This is a direct continuation of my first book.
(Hazbin Hotel) The Radio Demon and The Doe-Eyed Killer
So if you haven't read that book yet, go read it because you will be VERY confused if you don't!
I know year 2020 has already come and gone for us...
Face of a brother. Black Death is a haunting. My heart is buried here. - Jaimee King
Author's Note: In case you're wondering, yes the title is my original Haiku. ————————————————
Michael spoke only once before fading into silence as the memories appeared within the light orb.
"It was during the middle years of 1346–1353 when it happened..."
Charlie's eyes widened as she watched the images appear within the light orb like a shadowy mist.
Her father was just as stunned over the chaos unfolding before his eyes.
He knew that the Black Death was a horrendous scourge upon man, especially for the time period...
...But now...he understands why Azrael's so mentally unhinged and emotionally numb about it whenever it's brought up into conversation.
Lucifer heard Charlie dry heaving from behind her hand (and possibly wishing that she could vomit) as they watched the body's of the dead being piled up into mass graves.
Lucifer could feel the pain. He knew Charlie could feel it as well, given what Azrael's likely told her regarding the power of the light orbs being heavily influenced by strong emotions...
He could hear the weeping of families...
Seeing the mothers and fathers mourning the loss of their dead children while slowly dying from the same disease within their homes...
Feeling the emptiness of knowing that their entire bloodline is soon to be gone...
It was horrendous.
Lucifer was no longer paying attention to his daughter as he watched how Raphael and Jophiel silently walked through the cemeteries and villages...
Raphael—with his plague doctor's outfit, only speaking to mutter his blessings in Latin for the deceased before waving a powerful incense around to ward off the flies from landing on the rotting corpses.
Jophiel—taking on the form of a small child, silently walking beside her elder brother. Her voice is silent but her eyes are fraught with grief that says a thousand words. With a gentle wave of her hand a vast assortment of wildflowers grow from the ground to bloom over the newly buried graves.
No one ever sees them.
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The image in the orb zooms towards the cathedral and it's there, standing on the steeple of the villages cathedral is Azrael.
Azrael—covered head to toe in his holy black shroud with his scthye in one hand and green obsidian spear in the other.
Azrael—who doesn't bat an eye to the wind howling against his body like a vicious attacking enemy...
Azrael—who doesn'trecoil over the pungent stench of death in the air.
