Chapter 1

Azrael stood alone in the wooded forest. A cut on his cheek dripped blood onto the snowy forest floor. A heavy weight pressed on his conscience, as if it were slowly slipping away. Azrael clenched his fists, almost as if trying to hold onto that shred of peace within. It left him with his next breath, the warm air creating a cloud of steam in the frigid atmosphere around him. It felt good to let go of that burden; he almost hadn't realized it was there. Azrael took an unsteady step forward, his side smarting, most likely a broken rib or two. Fortunately, the flames hadn't caused any damage. He headed east, the snow crunching underneath his footfalls.

"Too late," he whispered, then laughed at himself. Of course, it was too late; there was no turning back from what he had done now. The laughter made the pain in his side worsen; the unpleasant noise of bones grating together sounded in the otherwise silent clearing. He reached into his jacket, pressing his fingers to the injury, his hand brushing against the cold metal grip of the Glock-19 nestled in the inside pocket of the jacket.

After about an hour of wandering the forest, Azrael turned back to a westward direction. The flames should have subsided by now. It took another quarter hour to reach his destination. Smoke still curled up from the smoldering remains of the cabin. He walked along the front walkway; this place had been pristine, the pure visage of safety. Azrael had taken care of that. As he crossed over the threshold of the ruin, his foot brushed against a body. He looked down. A familiar face stared back at him, unblinking, dead. A pang of regret flashed in Azrael's expression. Killing her had been an unforeseen consequence. Though unexpected, it hadn't been all that hard. Azrael almost hated it when it was easy. He wanted his prey to run from him. It made it more fun. Jiran disliked the way Azrael hunted. But it wasn't Jiran's choice anyway.

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The stairs creaked as he ascended them; the flames hadn't actually done as much damage as Azrael would have expected. The house was still holding together, although the frosty grip of the evening air wafted through the windows and holes in the walls. In the room at the end of the hall, another body lay there. His target, who once had been Azrael's friend, was now just a crumpled corpse lying on the floor. azreal knelt next to him, reaching for the locket still around the man's neck. "Sorry, buddy, but I need this," Azrael spoke with a jovial tone. He stood and inspected the locket; it was shaped like an angular eye, with a slit pupil like that of a snake. It didn't take long for him to realize it was a fake. Azrael swore under his breath. All this for a piece of scrap. He crushed the locket beneath his boot. He was going to get that locket if it was the last thing he ever did. In fact, it probably would be.