by A. H. Lee
“Ren.”
“Ren, I am terribly sorry to be such a poor host—”
He turned around, holding a plate of bacon, and Jessica saw that he was smiling. “Don’t be. I cook most of my own food. Surely Mal told you.”
Mal bumped Azrael’s elbow with his nose and Azrael turned to him with an exasperated expression. “I am not hand-feeding you today! You can sit at the table like a human being!”
Mal looked disappointed. “Why not? It’s the only way you’ll let me lick your fingers.”
Jessica gaped at them. To Mal, she said, “He’s been cooking for you for twenty years?! Lucy is right; you are incredibly entitled and ungrateful!”
Mal laid back his ears. “He only cooks when he feels like it. Mostly, he lives on tea and biscuits! I do not like to live on tea and biscuits.”
Azrael had set down the bacon and turned back to scoop up a plate of scrambled eggs and a tray of toast out of the oven. “Mal is exaggerating. Come eat.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have tea, Ren, only coffee. That, at least, I can make.”
At these words, Mal shot up into his human form. The coffee grinder was painful to his feline ears. Jessica saw, with relief, that he’d elected to wear clothes. “Who is Ren?”
“Me,” said Azrael. “It’s an old nickname. It’s better than you calling me by my given name where others might hear.”
“But I’ve never called you that before.”
“Yes, because I haven’t used it since I summoned you.”
Mal sat down and broke off a piece of bacon. “I don’t need another name for you.”
“Cats hate change,” said Jessica as she set out plates and silverware.
Mal scowled. “Not all change.”
“You call me Boss,” said Azrael. “I’m not your boss.”
“You sort of are,” objected Mal, “right now.”
Azrael looked confused, and Jessica could understand why. Mal had hated being bound. But the operative word isn’t “Boss.” It’s “my.” My Boss. Mine, mine, mine.
Azrael shrugged. “Call me anything you like, just not my name.”
Mal brightened. “Can I call you Larry?”
“Anything except for that.”
“Laurie?”
“Only if you want a plague of fleas.”
“Lucifer.”
“No.”
“I have sword practice this morning,” said Jessica. “I’ll be gone from about ten to noon. I’ll try to remember to stop by the market on my way home. Or there’s more goose in the icebox.”
“I have a lot of tedious work to do on that map this morning,” said Azrael. “I would also like to…er… borrow your shower.”
They both stared at him blankly and Azrael added, “For bathing, not magic. And I could really use a shave.”
“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Jessica. “I actually laid out linens for you last night.”
“You should let your beard grow a little,” said Mal. “It looks good on you.”
“No, I should not. It makes me look like a storybook dark lord.”
“So you’d rather look like a storybook vampire?”
“Apparently.”
“It might make Loudain stop calling you ‘kid.’”
Azrael paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You think so?”
“No. I mean maybe, but probably not.”
Jessica smiled into her coffee. Can we just do this every morning? Aloud, she said, “I think we should go to a play this evening. My favorite theater in town is hosting a performance of The Tournament of Wizards.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “There are no actual wizards involved. They’ll pretend to do magic on stage; I think you might find it entertaining.”
Azrael nodded. “I am familiar with the play.”
“Have you seen a performance?”
He shook his head.
“Then let’s see it!”
“If we’re finished at a reasonable hour, certainly. Does Mal have any good clothes left?”
Jessica opened her mouth to say yes, but Mal spoke first, “Can we pretend I don’t, and you can take me clothes shopping?”
Azrael cocked an eyebrow at him.
“You love dressing Jessica up like a doll! You did it all the time when she was at home!”
Azrael gave a startled laugh. “I did not realize you were feeling left out.”
Mal just looked at him expectantly.
Azrael sipped his coffee. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 21
Mal
Mal and Jessica cleaned up the kitchen while Azrael performed his morning ablutions. Mal plucked his collar from the bedside table and slipped it on without being asked. “Now remember,” said Jessica, “Mrs. Sworenson is bringing the clean laundry by. Try to listen for the doorbell. I’ve left money on the mantle.”
