The Angel

CHAPTER THREE

TYLER’s POV

I slammed the door right at his face. “Go away, you psychopath!” I yelled and dumped the bloodied rag inside the trash bin, getting ready to mop the floor.

Spending the next minutes furiously scrubbing every inch of the room, I huffed once I got a break. By the time I was halfway through, most of his diluted blood was all over my arms. Isaac pressed his lips into a tight line and tried his best not to cackle.

I shot him a glare and stood up. “Keep the asshole out while I clean myself up. I can already feel his DNA seeping through my pores.”

I opened the door, glowered at Azriel who was still standing at the same spot, and walked right past him, careful to hit him by the shoulder. He staggered back and glared at my head.

“You’re one angry human being, aren’t you?”

I scoffed. “You haven’t seen the best of it yet.”

He chuckled and I turned towards him. He looked at me like he was… proud?

“Your name is Tyler, right?” he asked, his head tilted to the side. “My name is—”

“Azriel, I know. You told me a couple of times already geez.” I went into the bathroom, threw out the dirty water from the bucket, and washed my hands.

He appeared on the doorway… again. “But I haven’t told you my surname yet. I was told humans need to have those.”

I rolled my eyes. Here he is again with his weird s**t. I half expected for him to return to normal now that he wasn’t bleeding and probably intoxicated. But no. I guess this is just how he really is. Weird.

“Do you wanna know my surname?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s Angelson,” he continued anyway. “My name is Azriel Angelson Jr. The son of… well, technically I’m not anyone’s son but rather a—”

“Your name is Azriel Angelson?” I cut him off, my eye twitching.

I don’t know if he’s serious or if this was some kind of a practical joke.

He nodded enthusiastically. “Junior,” he corrected.

I turned towards him, staring at his eyes. It surprised me a bit how his eyes were silver. Like actual silver. It seemed to gleam in the light, making him look even more ethereal.

He looked unreal. Like something out of a dream I shouldn’t be having.

I snapped out of my trance and narrowed my eyes at him, careful to avoid his direct gaze. “You’re weird,” I just said, a little nervous, and clenched my teeth. “No one has a surname like that. Stop making things up.”

“Oh, but it is.” He held a leather wallet up to me and opened it, making sure that I was staring straight at his ID. “See? Azriel Angelson Jr. Son of Angel. It’s just like I said. Angels don’t lie. I mean, they can, but they choose not to.”

I rinsed my hands off and turned to him, even more irritated now than I was a couple minutes ago. “You’re just delusional, aren’t you? You’re not an angel. I don’t know what you are but there’s one thing I’m sure of.”

Azriel blinked. “What?”

“That you belong in a mental asylum.”

He just chuckled, not at all affected by what I said. If he even understood a bit of it at all. “You keep saying that funny word.” He wrinkled his nose.

I felt a nerve on my head snap and I pushed myself off the bathroom sink. I grabbed the bucket, filled it with water, and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“A bucket of water,” I deadpanned and led him back to my room. “You see that?” I pointed at the floor.

“My blood?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s yours. Therefore, you should be the one scrubbing it off the floor.” I pushed him into the room, slammed the door shut behind us, and handed him the mop.

Isaac was just sitting idly on my bed, cross-legged. He looks like he’s enjoying himself watching us bicker.

When Azriel didn’t take the mop even after a minute, I shoved the mop into his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

He stared at the mop like it was diseased, his lips curling. “You can’t possibly expect me to clean that.”

“Why not?” I shot back, folding my arms. “It’s your blood. I didn’t bleed all over my floor like a dying piñata.”

His silver eyes narrowed and he lifted his chin with absurd dignity. “Scrubbing floors is a servant’s job.”

“Perfect,” I said, grinning. “You look unemployed enough to qualify.”

From the corner of the room, Isaac let out a strangled snort and immediately dissolved into silent laughter, his shoulders shaking as he hugged a pillow.

Azriel, scandalized, turned his glare toward him, then back to me. “I am an angel. I fought in wars before your kind even discovered fire. I do not mop.”

I barked out a laugh, stepping closer. “Right. And I’m the bloody Pope. You’ve officially lost your goddamn mind, have you?”

“This is degrading!” His knuckles whitened around the mop as though gripping it alone was blasphemy.

“What’s degrading,” I muttered, “is me having to step in your dried-up ‘angel’ juice every time I get out of bed.”

