Page 8 of Astaroth
His brows shot toward his hairline. He nodded, popping the yolk into his mouth. “Can concubines break-up with their bed mates?”
Sam sipped her juice. “Free ones can.”
Those words stuck to his ribs. After he parted ways with his new acquaintances—maybe, friends?—he rinsed his plate and placed it in the industrial dishwasher. The kitchen was immaculate, stocked with stainless steel fixtures, mahogany cabinetry and a window facing the stables.
From there, he explored the first floor, beguiled by crystal chandeliers dangling from the high ceilings, pictorial rugs stretched across the floors, collections of framed artwork sprinkling every wall. In the sitting room, vintage black sofas and an oversized leather chair faced massive windows. A taxidermy fruit bat was pinned to a crimson backing above yet another fireplace. Smaller animals were displayed on the mantle—an owl and a rabbit, and several unidentifiable skulls.
Through the conjoining doorway, Briar found a musty library. The shelves overflowed. Books formed slouchy stacks on the floor. A secretary, or what looked to be a secretary, had become a mountain of hardbacks, paperbacks and tattered leather covers. Even the fainting couch was hidden by books. He kept on,slipping through the halls like a ghost. Toward the back of the estate, Briar peeked into a cozy home theater, and a little ways passed that, he found the glass-paneled French doors that opened into the attached atrium.
Birds of paradise reached skyward, their droopy, green leaves freshly misted. Pothos vined along the windows, grasping for bamboo sticks and branches, and bushy ferns framed a narrow walkway. Steam rose from an undisturbed pool settled in the center of the greenhouse, hidden behind fiddle leaf figs and fruit bearing trees. He trailed his hand along gaping lilies and juicy roses, and crouched to touch the slippery tiles on the side of the pool.
Frost spiderwebbed the glass, fracturing a dark silhouette that disappeared into the stables. Briar stayed there for a long while. He tasted chlorophyll in the damp air and touched the pool water to his lips, licking away salt and chlorine. He imagined stretching his wings and gliding through the water. Holding his breath. Shaking droplets from soaked plumage. He knuckled hot wetness from his lashes.
Michael still haunted him. That last job, those last hours, Briar’s last plea. . .
Michael, who had trained him, cared for him, raised him, had held him to the floor after testifying against him.
Michael, who had loved him like a father, had torn at Briar’s wings, snapping them, shredding them, and then, easy as ever, he’d left him alone in a cell, picking at plucked feathers.
His rear hit the white and teal tiles surrounding the pool. Clipped was an inappropriate word. As if wings were humanely snipped away. Brutalized made more sense.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Aster (Bat Emoji):My piebald is sweet but fast. She’ll want to run. Is that okay?
Briar’s thumbs hovered over the screen.
Briar:I think I’d like to run
Briar couldn’t possibly imagine the price tag that’d dangled from the butter-colored breeches he wore. He couldn’t throw out a number for the tall, brown riding boots or the tweed coat buttoned to his chin, either. The riding clothes were still stiff, newly bought and scented like plastic, but they fit him perfectly. He gripped the saddle with his thighs, striding atop a patchwork mare named Saga. Her mane split at the center—one half white, the other half black. Beside him, Aster rode a red stallion called Crown. The collar on his black peacoat framed his jaw. Charcoal pants clung tightly to his strong legs. His profile was dignified, a sharp line against the snow. His barely exposed wrist—highways of veins, bulged and prominent as he gripped the reins—pulled Briar’s attention. He remembered the painting above the fireplace in the dining room:Dante and Virgil in Hell. He thought of Gianni’s hand on Capocchio’s chest, his mouth clamped over tender flesh, and imagined Aster’s hand on him, gripping his ribs, and Aster’s mouth on his throat, biting down. The thought ricocheted through his body and landed between his legs.
Briar set his jaw.Gather yourself, you absolute buffoon. He shifted his gaze toward the forested path. “It’s beautiful out here,” he said. “Cold, but beautiful.”
“We get snowed in from time to time, but the generators kick on when we need them to. It’s nice to have a piece of wilderness all to myself.”
“Do any of the people you purchase go off to make lives for themselves?”
“A few do. Most stay here or close by. I’m still connected to a Fallen who moved to Boulder years ago. Started a family, became a lawyer. He’s doing well,” Aster said. He shifted his gaze sideways, watching Briar out of the corner of his eye. “Obviously, the people I took from Purgatory are technically. . . Well, ghosts, for lack of a better word. Once their souls are free, it’s within their right to stay or go. They don’t have the same choices you do, unfortunately.”
“Heaven or Hell? Those are their choices, right?” Briar asked.
At that, Aster laughed. “Heaven is an empty promise, and Hell is here—righthere. You must know that by now.”
Briar’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet, waiting.
“Look, whoever created us, abandoned us. Better yet, they left us to look after their mess. Heaven isn’t real, but energy is, and I’m sure the souls who leave Purgatory find themselves reborn. Hopefully somewhere better.”
“Purgatory wouldn’t exist unless it occupied a space between two places, and those places were determined by our creator.”
“No, Purgatory wouldn’t exist if angels stopped in-fighting and flexing their moral authority over God’s precious step-children. You really think there’s a fire under our feet, Briar? Brimstone raining down on tortured souls for eternity? Please. I’m well-acquainted with eternity. There’s no cage big enough.”
“Lawlessness, then? That’s your solution?”
“Solution to what, exactly?”
“There are rules—”
“Written by men,” Aster interjected. Breath fogged the air in front of his mouth. “God never held the pen. Neither did Michael or Gabriel or Raphael. Yet my brotherson highpretend like they have the authority to uphold a set of laws written by mortal kings to contain their mortal kingdoms. I didn’t fall to bringlawlessness to an orphaned species, I fell because it was my right to do so.”