Mal nodded. I need to talk to Azrael about the…the thing. I need to do it today.
“Mal, are you listening to me?”
“Laundry lady. Clothes. Money.”
Jessica searched his face. Her lips still looked a little pinker than usual, even without makeup, after the morning’s activities. She’d braided her hair in two plaits to either side of her head and tied it in back to keep it out of her way. She didn’t think she looked fetching in loose trousers and the fitted jacket that kept her breasts comfortable during vigorous exercise. She was wrong. She looked adorable.
But she also looked a tiny bit worried. “What’s wrong?” asked Mal.
“Nothing. Just…be good.”
Mal rolled his eyes. “Jessica, I was alone with him for twenty-three years.”
He thought she would say what she was surely thinking: “Yes, but you were bound.”
She didn’t say it, though. She just leaned up and kissed him. “I’ll see you both this afternoon.” She scooped up her sword and a daypack and was gone.
Mal could already hear Azrael moving through the backdoor into the garden. It was probably the best place to work. If something catches fire, at least we won’t burn down the cottage. Moments later, he felt the familiar tug on his magic. It was not quite like being fed on, but it did make Mal feel vulnerable in a way that he sometimes secretly enjoyed, but more often vocally resented. His magic was a very personal thing. It had never occurred to Mal that Azrael might feel the same way. “This is the most intimate thing I have ever done with anyone.”
Truly?
Mulling this over, Mal moved through the kitchen and into the garden. It was almost as large as the entire cottage, with vine-covered stone walls, a few small trees, a shed, and a stone picnic table with benches. The leaves of the vines were currently blood-red, and the trees were half bare, with swathes of red and gold still clinging to their branches. The morning was a little overcast, and the air smelled of wet hay. “Need some focus, Boss?”
Azrael stood over the table, the map spread in front of him and weighted on the edges with a couple of books. He was in the process of setting out tiny vials from his pockets, each one minutely labeled, and lining them up around the map. He spoke without turning. “Yes, that would be helpful.”
Mal sat down at the table and watched Azrael work. He was struck suddenly by the strangeness of this—how Azrael sometimes needed Mal’s attention for fiddly tasks. “Am I your magical focus?” he wondered aloud. “Not just the collar? Me?”
Azrael’s hands stopped adjusting the vials. He glanced up—freshly scrubbed, his hair still damp, one nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving. “Whatever prompted that question?”
Mal shrugged. “I don’t know. Am I?”
Azrael returned to the vials, his hands moving more slowly. “I don’t know how to answer that. Can we talk about this later?”
Mal nodded. He crossed his arms on the table and rested his head there.
Azrael poured a tiny amount of soil out of one vial onto the map over the label for Kotos. Mal knew that the soil had been acquired from that country, presumably so
mewhere Azrael thought a gate might be appropriate. Azrael sat down at the table, took up his bone pen, and began drawing a delicate, glowing pattern in the sand. Mal focused on it. He did not know exactly how the magic worked, but he knew his master’s intent, and that always seemed to be enough.
“How did you know to make the collar?” asked Mal. “It’s not in any textbook, is it?”
Azrael stopped and screwed up his face. “Mal…”
“Sorry.”
Azrael’s free hand was resting on the table six inches from Mal’s arm, and without thinking, Mal said, “Can I hold your hand?”
He expected Azrael to say no, but his master let out an exasperated breath, looked at the sky as though to say, Gods, give me patience, and then passed Mal his free hand as though he were passing him the salt. “Yes, if it will keep you both quiet and attentive.”
Mal was filled with unexpected delight. He took Azrael’s pale hand in his darker one. Azrael’s fingers were almost as long as Mal’s, but they were narrower, his palm not nearly so broad. His wrist reminded Mal of the neck of some forest creature—fragile bones that Mal could have broken with a single twist.
Azrael’s hand was a little cold, so Mal folded it up in both of his. He ran his thumb back and forth across the knuckles, reveling in the delicacy of the bones. Mal wasn’t sure why this delighted him so much. He had no intention of breaking Azrael’s hand, but the fact that he could made him feel strangely giddy. It’s almost like you trust me.
