In the Night

Blue eyes stared listlessly at the creme colored ceiling, unfocused and hazy. The room was quiet and dark. Jemma could hear her heart beating in her chest and the miniscule click her digital clock made as it slowly counted up through the hour. She could feel the cool air of the room on the uncovered skin of her arms.

After the man had left, Jemma lied awake for a solid two hours. She had repeatedly checked every room of her small apartment to make sure that she was really alone. When that wasn't enough, she locked, unlocked, and relocked her front door. She even drug a chair under the ceiling fan in her living room to inspect the light bulbs. Not entirely satisfied or unsatisfied, she quickly changed into a baggy t-shirt and shorts and dove into bed. Miraculously, she had managed to fall asleep, though a rather restless sleep it was.

Now, she had her blanket pushed under her arms and tucked tightly around her body. Today was Saturday and she had the weekend off. It was still rather early and the sun hadn't finished peeking through the blinds strung across her window.

She felt like she was going mad. For the last forty-five minutes, she had been racking her brain in a desperate attempt to figure out what had happened last night. It obviously hadn't been a dream because the bruise on her shoulder was still there and the pain she felt every time she lifted her arm was very real. She checked.

He had said he was "Death". What the hell did that mean? Perhaps he was some sociopath who had an inclination toward red contacts. Her thoughts even went so far as to ponder the idea of him actually being a supernatural creature, like a vampire or a demon. Wouldn't he have bitten her, though? And did werewolves have red eyes? What was the bruise from, exactly?

With a disgruntled groan at her wild thoughts, Jemma flung back the blankets and quickly scrambled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She was determined not to let Hollywood horror films run off with her mind. All she had to do was think about this logically. Maybe her father would know something or could tell her what to do. At the very least, he was someone she could talk to. She needed to pay him a visit, anyway.

When the water had warmed up, she stepped into the shower, allowing the warmth to ease her tense shoulders and calm her racing mind while she washed off quickly. Turning off the water, she pushed open the door, steam billowing into the small room. Fishing her arm around blindly to grab her towel, she didn't notice as the material was all but handed to her, her mind preoccupied with questions. Stepping out, she groaned at the cold tile beneath her warm feet, toweling out her hair before tucking the cloth securely under her arms. She headed back into her bedroom, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. Someone was watching her.

Jemma snapped her head around, her eyes flickering over her empty room. It was still quiet. She could feel the uneasiness settling in her bones again as she quickly grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from her closet. Hurriedly, she tugged on her undergarments and her chosen outfit. Her hair was still damp and clung to her skull. She yanked on a pair of tennis shoes and jogged out to the kitchen, grabbing her keys and purse and making her way to the door.

Her fingers shook as she flipped the lock and tugged open the door, only to have it slam shut in her face. The same sinking feeling she had had last night came back full force, dousing her in fear. She stood stock-still as a man's rich laugh sounded behind her.

"It's cold out, you know. You should bring your jacket."

Jemma slowly turned to face the sound, her body rigid. The raven-haired man was perched on the armrest of her couch, watching her with intensity. He split a dazzling smile at her, getting to his feet. He wasn't the lanky kind of tall. He was muscular and looming and disturbingly intimidating.

"What's wrong, Jemma? You look like you've seen a ghost," he cackled. He lifted a brow at her when she didn't respond, the smile persisting. "Well I, on the other hand, had a very pleasant view this morning. Do you work out?"

Anger licked and coiled in Jemma's chest, resenting his breach of her privacy. She kept her lips sealed, though, fear winning out once more. When she continued her silence, the man's smile finally drooped into an angry frown. His pupils narrowed to slits as he stalked toward her, towering above her by a good foot and a half. Dread encased her and she backed away from the man, unable to make eye contact.

The smile ghosted onto The Reaper's lips once more and he narrowed the space between them, leaning down so that his face was level with hers. "Scared, my pet?" he whispered, the menacing smile on his lips causing her to swallow sharply.

"No," she growled defiantly, turning her head up slightly despite the tears that brimmed in her eyes.

He grasped her chin sharply, tilting her head up further, "Ah, feisty. That's admirable."

"Who are you?" she asked stiffly, wincing at his harsh grip.

