Page 15

This time, he thought, my father will see me and know my worth.

He descended the stairwell slowly. From down below, there came a sound of heavy stone being dragged across a rough surface. It wasn’t an odd sound exactly and yet it put him on edge. As he neared the bottom of the spiralling staircase, the everflame candles that hung on the walls grew scant. Oppressive shadows curled closer, clutching at him like gnarled, twisted fingers.

A small landing offered entrance to seven other rooms. On the far left his father was talking with somebody in low, serious tones. He edged closer to that door.

Before he could step through, however, something peculiar on the other side of the landing caught his eye.

A small upside down shoe.

It laid wedged between a massive wooden door and the frame, the room beyond it dark and silent. He leaned toward the crack in the door, eyes straining to see the shoe clearly. It was too small to be his fathers. And… it looked distinctly feminine.

He moved closer, crouching to examine it better in the hazy red light.

The stench of sour milk, rancid and rotting, crashed over him. He fell backwards and scrambled frantically away from the shoe.

Every hair on his body rose. What the fuck was in that room?

A voice called out, “Is someone there?”

Oleander used a nearby wall to pull himself back to his feet, practically running to where his father was. He was desperate to forget that shoe and the darkened room as swiftly as possible—scrubbing it from his mind until his heart no longer threatened to burst from beating wildly.

The staircase he’d descended must have been in the trunk of the tree. For he was now clearly in an underground stone room. The room—or rather, cavern—was lined with everflame candles, shining dim light into the dark corners where dusty cabinets, odd cauldrons, and an impressive amount of knives were displayed.

His father stood before a long wooden table at the heart of the room. Five massive stone jars crowded its surface, along with scissors as long as his forearm, dripping with a dark substance that bore an unsettling resemblance to blood. Asmodeus was rolling up a large spool of pitch-black twine as Samael poured deep red wine into glasses.

His father’s eyes snapped to him, flaring with such barely contained fury that Oleander almost turned and fled.

But Samael was already striding towards him, something dank wafting from him as he gripped Oleander’s shoulder and a genuine smile spread across his face. “Has your father finally let you become a soul reaper after all?”

Samael’s voice was nasally and oddly pitched in a way Asmodeus would mock to his children behind closed doors. Here, though, his father only gave a snide smile and drank his wine.

Oleander cringed, his mask slipping. “Well I’m not even Ascended yet, so—”

“He’s yet to prove himself up to the task,” Asmodeus interrupted.

Samael smiled again, giving him a wink. “Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. Would you like some wine? I can fetch an extra bottle if you’d like to join us.”

Oleander squeezed his fists together and then slowly opened them. “No,” he said, the calmness in his voice fragile. “I only came here to tell my father that I’ve successfully made the bargain he’d tasked me with.”

Asmodeus gave him an odd look, examining him silently. “Have a drink with us then. If you’re so inclined to stalk me in the home you abandoned. It would be impolite to not accept Samael’s offer of hospitality.”

Oleander gave a shaky nod and Samael rushed to retrieve more wine.

While Samael and Asmodeus both held the same title as Grand Duke, Samael had never learnt the art of holding his power over others. He was too desperate to be liked, and the other Grand Dukes used this desire to their advantage. He was classically beautiful, with a strong chin and skin the colour of sunshine. When Oleander was younger he’d spent long hours after his classes helping Samael research whatever odd subject had caught the Grand Duke of the Acquirement Circle’s fancy. Back then Oleander had been honoured… charmed, even.

Now, he saw Samael for what he was—clever in all the ways that didn’t matter, but a silent observer when a situation required a backbone.

His father pulled out another glass and poured the last of their current bottle into it, eyes searing into his youngest son instead of the glass of wine he was filling. As he handed it over, he glanced at the pots and readjusted one of the lids.

“What’s in those?” Oleander asked, motioning with his chin towards the jars.

Asmodeus stilled. Then, in a carefully neutral tone he said, “Just something we’re working on.”

Oleander accepted the evasive answer, pairing it with a long drink of his wine. His father had clearly chosen the bottle, it was so harshly astringent his teeth hurt. Oddest of all was the bitter aftertaste that made him yearn to set the glass down. Only his father was still staring pointedly at him, so he merely gripped the stem tighter.

He was sweating even though the room was frigid, bordering on freezing. The red-lined image of the lone, upturned shoe came to mind once more.

Perhaps—no.