fingers brushing against the palm of my hand as he grasped it. I was so lost in thought that I had failed to notice the darkening glare that crossed his face, or the tingling sensation left in my hand.

I wasn't wearing my gloves.