After a thorough exploration of the top of Azrael’s hand, Mal turned it over, palm up, and this felt more intimate than it should have. Is it because he’s using my magic right now? Because it’s a little like being fed on? Or was holding hands always this amazing and I never knew?
Chapter 22
Azrael
Is he using magic on me?
Azrael did a quick internal assessment of his wards. Flawless.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Mal was looking at his hand as though he’d never seen one before. He petted it with his fingertips, brushing over the fine hairs, tracing the tendons. One thumb ran round and round the most prominent bone on Azrael’s wrist. Azrael was certain that this should not have produced such a distracting flood of sensation. He felt as though he could not breathe properly, as though he had to remember to take every single breath.
I need to tell him to stop.
But he didn’t. Azrael felt strangely helpless, as though his hand in Mal’s was an insoluble problem—a physics conundrum of the highest order.
Finally, Mal turned Azrael’s hand over and ran one big, warm thumb over his palm.
Azrael felt as though his internal organs had liquefied. And that should not have felt so good.
Gods. Don’t look at him. He will be insufferable if he…if he… Fuck. Why are there so many nerve endings in the human hand? Why did I give him my hand? Why haven’t I taken it back?
Mal wasn’t paying the slightest attention to the map. Azrael scowled with concentration. This has got to be the least efficient way to anchor a gate that anyone could possibly conceive.
Somehow, his pen kept moving. He hoped he wasn’t making mistakes. He knew—knew with every fiber of his being—that he should pull his hand away from Mal.
Mal ran his fingertips over Azrael’s wrist. Azrael thought, for one horrified moment, that he was going to make some kind of undignified sound. He pressed his lips together fiercely. I have to make him stop.
Chapter 23
Mal
Is he feeling any of this? Probably not.
Azrael’s hand remained relaxed in Mal’s. He didn’t twitch when Mal ran his fingertips halfway to Azrael’s elbow, following the tracks of the blue veins under the skin. When Mal glanced up, Azrael’s face was a scowl of concentration, his lips pressed into a flat line.
He’s probably angry that I’m not giving him enough focus. He’ll swear at me in a moment and tell me to pay attention.
Mal was trying to pay attention. He really was. But this giddiness was so startlingly pleasant. He didn’t want it to stop. He wasn’t even thinking about his cock, although he knew, distantly, that he was hard.
He kept tracing the creases in the warm leather of Azrael’s palm, moving in circles around his wrist, feeling his heartbeat (did it always run so fast?) beneath Mal’s fingertips.
Mal was startled by a pounding from inside the house. He raised his head and stared at the cottage stupidly. Azrael cleared his throat. “Sounds like someone’s at the door.”
“Oh.” Mal looked down at Azrael’s hand—a bird about to fly away, a bird that he wanted to fold up against him and keep safe forever.
The pounding came again. “You should probably go answer it,” said Azrael, his voice curiously husky.
With intense regret, Mal released Azrael’s hand. His master did not look at him, but immediately employed both hands to open another vial. He poured out a few grains of soil for Bethsaria and began to trace runes with his pen.
Mal went into the cottage, already feeling sullen at the laundry lady. She was a cheerful person, stocky in a powerful way, and Mal restrained himself from snapping at her. As he went to the mantle to fetch her money, she said, “I’ll come inside and put the clothes away if you like.”
“Thanks,” said Mal, “but it’s not necessary.”
“Truly, it’s no trouble,” she continued. “I see Jessica isn’t here. Her dresses need to be hung promptly. Won’t you let me do it?”
Under other circumstances, Mal would have been happy to let Mrs. Sworenson deal with dresses, but he was anxious to return to the garden and, if possible, Azrael’s hand. He’d been shocked, when he passed the kitchen clock, to see that an hour had gone by since he went outside. The morning was running away too quickly.
