Page 25 of Astaroth
“Right,” Briar said, laughing. He hoisted atop Saga. She was strong and warm beneath him, walking leisurely toward the tree line in the distance.
Crown tossed his mane, and Aster clucked his tongue, tugging the reins until the horses were side-by-side. They walked at first, sharing silence and the snow, but the moment they hit the windy path, Briar nudged Saga with his heels. She ran through the trees, hopping over frozen trunks and careening around bushy firs. Frozen wind snapped at his cheeks. His eyes stung, and his clippings throbbed as he braced for every gallop, every hard hit of Saga’s hooves, but that primal action, grounded to the earth, still felt a little like flying. They stopped at the river to dismountand scan the trees for loose pinecones. Above them, gray clouds cloaked the sun, turning the sky silver. Fat waxwings chirped from low-hanging branches, and racoon tracks peppered soggy dirt where the snow didn’t touch.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked about your work,” Briar said. He tossed a pinecone into the basket and shot Aster a curious glance. “What, exactly, do you do?”
“Invest, usually.” Aster shrugged, swatting at a pinecone that clung to a high branch. He hopped. Swatted again.
Briar laughed in his throat, watching. “In what?”
“Depends. Recently, coffee. Well, notrecently, but recent enough. Right now, I enjoy being a homebody.”
“So, you make deals with people, right? Ensure their success in exchange for. . . ?”
“I’ve spent a long time building a network. Too long, honestly. But yeah, I strike a deal with someone, invest in them, pull strings, make sure what needs to happendoeshappen, and in return, I get a lifelong piece of their livelihood.”
“Do they know who they’re making a deal with, though?” Briar asked.
Aster’s mouth curved. “Some do, some don’t.” He kicked the tree. The pinecone hardly moved.
“You’re having a difficult time with that tree, aren’t you?”
He hopped again. His fingertips connected, jostling the pinecone enough for it to fall. “Obviously not.”
You act human,Briar wanted to say.So, so human. But he kept the observation buried. Sometimes Aster spoke with such brashness, as if he’d been alive for twenty years, and sometimes he stretched his wings in the bedroom, and a sea of eyes blinked at Briar from beneath his feathers. Was human a learned thing? Had Aster chosen to be more like them on his own or had his life here—his long, long life—imprinted on him? Clearly, his ancient self had not been subdued. But his playfulness, his eagerness, hishunger for a life laid out by human hands, made Briar wonder about his heart.
Ever since Briar had arrived, he’d waited for an inevitable break. For Aster to reveal his cruelty, his demonic nature, his profound brutality. Yet all he’d found was Aster’s bashful need for companionship, an appreciation of literature and artwork, and his fondness for horses.
“What?” Aster’s brow arched.
“Nothing,” Briar said, too quickly. He cleared his throat. “I was admiring you. That’s all.”
“Ah, I see. Did you honestly think I’d let a pinecone make a fool of me?” He asked, and plucked the pinecone from the ground, tossing it into the basket.
“Of course not. I simply—” A glob of snow smacked Briar in the chest. He startled, fixing Aster, who knelt to make another snowball, with a pensive look. “You’re absurd.”
His smile sharpened. “I am, yeah.” This time, a snowball hit Briar’s arm.
Briar’s mouth squirmed. He hurriedly made a snowball and tossed it, sending snow fanning over Aster’s leg. The situation rapidly changed. A few small, amateur snowballs became fistfuls of snow. Laughter rang out, startling finches and robins from their perches, and boots crunched as they chased and played and grabbed for each other.
Briar shoved snow down the back of Aster’s coat and Aster pushed his bare hands under Briar’s scarf. They kissed against a tree in their damp clothes. Briar had come to understand moments like these—kisses that led nowhere, sensuality that remained contained. They had never talked about their feelings for each other, not in any tangible way, but Briar recognized Aster’s care. Knew it in kisses like these, simple and unhurried. Knew it in the kettle that was always on after their shared shower and the way he touched him when they read together,Briar’s legs over his lap, Aster’s fingers making patterns on his kneecaps.
“You think too loudly for your own good,” Aster said. He nuzzled his cold nose against Briar’s cheek. “Tell me.”
Briar shook his head. “I’m rather fond of you,” he said, surprised. “Even though you’re insufferable.”
“You’re just now realizing that?” His smile softened. Cute, hiccupping laughter tumbled over his lips. “Well, if it’s any comfort, I’m rather fond of you, too. Even though you’re stubborn and picky.”
“I’m not picky.”
“You organized our library by category, author, and publication date, Briar. You’re very picky.”
Briar’s throat worked around a swallow.Our. He kept that buried, too. “Someone had to.”
“Andsomeonedid. The picky one.” Aster pecked him on the lips. “C’mon, Luca will stab me with a fork if we don’t get these back soon.”
Saga and Crown pranced through the woods. Wind snuck through the wet patches on Briar’s clothes. He shivered, but thankfully, the cold wasn’t harsh enough to make the ride all that bad. Saga clipped a rock with her hoof and sent it toppling through the snow. A rabbit peeked at them from a burrow dug around bulbous roots, and shadows crisscrossed the path as they neared the tree line. Soon enough, the sky opened and the house came into view, a black blotch against the white landscape.
Briar didn’t hear the air go still. He didn’t notice the heavens split or the shadow cross the sun until Saga reared back and swung her hooves. The ground shook. Something—someone—had collided with the earth, a high-speed impact only another bird-boned creature could survive. Someone like me,Briar thought, panicked, and again, someone like us.Crown’s high-pitched cry echoed. Snow glittered, tossed far enough to flurry, as if time had reversed and it was falling for the first time.
