Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) by David Jester Page B

wondered. He was halfway back to the couch, ready to run to the front door if the answer was affirmative.
                  Azrael simply shook his head, relieved that he wasn’t.
                  “Oh, thank God,” Chip sunk into himself with relief. “Well, nature calls. Do excuse me,” he headed out into the hallway, talking as he went, “apparently I don’t need coffee this morning.”
                  Michael passed his friend in the hallway and strode tentatively into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his thumbs twirling nervously. He crossed to the living room and gestured for Azrael to take a seat. The Angel of Death took one glance at the sofa and shook his head.
                  “I’ll stand, thank you.”
                  Michael nodded calmly and rested against the back of the sofa, half seated, his arms folded across his chest. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
                  “This is not a visit of pleasure,” Azrael replied soberly.
                  Michael sunk his head into his chest and sprayed his feet out further in front of him, sinking into the cushions on the back of the sofa. “Of course not,” he said sullenly. “You’re sacking me aren’t you?” he spoke into his chest. “I always wondered how they’d do it, going from immortality to dust isn’t easy, you wouldn’t want to give the job of revealing that to just anyone. I guess sending down the head man, so to speak, makes things a lot easier for everyone involved.”
                  He sighed heavily, pushed himself off the sofa and looked Azrael in the eyes. “You know what, I don’t care. This immortality business has been nothing but a confusing mess. I’m sick of people not answering my questions. I’m sick of still not knowing if there is a God and I’m sick of being told ‘you’ll learn’ , because I won’t fucking learn. If I ask a question I want it answered, otherwise what would be the point of asking? I don’t want to be told I’ll figure it out for myself in a few decades or centuries, coz by then I won’t give a toss about the fucking answer will I?”
                  Azrael didn’t flinch through Michael's rant. He remained standing, his eyes fixed almost amusedly on him.
                  “So how does this work?” Michael wondered, prepared to face death for the second time. “Will it hurt? Will I go anywhere?”
                  Azrael waited until a silence veiled the emotive atmosphere. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said eventually. “I’m here to help you.”
                  Michael tilted his head to one side like a perplexed dog. “I’m not losing my job?”
                  “No.”
                  “Oh,” he said, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment and regret. “Then everything I just said…”
                  “Forgotten.”
                  “Thank you.” Michael said, genuinely pleased.
                  Azrael nodded sternly.
                  Still feeling uncomfortably embarrassed, Michael leant on the counter next to his boss, his presence dwarfed.
                  “This about the missing souls?” he wondered.
                  “Yes.” Azrael eased Michael’s discomfort by shifting from his stationary position and walking across the room, taking an interest in studying his surroundings. “As you may know, both of your failed collections were werewolves. And although the souls were not collected by you, they were collected.”
                  Michael perked up. “Someone else on my patch?” he asked, wondering if help had been drafted to scrape the shit off the shovel in Brittleside.
                  “No one sent by us.”