Running for an immortal isn't the same as it would be for a mortal. A mortal must live in constant fear; they live short lives and must spend much of that time recreating themselves, but it takes years to truly recreate one's self so that even family wouldn't recognize them, years most hunted mortals simply do not have. Immortals, on the other hand, can spend a century or so in one place before someone begins to ask questions, that's part of the beauty of outliving most everyone else. But still, they're fatally wounded or become deified by those with lesser lifespans, and the next thing they know they're having to pick up and start over again. The First Death had gone by many names since leaving Hell, many recognized across the globe as parts of history, like Artemis, Devana, or Nephthys, while others by some miracle remained unknown or were mostly forgotten, but still, one name rang out more infamous and more hers than any other: Azrael.
The First Death was Azrael before she was the Angel of Death, though her wings had been ruined and made flightless long before and she was, of course, no angel. At best, Azrael mimicked the Seraphim of Heaven, but her wings were black as night rather than the metallic sheen of angel wings, and now they were mercury stained—bloody and mangled.
She would never truly understand how she came to be called the Angel of Death even as she presided over all unnatural deaths.
At her core, Azrael was a predator. An instinctual part of her cherished the thrill of the chase and the look of fear in the eyes of her prey when they realized who she was.
It was the same look she saw in the eyes of the man who had brought her out to the alley so very confidentially only a moment ago. Well, she called him a man, but in reality, he was a vampire, a creature of the dark who had been hunting for his latest meal the same night she happened upon this particular nest. The nest was well hidden, housed upstairs from a club of sorts; Azrael believed the papers usually called them "dens of iniquity".
Of course, she didn't care what the place was, she just knew that intoxicated and sedated humans turned vampires into easy prey.
"You can't be here, you're supposed to be in Glastonbury," the vampire's voice shook at her predatory smile, the dark hellfire in her eyes sapping all light from the alley.
"I am quite capable of moving if I wish, and I don't take kindly to people telling me what I can and can't do," Azrael smiled wider as she punched her hand into his chest and caught his slippery soul in a vise grip, "I should thank you, you've been my easiest meal yet." With those words whispered into his ear, she tore the soul free before he had a chance to reply, watching as his light faded and his body hit the ground without a visible wound. The soul, on the other hand, writhed in her hand until it formed a small ball about the size of an apple in her palm and Azrael slid down with her back against the wall. She let her smile slip as she stared at it; her mouth watered, she was hungry, but she'd never been fond of collecting on unnatural deaths no matter how much she thought some of them deserved it. This is why you picked him, Azrael reminded herself as she cast a sideways glance back at the body that would catch and burn to ash at the touch of the sun come morning, he's a killer, you're saving lives in the long run. She shook the thoughts away as another, much colder one came: it's just food.
Azrael took the first bite and straightened up, finishing it by the time she'd reached the end of the alley. Truth be told, souls were more drug to her than food, but at the end of the day, she'd rather eat and remain in control than not eat and turn her resulting short temper loose again, it hadn't ended well for Rome all those years ago and wouldn't for Lancashire or Glastonbury, either.
She paused in the road beyond the alley to run long pianist's fingers through her raven hair, dislodging the ringlets so that she could tie it up in an untidy knot. She wanted to enjoy the night, but the fresh air here was slowly being replaced with ash and smoke with the industrialization of the town and there was one of Amédée Bollée's La Mancelle steam cars on its way up the road she was blocking. Azrael stepped back, watching with now liquid mercury eyes as the pair of drivers passed by from the opening in the alley leaving rapidly cooling steam in their wake. They glanced toward her and the girl's eyes widened as she found the vampire's body in the dark behind Azrael, but by the time they had stopped to investigate, she was long gone.
#
Azrael hadn't had much to do in Lancashire since its founding, but she'd recently received a letter from a fellow supernatural and very old friend currently living in Salford so on the 13th she'd stepped off the early morning train with dozens of families moving to the area for the rapidly expanding cotton and silk industries among other things. Only she was alone, having left Keep—her Hellhound the size of a small pony sealed as he was—at home so as not to draw too much attention to herself as much as to protect the house. Her initial impression was that the growing industrial town was no place for a Puck, but then this one never had been very conventional. Azrael spent all of that day looking for the small house mentioned in the letter, but there were hundreds of small houses in the area all looking essentially the same. As the sun marked the afternoon, she turned her sights on finding the local census office; Azrael didn't have high hopes for finding it any time soon, the people here avoided her just as much as the people in Glastonbury had as if they knew she was an outsider.