Mal took the laundry basket from Mrs. Sworenson and handed over her money. “No thanks.” He started to shut the door
“Well, you’re an ungrateful brute, aren’t you?”
Mal stopped in surprise. He’d never heard her speak this way. “Your lady’s dresses will be all wrinkled! And I’ll be blamed, won’t I?”
“No…” Mal stared at her. She was practically spitting at him.
“I won’t be held responsible! Let me in so that I can see to this properly. If you don’t, I’ll never do your washing again! Your lady will not be pleased, I can assure you!”
“What’s wrong with you?” Mal was looking at her aura now. There was something subtly off.
“Let me in!”
“No!”
Gnashing her teeth, the woman took a step back onto the porch. At that moment, the sun peeked out from behind a cloud, and Mal saw her shadow on the boards. Within that shadow, a single silver eye opened and stared at him.
Mal went cold. “Azrael!” he bellowed. Then, to Sworenson, he delivered a formal, “You may not enter here.”
“Fine!” she grated and flung away, her boots clicking sharply on the boards.
But Azrael was already there, darting through the front door with inhuman speed. “What?”
“Faery,” whispered Mal. “Or…” He caught his breath. “Not a faery, but a corrupted human. She had one of those silver eyes in her shadow. Like the monster. And there’s something wrong with her aura. A sliver of faery magic, I think.”
Azrael’s face hardened in concentration. “Let’s hope it’s only a sliver.” He strode after Mrs. Sworenson, who glanced over her shoulder, gave a little cry and broke into a run. Azrael raised his hand and said a word. Instantly, the line that he and Mal had drawn in wards around the cottage erupted in a wall of blue flame. Sworenson had not quite reached the edge of the property, and she turned back with a shriek, terrified eyes rolling in her head.
Azrael strode towards her. “Be still,” he snapped. “You are confused, madam. You are corrupted, but I think I can purge you. Be still.”
She was sobbing now, incoherent.
“They’ve put some sort of compulsion on her,” muttered Mal.
“A compulsion to obtain entrance,” said Azrael. “But it looks like the sliver is small. This shouldn’t be too bad.”
He fished in his pocket for a vial. It was water from the Shrouded Isle, heavily infused with magic. Azrael tipped a drop into the woman’s shadow. The eye had closed, but as the water struck, it opened wide, blinking and staring. Azrael said a word, and the woman screamed. She doubled over as blue fire ran around the edge of her shadow.
The silver eye seemed to bulge. The pupil was round and disturbingly human. It rolled up in its socket. Black lines like blood vessels appeared in its silvery white. They grew wider and burst, spreading like blood through the eye until it disappeared.
Azrael waved his hand, and the wall of fire dropped and vanished. The blue outline faded from Sworenson’s shadow. She remained on her hands and knees, panting, and Mal felt Azrael pull on his magic.
He’s going to alter her memories. That took quite a bit of energy.
When Mrs. Sworenson looked up, she had an embarrassed smile on her face. “Oh, dear, I didn’t see you there, sir.”
“I’m a guest,” said Azrael and held out his hand to help her up. “You seem to have tripped on our porch steps.”
Sworenson took his hand and rose shakily. “Yes, I…I think I might have hit my head. I…” She looked past him. “Mal, my dear, was there some problem with the laundry? I thought there was a problem…”
“No problem at all,” said Mal. “Thank you for your help.”
She nodded, still looking a little confused, and made her way slowly out of the yard.
Azrael said nothing to Mal as they returned to the garden. When they sat down at the table, Azrael said quickly, “I need both hands for this part.”
Mal felt a stab of resentment against faeries. He rested his head on his crossed arms and watched Azrael’s fingers dance over the vials, pouring sand or soil, stirring in runes and magic. His master’s face was a blank mask of concentration.
Mal tried to focus on the map. He felt empty. He wondered whether his magic was low, but this seemed different. What did you expect? he demanded of himself. That you’d hold his hand for an hour, and he’d say, ‘Never mind the past, Mal. It turns out that touching you is pleasant and not at all frightening; let’s do it all the time.’