"I told you, I'm Death. The Reaper. Grim. Whatever you want to call me."

Jemma stared at him incredulously, doubt filling her eyes. She jerked out of his grasp and backed away from him, "That's...that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. What, did you escape from an insane asylum or something?"

The Reaper's eyes darkened several shades and he straightened up. With a wave of his hand, everything in her apartment went wild. Things rose up from their resting places, cabinet doors swung open and slammed shut, various electrical appliances turned on and off, and utensils clattered in their drawers.

Jemma's eyes darted around wildly, trying to take in the chaos. "Stop!" she screeched, pressing her back against the wall as the apartment settled down once more.

"Still don't believe me?" he spat. "If you want more proof, I'll gladly demonstrate."

Jemma shook her head, trembling as the man moved closer to her. "What do you want from me?" she breathed, tears leaking from her eyes. The cruel smile returned to the man's lips.

"Only your sweet soul," he murmured gently, tracing a long finger down the side of her bare arm. Jemma cringed, goosebumps following the trail his hand made. She tried to retreat from his touch, but he wrapped a strong hand around her upper arm and yanked her back. His skin was warmer than hers, but not as hot as it had been last night. "You're rather skittish, Jemma," he cooed.

Jemma pressed her lips tightly together, trembling under the weight of his burdensome glare. "My soul?" she breathed, lifting her glassy eyes to his and trying not to flinch at the abnormality of his eye color.

"Yes, your soul," he said with slight exasperation, as though it were completely obvious. He loosened his grip on her arm, "I suppose I should explain it to you." He released her entirely, pacing toward her bookshelf to inspect a knickknack curiously. "My body acts as a vessel for dead souls," he murmured, turning the small glass object in his hands. Jemma slowly edged away from the man, eying his back.

"I create fear. A scared soul is a tainted, vile thing, and my body takes the grunt of it, hence my elevated temperature and heart rate. Only a living soul can quell the heat. Don't ask for the logistics."

"What...exactly do you do?" Jemma ventured quietly.

"I take souls from humans when their time on this earth has expired. I bring their death to them and deliver their souls into the rather unpleasant realm just past this world. I find it to be a rather pleasurable job," he explained gleefully.

"Of course you do," Jemma muttered, retreating fully into the kitchen and toward the knife block.

"Don't do anything foolish, Jemma," The Reaper warned gravely, his back still to her as she reached for the handle of a blade.

Jemma hesitated, her fingers twitching on the object. Upon realizing that he was far more skilled than she, she dropped her arm to her side. Perhaps she shouldn't make things worse for herself. "Do you have an actual name?"

"You may call me Azrael. You humans have many labels for me, but I quite like that English derivative of the Arabic name. And please, don't believe all those myths about me. I don't run around in a black cloak and carry a scythe."

"How long are you going to be hanging around?"

"For as long as your cute little life serves its use to me."

Jemma frowned, a tremor snaking down her spine. She didn't like the sound of that and she certainly didn't want to ask why he had chosen her. Deciding to move on from that topic, she posed another question. "How do you "collect" souls that are halfway across the world, then?"

"Time has no affect on me. I am everywhere and nowhere all at once," he murmured, turning to face her, red eyes glinting.

"That doesn't make sense."

"I know," he grinned, "It's not supposed to."

A frown creased her lips, "You're being vague." She moved toward her kitchen table, strategically placing the object between them as he began to pace toward her. She watched as he casually undid the top button on his shirt, lightly tugging on his collar as though it were suddenly tight.

Azrael gripped the back of one of the chairs, splintering the wood ever so slightly as he stared across the table at Jemma. The young woman withered slightly under his gaze but held her ground.

"How many other people do you, uh, "feed" from?" she inquired, hoping to distract him.

"Just you," he grinned, his pupils dilating. Her heart flipped with dread. After a moment of silence, he added, "I have matters to attend to, but I will be seeing you soon, Jemma. Don't go too far. I may require your services."

With a final brilliant smirk, Azrael disappeared from existence in the kitchen, leaving Jemma alone. As soon as he was gone, she scrambled to gather her things and was out of the apartment a moment later. She needed to speak with her father.