Azalie woke with a low groan, her body aching as she stirred. She blinked against the drizzle that lightly misted her face. Soft raindrops tapped her skin, cool and delicate, like a thousand icy fingertips.

“Azalie?” came Azazel’s voice, a gentle murmur, almost drowned by the patter of rain.

Her eyes fluttered open, her vision blurring before sharpening on his face that gazed down at her. His arms cradled her close to his chest as he walked through the rain-slicked streets of Rome. The distant flicker of oil lamps reflected off the wet cobblestones, casting a dim orange glow on the droplets that misted over them. She felt warm, too warm, in fact—her skin prickling under layers of heat that didn’t make sense given the dampness in the air.

She glanced down, finding Azazel’s leather jacket wrapped snugly around her. The familiar weight of it settled against her shoulders, the thick fur of the alpha wolf’s collar soft against her cheek like a well-worn pillow. It was unmistakable. His most prized possession.

The smell of damp leather filled her nose, mingling with the faint, musky scent of wolf fur and something uniquely Azazel—burnt wood with a hint of Mediterranean cologne, and fresh ash from his elemental magick. This jacket had been his armor, his shield, for years. 

Her eyes fluttered closed again as she rested against it now, her mind drifting back to the day he first got it.

Twenty years ago, they were sent to Russia on an assignment—a rogue vampyre had fled to the snowy mountains. A sudden storm had stranded them, forcing them into a logger’s cabin. Snow piled high in every direction. She could still hear the howling of the blizzard, how it had shrieked through the cracks in the wood, the cold seeping in from all sides, relentless and cruel despite her immunity to the cold.

Azazel had never handled cold well. By the third day, his weakened body could only tremble, his skin pale as the frost that trapped them. Azalie, immune to the ice and snow, able to create and control it like an extension of herself, could only watch, helpless. She couldn’t help him with her powers, not against the cold. So, she left him behind in the cabin, determined to end the mission quickly.

Stepping into the storm alone, the snow had pelted her face like shards of glass. The air was thick, almost suffocating in its coldness, but her senses were sharp—her eyes picking up faint tracks through the whiteout, her nose catching the blood-scent of the fugitive even through the multi-directional winds. For eighteen hours, she trudged through miles of waist-high drifts, each step crunching beneath her boots, the wind tugging at her hair like it sought to pull her back.

Eventually, she arrived at a remote mountain village. The storm had calmed by then, though the wind-whipped snow drifts piled high against their tiny wooden houses nearly buried beneath. She scoured the village, frustration mounting, ready to destroy the entire place when he appeared. Tobias—the rogue vampyre—flanked by a pack of snarling snow wolves.

His control over animals was well known. A unique ability, but Azalie wasn’t fazed. He’d fled the Russian vampyre commune in a blood-crazed rage, killing indiscriminately. Azalie had seen such madness before in both the Changed and pure-blood vampyres, like herself. She wouldn’t let his story affect her. He was on her list, and he was a threat. She drew her ice dagger, the edge gleaming in the fading light. The cold rush of adrenaline surging through her veins steadied her, making her senses even keener.

The battle had been swift. The wolves came at her, their breath hot in the frigid air, but she was faster. Her blade sliced through fur and flesh, and within moments, the pack lay dead in the snow. Tobias fled, but she was on him in a heartbeat, her glowing golden eyes locking onto him like a predator. He didn’t stand a chance.

He tried to beg, his voice shaking with fear. “P-p-ple—”

Azalie silenced him with a swift slice to his throat. Her golden gaze unfazed as his head fell into the snow, the red of his blood stark against the white drifts. Dragging his body to an open clearing, she impaled it with ice spears, leaving him out for the sun to claim—a slow, agonizing death for vampyres like him.

With the task complete, she had hefted one of the fallen wolves over her shoulder, its fur matted with blood, and made her way back to the village thinking maybe the humans would enjoy it somehow. 

Back in the village, the villagers greeted her indifferently. They were all too familiar with vampyres like Tobias. They were relieved to be rid of him. But when Azalie offered them the wolf, they refused. Their expressions weary, resigned, as they explained that the wolves had been protectors of the mountains. Killing them had cursed the village.

 “Chto mne s nimi delat’?” Azalie asked in Russian, hoping they would tell her what she was supposed to do.

“Szhech’ ikh,” they replied, their voices hushed. ‘Burn them.’

