Mid-Week Words

from The Sigil of Azazel, chapter 19:

"She reeks," Shemyaza began as he shut the glass door behind him, "of fear and power."

Azazel frowned. The deck was inside the Walls, but whether or not that would stop a listening hex, he was no longer certain. He didn't answer, but he was at least thoughtful enough to keep the smoke from blowing into the other man's face. 

"What did you do to that girl?" he asked, as close as Shemyaza ever came to demanding.

"I did what was necessary to save our kingdom," he spoke, calm and conversational, as if they had had this talk many times before. Azazel could not even remember what their last conversation had been about, but it was probably an argument about Lucifer's reach, and whether the madness was spreading to more than just their stricken women and frayed fighters.

Shemyaza snatched the cigarette from his hand, and snuffed it out in one clenched fist.

"That girl is an abomination."

"The girl is not your concern," Azazel spoke carefully, each word its own breath of caution.

"Careful, General. We can make more Wardens, we can't make another Abaddon."

"Shouldn't you be getting back to your mate?" Azazel asked. Shemyaza let the cigarette fall into the snow, and the intertwined marks in his palm seemed to vibrate in pain.

"I would tell you not to do anything foolish," he advanced just within arm's reach, and the hand marking him as healer, as mated, as Shemyaza, found easily between the layers of Azazel's clothing the mark he too had born since adulthood, the sign he was born unto, the black lines of two arrows intersecting over one straight line just above his heart, marking him as loyal, as alone, as Azazel, and tapped it twice, "but I can see its far too late for that, old friend."