The Afterlife of Abdul: Azrael Series, #1

By Ayse Hafiza

The End. Azrael the Angel of Death grabbed Abduls soul from his smashed up body as it lay on the cold wet asphalt road. Parted from his motorbike Abdul didn’t die alone. He killed Jenny, an innocent six year old girl who was asleep in the backseat of her mothers car. Seconds before the crash they were strangers, destined to meet as they transitioned from our world.

How will you die? What will Azrael say to you?

Read the afterlife of Abdul (first story) in the Azrael Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ayse Hafiza
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536537215

Book preview

The Afterlife of Abdul

The Afterlife of Abdul

Azrael Series Book 1

Ayse Hafiza

Contents

Let’s Connect

1. Chapter One Abdul

2. Chapter Two Jenny

3. Chapter Three Sophie

4. Chapter Four Azrael

King Solomon and the Cat

Afterword

Also by Ayse Hafiza

About the Author

Disclaimer

Dedication

Dedicated to those who remember death often.

Let’s Connect

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Website: www.aysehafiza.co.uk

Get The Afterlife of Abdul (Book 1 in the Azrael Series) and The Seance (Book 1 in the Jinn Series) for free, and additional short stories to start your collection.

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Chapter One Abdul

The relentless wind and rain whip past my torso. Water vapor from the road forms droplets on the visor of my helmet; they blur my vision, but driving faster is the remedy. Small streams form pathways as my speed increases, moving the raindrops to the sides of my helmet, which helps me see clearly. I grip the handlebars tighter. My shoulders lock in position to create a frame—my bike and body are one on the road. The wet winds envelop me as the familiar seasonal chill sinks into my bones. The phosphorus orange street lamps pass by, faster and faster, their eerie orange light reflecting on the varying shades of gray belonging to hard concrete and parked cars. London has hard lines, and tonight it has a hostile feeling. The intermittent light from the lampposts on the sides of the roads reminds me of my childhood, when I used to try and count them from the warmth of the backseat of Dad’s car. Being on my motorbike is a stark contrast to that cozy and comforting memory. I try to hold onto that thought as it warms my heart and gives me respite from the cold.

Encouraged by this thought, I remind myself of the blessings I have in my life, and what I should be grateful for. Immediately my motorbike leathers come to mind. This second skin protects me from the elements. I mentally repeat the mantra I set for my journey, ‘Thank God for my leathers.’

I think about these words as my motorbike’s front wheel hungrily devours the wet road in front of me. The din from the exhaust accompanies every rev of the handlebars. I am freezing my ass off to get to North London, and even with no traffic my journey is another twenty minutes.

Breaking the silence, the voice in my head says, Forget about being grateful! Almost dictatorial in its tone, it asks, Why did I leave home?

I know the answer before the question ends.

I let her talk me into coming out tonight, I silently answer. I had prepared justifications as to why I was driving to North London on a night like this, trying to prevent an internal argument with the voice in my head.

The Pakistani in me says, To be honest, I would rather spend the evening at home with the family, digesting Mum’s delicious home cooked lamb. I had