Paradise Made

Twenty-Seven: Drown Your Sorrows

It was dark inside, and smokey, with an underlying odor of rotten eggs. It wasn't packed but busier than a place like this tended to be at this time of day. Pairs or small groups sat a tables chatting in low voices. Cigarets hung from lips, and the tables were littered with enough empty beer bottles to indicate a more rowdy crowd, had the patrons been human.

I tried not to look at them.

Along the bar there were three figures. A man and a woman sat near the center, talking with a punk looking bartender woman. Near the end, maybe the only lone figure in the place, Azazel leaned heavily on his elbows. Tamiel sat down beside him, Kasdaye leaned on the corner on the other side. Me, I stood awkwardly beside her, not sure where to look, or what to do with myself.

Azazel didn't even look up. A couple of shot glasses, filled with a clear liquid—probably vodka—sat in front of him. He drained one, placing it gently back on the bar.

“Drowning your sorrows?” Tamiel asked.

No answer from the black haired angel, only a dry laugh. He still didn't look at us, staring intently at his hands. He knocked back the next shot.

“Come talk to us, at least,” Tamiel said, her voice caring. “Somewhere else. Come back to the apartment with us.”

“I'm not done here,” Azazel finally spoke, very quietly, gravelly, barely audible over the background noise.

He beckoned the bartender over. Her eyes were black, in here not even bothering to conceal what she was. I wondered if humans ever wandered in, unaware what they were walking in to.

“So many Watchers in one place,” she commented, “must be good luck or something. Maybe bad.”

She didn't seem to sense I was human, or at least not to care.

“Azazel held up two fingers. “Two more. Actually, pour out a round for all my friends.”

The demon woman was quick, giving us no time to protest. Six shot glasses lined up along the bar, and she filled them along with Azazel's.

He turned to face me. “Drink up, Xavier. If anyone is going to need this, it's you.” He picked up two glasses, handing one to me. “Cheers.”

I could not refuse; not this terrifying being with the cold sadness in his eyes.

“To Pen,” he said, as the two small glasses clinked.

The use of the shortened name was not lost on me. The vodka burned my throat, but I downed it with practiced proficiency. Kasdaye downed hers in quick succession, only Tamiel leaving them untouched.

“So,” Azazel said, pushing the second glass slowly towards me. “You two ever make a decision?”

It took me five seconds to realize what he was talking about, and only two seconds more for every muscle in my body to go rigid.