Not that that wasn't an accurate evaluation.
It was likely for the best, she hadn't had a… fix in a while and the hunger was starting to wear on her making it harder to keep the pressure of her presence controlled and contained.
She managed to locate the census office just as the sun began to set, but she was going to wait for the dark of night to find the record she needed. So she found herself with time to kill and, from what she'd managed to piece together from snippets of conversations overheard while wandering the town, there were vampires in the area which, most of the time, made for easy prey.
And thus, she was standing in the alley entrance watching the La Mancelle move down the road at its new top speed of 62 km/h—it wasn't all that fast and it was a few years old at this point but still quite advanced with its rear-wheel drive and independent suspension, but she supposed it at least could beat out a horse and buggy and didn't have to be wound up like the new clockwork alternatives—while it filled the narrow space with clouds of steam.
She used the clouds as cover to scale the nearby wall with practiced ease, using the rooftops to return directly to the census office unhindered now that night had fallen.
#
Azrael appeared on the doorstep of the address listed in the census for Miss Helen Raycroft at around dawn the next morning and knocked. She expected the door to be opened by the young woman mentioned in the Puck's letter, but instead, there was silence on the other side and the door opened slightly at her touch. She pressed her fingers to the door, swinging it open just enough to slip through; it hadn't been locked, it hadn't even been fully closed. Something was off and Azrael's gaze narrowed as she slipped an ancient knife from its sheath at the back of her belt. The floors creaked softly under her feet, protesting even the slightest movement as she crept further into the house. There was no one there, or at least not in any of the rooms she'd searched, and not that she could hear but there was something there, she could feel their soul nearby. She stopped in the bedroom to look through the chest of drawers only to find them empty as if someone had packed all of their things in a hurry.
"What are you doing in my house?" Azrael turned and raised an eyebrow at the man—no, the Puck in the doorway.
"I came to meet an old friend. I was told he'd be here with his family, but I must have the wrong house." With that half-truth at his lack of recognition, she started to leave, tucking her knife away, but the Puck stopped her.
"Azrael?" She practically growled at the name, very few people outright called her Azrael if they knew her, but at least he'd finally remembered her, "Robin Goodfellow." She studied him for a moment.
"Well, you're awfully forthcoming with that information, aren't you." He looked surprised as if he wasn't used to people taking those words at face value. "Where's the rest of the household?" Azrael voiced her confusion, gesturing to the empty drawers and Robin frowned, studying the floor while he took a shaky breath.
"They're gone, my sweet Helen and little Carrie." She cocked her head to one side in her confusion.
"What do you mean?" He gestured around the room.
"Helen—I always thought she was happy with me, but the night before last, she packed everything she could and left, taking Carrie with her." Azrael frowned, she wasn't entirely sure what to say or do in this situation; she'd fled her relationship with Lucifer in much the same way, though they'd had no real children together and he hadn't always been faithful.
"I'm sorry," she paused, thinking it over for a moment, "I can bring them back if you like?" Robin shook his head with a somber expression.
"No, they wanted to leave." She nodded slightly, he seemed to be taking this much better than she'd expected from her experience.
"Then I can keep an eye on them, make sure they don't become victims of abuse… or worse." He gave a weak smile.
"Thank you." Again she nodded before closing her eyes and focusing on the echoes of life in the house, searching for something to bind her magic to that would stay in the family. She settled on a pendant of smooth bluish moonstone the Puck had given Helen, focusing on its image before opening her eyes again. Alix raised her hand, pressing her index finger to her thumb to create a circle that would serve as a tiny doorway.
"Reclosgail Moira," she spoke the command in Lurakil, a long forgotten language somewhere between Enochian and Dimoori Sheol, and the space within the circle went void black and starry as a tear in the Moira—the veil between life and the divine—appeared inside. She drew out one of the suremnocte—an inky creature of living void—with a whispered, song-like spell before catching the creature in her freehand and closing the doorway. The song-like spell continued as her hand caught with a single flame of hellfire and she bound the two together in the same manner she had when she'd made her Hellhounds. The new creature twisted and warped until it roughly reassembled a crow or raven, blinking too many eyes at her. Alix finished the spell and the Hellraven spread its wings and took flight, off to find its given charge. The Puck seemed to relax on seeing the bird go so Alix chose then to take her leave as well.