When Azalie returned to the log cabin, the snowstorm had finally relented, leaving the world eerily quiet. She had to break down the door to get inside, its hinges frozen solid.

Azazel was huddled by the only fireplace, his blue flames dancing weakly over the logs. His shoulders sagged under the weight of exhaustion, on the verge of collapse.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” she said.

Azazel glanced up, his face lined with fatigue, but his eyes still held that familiar spark. “No, I’m sorry for making you do all the work. Did you get him?”

Azalie nodded.

“Good.” He exhaled slowly, dragging himself to his feet. “At least we can go home now.”

Azalie went over to him. “I have a gift for you,” she said with a faint smile, and draped a heavy black leather jacket over his shoulders, watching as the embroidered silver and blue flames shimmered in the firelight, the fur lining catching the warmth almost instantly.

Azazel’s tired expression softened as he sighed in bliss, his fingers running over the soft fur of the alpha snow wolf. “Where on earth did you get this?”

“I had to fight off some wolves while taking down Tobias,” she said with a shrug, as if the battle had been nothing. “The village made the jacket as thanks for cleaning up his mess.”

His chuckle was low, but there was relief in it. He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers in a rare gesture of affection. “Mulțumesc,” he whispered in Romanian.

She smiled at his thanks.

“Next time we go somewhere warmer,” Azazel said, as they headed out the door.

“Then you’ll be the one doing all the work,” she replied. 

They both shared a moment of laughter before stepping out into the snow-laden world again, their footsteps the only sound as they made their way home.

“Azalie?”

Her eyes fluttered open, snapping back to the present. Azazel’s concerned face hovered above hers, his golden gaze searching her as they continued their slow journey through the rain-drenched streets. The cold droplets now fell harder, pattering relentlessly against the cobblestones, their rhythm punctuated by the gentle sway of his gait and the soft splash of his boots through the puddles.

Azalie stared at him through tired eyes, the weight of the memories fading. “Azazel . . . am I dying?” Her voice wavered, barely audible over the rain, but she saw him tense ever so slightly. It was brief—so brief that no one but her would have noticed.

“Why would you ask that?” His voice, usually steady, had softened, as though he feared the answer himself.

Azalie stared at him through half-lidded eyes, exhaustion seeping into her bones. “No, you’re just ill,” he finally said, though his words felt distant, like a lull in a storm that hadn’t yet passed.

“Ill?” Her brows furrowed. How could she, a vampyre, be ill? It made no sense. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, raw with confusion and fatigue. “Zel, what’s happening to me?”

He adjusted his grip, holding her closer as the rain soaked through their clothes. “A lot has happened since you left for China,” he began, his tone cautious. “I’ll explain more when you’ve rested, but . . . we’ve had some bad blood shipments.”

“Bad blood?” The words felt foreign on her tongue, absurd even. She blinked, trying to make sense of it. “I don’t understand.”

Azazel gave a low, almost rueful chuckle. “Remember Julius? That time he drank the whole jar of stale blood?”

She could still see it in her mind—the way Julius had retched, doubled over in pain, bedridden for days. Azalie had vowed to be more careful after that. “I remember,” she said quietly. “But the blood I drank was fresh. Margrett gave it to me, still warm.”

Azazel nodded, his gaze dropping briefly to the rain-soaked ground before meeting hers again. “You can’t always tell. Even fresh blood can be tainted. When we first found out, we threw all of what we could out and ordered new, but we’re still receiving it somehow.”

Azalie’s mind reeled. Bad blood, even fresh? The thought gnawed at her, though a distant part of her resisted the explanation. The taste of the last blood had been sweeter than usual, hadn’t it? But she’d brushed it off. Could this really explain the strange tightness in her chest, the growing panic, the confusion?

That’s not true.

A voice slithered through her thoughts, but she shoved it aside, refusing to entertain it. There were more questions forming in her mind, but the energy to ask them drained away. She let her head rest against Azazel’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat soothing.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.

Azazel pushed open the screeching iron gate, the sound grating against her ears. “Home,” he replied simply.

“You carried me all this way?” Her voice lifted in surprise. “Why didn’t you call for Von or Dante?”

He shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible. “I did. No one answered. I couldn’t leave you there, Zalie,” he added softly, a rare tenderness in his voice.

Her heart ached at his words, at the familiar comfort of his presence. Her twin. Her other half. She buried her face deeper into the fur of his jacket, the scent of wolf fur and leather filling her senses. “Mulțumesc,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to the warmth of him, the warmth of home.