I’ve done it again.
Of all the places to die, in the arms of an Archangel, the healer of healers for that matter. I have failed Alexandra with everything that is me.
My heart fits into a spasm, constricting as if squashed by a string of sharp needles. Again, the pain stops, replaced by a soothing wave of healing energy. I press my lips on hers, trying to moisten them, but they remain frozen.
What went wrong? In those last minutes, I swear I saw the healing light, a glow of green illuminating all over her chest. A minute should have been enough to save her. Unless she needed more.
No, she can’t be dead. If she were, Azrael would have been here long ago to separate her soul from her body. Surely, I couldn’t have missed him. The momentary chillness and temporary comfort of the presence of the Angel of Death is not easy to miss. Neither is the distinct earthy aroma of his presence. Unless Thokka has stolen Alexandra's soul as she intended. Because of the pact she made with Jo’s parents, she has every right to claim her soul.
Maybe it’s time I talk to Father God and beg for her rescue.
I slide off the bed and falter. My mind and body are out of sync. As I compose myself, my gaze falls on the motionless body by the edge of the bed. The other me.