#
Azrael was making her way down the road back to the train station when her instincts warned her of impending death in her domain over unnatural causes. She turned sharply, following the feeling until she came into view of a military barracks, close enough to be knocked down by the concussion and shrapnel from the detonation of the Corvid Prince knows how much dynamite. She groaned as she sat up slowly, blinking rapidly as the world spun back into place and her injuries, including a few broken ribs and a punctured lung, quickly mended themselves. She shoved the pile of shrapnel off of herself and climbed somewhat shakily to her feet, taking in the destruction and the smell of blood…
...and an untethered soul.
Someone was dying nearby, just one person and Azrael was pretty sure it was a young boy. She followed the instinctual tug on her soul until she found the boy buried beneath the wreckage, blood pouring from a wound on his head and lungs as good as crushed if the wet wheezing sound he made when he breathed was anything to go off of. Azrael lifted the rubble from the boy and crouched beside him with a gentle smile.
"Are you an angel?" The boy's question came out in a quiet gasp and she couldn't bring herself to lie to him, so instead, she remained silent as she reached out to brush his hair away from his forehead. "I'm scared." He was crying then when she looked.
"It's alright. It's a good place you're going to," she leaned over him, "I'll take the pain away, alright?" She pressed her lips to his forehead, drawing his soul painlessly from his body and consuming it before sitting back on her heels to watch the light drain, her hand lingering on his head while she waited for the warmth to fade as his remaining spirit passed on to whatever afterlife he believed in.
"They can see your wings." Azrael glanced back over her shoulder at Daniel—the Horseman of Death—when he spoke, "When they're on the threshold of the afterlife, that's why they think you're an Angel."
"What do they see when they look at you?" She closed the boy's eyes and lifted him in her arms, "I'm curious, what does the Horseman of Death look like through the eyes of the dying?" Daniel shrugged and combed his fingers through ink-black hair that matched her own, following her as she started out of the rubble.
"Based on the paintings, I'd have to guess a skeletal reaper of some sort." She eyed him curiously, trying to picture it when all she saw when she looked at him, was an ink-black soul, the closest to her own as she'd ever found. "It was good to see you, Az." Daniel stopped while he remained just out of sight of the onlookers, "I wish it had been under different circumstances." Azrael flashed him a grim smile before turning back to the crowd that had gathered. She wasn't sure if the intention of the bomb had been to injure and kill or simply to scare someone, but either way, she was not at all happy about the casualty. Of course, there was not much she could do about it at this point and with no idea where to start looking, she couldn't exactly go about finding those responsible. Not that seeking revenge would have truly helped anyone and she'd lost interest in most human affairs beyond the occasional war. Instead, she lay the boy carefully on the ground and watched as an injured woman who had been pulled from the rubble burst into tears at the sight of him. Azrael whispered an ancient prayer under her breath before she straightened up and dipped into one of the pockets in her trousers to retrieve a few crowns before approaching the injured woman, taking her hand gently.
"For the funeral," she pressed the coins into it as she gave the woman a sad, but reassuring smile, "and to have a doctor look you over." The woman stared at her warily, taking in Azrael's clothes now torn, stained with both the boy's blood and her own mercury, and covered in dust.
"Who are you?" Her voice shook when she finally spoke, but Azrael only shook her head.
"No one important." She then rose to her feet and pressed her lips to the top of the woman's head in a silent blessing before turning to leave without looking back. The woman sat clutching the coins in her shaking hands and staring after her until she seemed to vanish down the street.
#
Azrael was unable to ride in one of the passenger cars on the train home due to her current state of dress but, as always, she simply found another way to board the train. For a human, trying to board a moving train could easily result in anything from broken bones to being cut in half by the wheels, and so, is a very, very bad idea… for a human. Of course, Azrael had never been human, so that along with being able to run far faster than almost every being she'd come across so far gave her a huge advantage over a train-hopping human. She waited well out of sight of the station, waiting for the train to get further down the track and up to higher speeds so that it was harder for anyone who happened to see her to try to pull her off. When the train had half passed her, she took off after it, taking a leisurely pace to keep up with it while she studied the cars looking for an opening. When she found one, she changed her pace to match it, running alongside it before finally jumping up to grab the edge of the open doorway, planting one of her feet on the side to give herself a more solid hold on it before she climbed inside with practiced ease. The car was empty, it seemed they had cleared out the cars at the station; she wouldn't complain, she liked the peace and closed her eyes, smiling softly as she leaned back against the wall of the car and listened to the rhythmic clicking of the wheels.