Isaac wheezed harder, doubling over on the mattress.

Azriel’s jaw dropped like I’d slapped him. “You dare reduce my sacrifice to—” He jabbed the mop toward me as if it were a weapon, “—this?!”

I swatted it away with the bucket. “Sacrifice? What sacrifice? You tripped into my room half-naked and bled everywhere. That’s not holy, that’s drunk.”

“Fine, then! But if this mop touches me in ways I don’t approve of—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes and shoved the bucket closer to his feet. “Smites, sparkles, divine temper tantrums—whatever. Just start scrubbing, angel.”

When a full minute passed and he still didn’t move and just stared down at the dirty floor, I caught his wrist and slammed the bucket handle into his palm.

The bucket tilted, icy water splashing over the rim and down his legs, soaking his boots. Azriel’s head snapped up, horror carved into his perfect face as he stared at his shoes.

“My shoes,” he said flatly.

“They’re just shoes,” I deadpanned, grinning. “Not like you’re mortal enough to get trench foot anyway.”

His jaw tightened. “They were crafted in Elysium.”

“And now they’ve just been baptized,” I shot back, nudging the bucket again towards him.

That did it. His face went scarlet, his grip on the mop tightening until I thought the wood would splinter. “Did you just—”

“Yes. I did,” I cut in, still smirking. “Now mop, angel boy.”

The mop clattered to the floor as he lunged at me. One second I was laughing, the next his hands were fisted in my shirt, shoving me back against the door hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.

“Oh, so now you want to fight?” I shoved him off with both hands, sending him staggering into the desk. The bucket overturned with a violent splash, dirty water spreading like a flood across the floor.

“You dare insult me in my weakened state?” His voice cracked with something sharp and otherworldly as he came at me again, faster this time.

“Weakened state?” I caught his arm, twisted, and drove my shoulder into him. “You’re built like a marble statue and still whining.”

He snarled, sweeping my legs out from under me with alarming precision. I hit the floor with a thud, breath gone from my lungs. He loomed over me, eyes blazing. “I was forged for war. Don’t test me.”

That smugness lit me up like gasoline. I kicked him square in the stomach, and he folded with a grunt. In seconds we were rolling across the floor, knocking over books, shoes, anything unlucky enough to be in our path.

From the bed, Isaac had gone silent—but not from worry. He was curled up, shaking with laughter so violently that the mattress springs squealed.

Azriel snatched up the mop like a weapon, dripping water trailing from its ragged head. “Yield!” he barked, jabbing it down at me.

I caught the shaft, twisted it free, and shoved it back into his face. “Not until you clean up your mess, your royal smugness.”

The mop smacked wetly against his cheek. His eyes went wide, hair plastering to his forehead, and for a surreal second we froze: me grinning like an i***t, him dripping mop water like a drowned cat.

Then he roared and tackled me again, and Isaac completely lost it, choking on his own laughter until he fell sideways off the bed.

I guess all the shouting and loud banging alerted the people passing by because the door to my bedroom flew open and mid fight, Azriel and I looked up to see the headmaster glaring down at us.

Behind him, Percy and his smug face was looking at us, too. No doubt the one responsible for alerting the old man.

“Care to explain yourself?” the headmaster drawled, his lips curling up in a disgusted sneer. He didn’t even dare step foot into the room which was now muddied up by the mop water.

I pushed Azriel off of me and he tumbled backwards, his blonde curls falling limply across his forehead. “It was him who started it,” I said and stood up, pointing at Azriel.

Headmaster Morris didn’t let his glare leave my face. “You are supposed to help him get settled in.”

“Yes, well—”

“Is this what I told you to do?”

Azriel stood up, too, a smirk slowly forming on his face. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a… pickle.”

I’ll make you a pickle.

The headmaster reached his hand out to Percival and the latter gave him a piece of paper. I took one swift glance at it and sighed, rolling my eyes. I guess it’s no use trying to reason with him. He’s already printed out the punishment either way.

He handed the paper to me. To my surprise, he also handed one to Azriel.

“Detention for two weeks. Both of you.”

Azriel blinked at the paper. Don’t tell me he doesn’t know how to read?

“Uh, excuse me. Why—” Azriel was just about to ask but the headmaster already turned sharply on his heel, leaving the four of us in the room.

Percival didn’t even bother hiding his sneer anymore and chuckled as he followed out the door.