Page 29 of Astaroth
“Oh.” Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.
“Sometimes murder isn’t the answer. Sometimes, if you ask me, it is.”
“But sheatehim. . . ?”
“Consuming what we most hate and most love has the potential to become ritualistic.” He stepped away and snatched the soap. Briar turned, still too wobbly to stand on his own, and put his back against the slippery tile. Aster arched a brow, shaking out his wings. “She also loves to cook, so.” He shrugged.“Maybe she needed to execute her revenge in a way she already understood.”
Briar didn’t get it, but he nodded anyway. “She doesn’t seem capable of killing.”
“We’re all capable of it,” Aster said. He ran sudsy hands over Briar’s torso.
“Have you killed before?”
Aster furrowed his brow, lips splitting for a silent laugh. He kissed Briar on the mouth. “Of course, I have.”
Yes. Obviously.Of course, he had. Briar had, too. The High Court called it cleansing and extraction and purification, but life was life, judgement was judgement, choices were choices, and killing was killing. But Briar had discontinued that life. He’d let it go the moment he’d signed away his rights at the Celestial Auction. Before that, even. As he reached over his shoulder and found blood instead of feathers. Farther back, when a simple, ignorable life was taken. That moment—Michael’s blade; a girl’s throat—had been a revelation.
Still, even as he took shelter at this old, haunted estate, with this peculiar Demon King, and his equally peculiar friends, Briar found himself restless. Wondering about a stranger’s life and a job he’d refused and the life he might’ve wasted.
“Peppermint or lemongrass,” Aster asked. He pushed his fingers through Briar’s hair, massaging shampoo into his scalp.
“Either,” Briar said.
“The last time we did this I brewed the wrong thing, so either you pick one or I’ll make both.”
“Well, surely that isn’t true.”
“I made an entire pot of Earl Grey, you made a face, and then you made another, separate pot of jasmine. So, yes. It is true.”
Briar snorted a laugh. “Fine, peppermint.” He rinsed the larger, longer feathers on Aster’s wings.
Aster kissed him again. Mouth, forehead. “Picky,” he whispered, matter-of-factly. He let Briar finish with his wings, then stepped out of the shower and toweled off. “Prepare yourself for an onslaught of invasive questions, by the way. Nobody in this house has any boundaries when it comes to gossip.”
“I’ve noticed,” Briar said on a sigh.
Aster offered a small smile and crept through the door, careful not to let much steam out.
Briar took his time washing. He stretched his calves and reached for his toes, scrubbing sweat, horse, sex, and conflict from his skin. Once he finished, he dried. Dabbed oil on his wrists and hipbones and behind his ears. Slathered coconut scented lotion on his damp flesh. Strange, how he understood himself a little better after indulging in frivolous human luxuries. He enjoyed smelling like an artificial beach, being soft and pruned, having manicured nails, taking baths in glittery water.
No wonder Eve ate that fruit,he thought.Eden was probably rather boring.
He dressed in black denim and a cream high-necked shirt. In the hall, he stood beforeThe Nightmare, admiring the maiden and all her desires, how she reached for possibility while she dreamed. Perhaps they were alike, him and her, wanting things they’d been told not to want, having things they never thought they’d have.
Luca stopped mid-step at the foot of the staircase, snaring Briar in a wide-eyed glance. “You,” they purred, and flicked their wrist. “I wouldloveto know what that fiasco was all about.”
Briar sighed, again. “Michael sent Uriel to recruit me for a mission.”
They gaped, holding their wrist at an angle, palm flat. “That heinous dick.”
Sam popped around the corner, carrying a cardboard box brimming with garland. “Seriously. He’s a huge bag of ass,” she said.
Briar, truthfully, had no idea what to say to either comment. Still, he swallowed hard, as if the truth might set him ablaze. “I said no.”
“Well,obviously,” Luca crowed.
Sam’s voice came from the sitting room. “Duh!”
Jennifer almost tripped, hurrying after Sam, arms overflowing with tangled stockings. One dropped. She pinched it with her toes and hobbled along. “I didn’t think you’d leave, since, well, you know, you and Aster are—” She blinked, steering her gaze to the chandelier. “—in anentanglement, I suppose. But—”
