3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

M orning brightened Briar’s bedroom. He buried his nose in soft cotton sheets and tangled his legs in the plush down comforter draped over his mattress. Through the frosty window, fresh snow flocked naked maple trees and fluffy firs. His bones were used to thin barrack cots and hard concrete, leaving him strangely sore. He flexed his stiff muscles and curled under the blankets like a pleased cat. For a moment, he stilled, brought his wrist to his mouth and bit, trying to pinch his way out of a dream. But he was awake. Completely, inarguably awake. Footsteps padded the hallway and muffled voices echoed from the first floor. Otherwise, quiet filled the house.

How have I landed here, he thought, and then he wondered, briefly, where Aster slept. He squeezed his eyes shut. How is this possibly my punishment?

“Briar?” Mallory rapped her knuckles on his bedroom door. “Are you awake, dear?”

“Y-yes, I’m—”

The door flew open, followed by Mallory’s floor-length paisley dress. “Good morning! There’s breakfast in the dining room. Luca assembled your closet—intimates in the dresser, finery on hangers, denim folded on the shelf. The washroom is down the hall on the right, in case you’ve forgotten. And. . . Oh, there was something else.” She tapped her mouth. Her brows puled together, wrinkling the white gauze tied around her eyes. “Right! Aster wants to take you riding! If you’re up for it, of course. He mentioned early-afternoon. How does that sound?”

Briar instinctively burrowed under the blankets and fought back a bout of embarrassment when he realized Mallory couldn’t see his bare skin. He cleared his throat. “Riding?”

“Horses, dear. He’s quite fond of them.”

“Right. I’ll. . . Sure, I’ll join him,” he said, licking away the sour sleep coated on his teeth.

“Splendid. I’ll let him know. Your riding clothes will probably be marked, but if you need assistance, call for Luca.” She pointed to a sleek, black iPhone on the nightstand. “His number is programmed, as is mine. Your phone is a private possession, talk to whoever you’d like, but check with Aster before inviting any guests to the estate. We don’t want to. . .” She paused, pursing her lips. “Frighten anyone, you know.”

Briar blinked, glancing from the nightstand to Mallory. “Is there anywhere in the house I shouldn’t go?”

“Bedrooms are off limits unless you’re invited. Aster’s wing is on the far left of the house, second floor, and he prefers his privacy. Although, I’m sure you have special privileges,” she said, shimmying her shoulders excitedly. “Any-who, just be mindful. Is there anything I can do for you while you get settled?”

“I think I’ll be all right, thank you.”

“Good, good.” She hesitated, shifting from foot to foot in her yellow house-shoes. Her voice softened on a sigh. “Briar, dear, I’d like to see to your clippings,” she added, forcing a smile. “If we don’t take care of them, I’m afraid you’ll need antibiotics.”

“I can handle them,” he said. His stomach knotted, anxiety shooting through his spine.

Mallory wrung her hands. “If you get feverish, you’ll call?”

“Yes, I’ll call.”

“All right, then.” With that, she left.

Briar waited for the door to click shut before he sat up, gazing out the window toward the tree line in the distance. He reached over his shoulder to finger at the scabbed flesh coiled at the root of his sheared wings. Bone jutted, pulsing hot where the wound refused to heal. A shower would help. Soap and fresh clothes would, too.

He picked up the iPhone as he would a dagger, turning it over in his palm. The screen lit. He flicked through it and tapped on the message app. One unread text sat at the top of the white screen. Briar arched a brow. Aster had—no joke—programmed a bat emoji next to this name.

Aster (Bat Emoji): Morning

Briar blinked at the screen. He typed hi and backspaced it. He tried hello and backspaced again.

Briar: Hey

Three dots bounced on the screen.

Aster (Bat Emoji): How’d you sleep?

Briar: I slept well

Aster (Bat Emoji): Did Mallory stop by?

Briar: Yeah. I told her to tell you yes.

Aster (Bat Emoji): ?

After washing in the ridiculous glass-walled shower, Briar spent a fair amount of time perusing the cologne, perfumes, makeup, and lotions neatly placed on the shelves. He settled on a square bottle labeled Body Glow, and stared at his reflection as he dabbed the Tahitian oil on his wrists, hips, and behind his ears. The faint purple hue beneath his eyes hadn’t faded. Neither had the blood vessel that’d burst near his left tear-duct, an ugly, red blotch hovering next to brown rings. His lips thinned. Michael hadn’t been gentle during his wing-extraction, and Briar hadn’t been compliant. The end result had left him battered. He turned away from the mirror. Battered and sold and. . . free, somehow.

He dressed in a simple beige sweater and jeans and slipped on his house-shoes. He’d seen the artwork in the hallway last night: gothic pieces by Jan van Eyck, portraits he didn’t recognize, and the oversize painting that stopped him in place, Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare , facing the top of the staircase. Briar regarded the painting again, tracing the imp’s scowl and the woman’s expression—lulled ecstasy. Had she called to the demon? Had her desire truly manifested in the body of a horse? She wore her purity like something almost discarded, clinging to her shoulders, wrapped around her thighs. Unimportant. Easily pushed away. He turned his shy gaze toward the east wing. Candelabras held flickering pillar candles. A wide, black door etched with intricate filigree designs loomed at the end of the hallway. Unexpected jealousy curdled in Briar’s chest. He flew down the stairs, away from Aster’s wing and that damn painting, and walked into the dining room.

Servants—residents, rather—sat at the table and stood near the walls, chatting amongst themselves. Fragrant grapefruit juice filled glass jugs, waffles topped a large plate in the center of the table, and fancy sliced meats sat on a cutting board next to brie, gouda, sharp cheddar and goat cheese. A few people glanced at him. Clementine, the chef, lifted two fingers away from her mug and waved.

“It’s Starbucks,” Luca said, appearing beside him. “The coffee, I mean. Aster refuses to drink anything but the Verdanda blend. Diva, that man. I swear it.”

Briar followed Luca’s lead and took a plate. “He only drinks Starbucks coffee?”

“He made a deal with Howard, so, technically, Aster owns Starbucks. Still, the blonde roast? That’s his pick? Tragic.”

Briar spread cheese and jam over two pieces of sourdough. He added prosciutto at the last minute. Hardboiled eggs, too. He followed Luca around the table, watching them snatch a yogurt cup, sprinkling it with granola and diced melon. A woman leaned back in her seat, one foot propped on the lap across from her, belonging to a handsome woman wearing torn jeans and a flat-cap. Briar clocked the slight tent on her blouse. Corset. Wings. Angel . She met Briar’s eyes and tipped her chin.

“Ah, yes, Sam, this is Briar. You two might have a few things in common,” Luca said.

Sam, the butch with cropped dark hair and upturned black eyes, extended her hand. “Another Fallen. Looks like me and you aren’t the only ones anymore,” she said, flicking her gaze to Luca. She looked back at Briar once he grasped her palm. “Sam Sato, Angel of Deliverance. Collections.”

A reaper. He nodded. “Briar Wright, Angel of War. Medical unit.”

“This is my partner, Jennifer.” Sam patted Jennifer’s shin.

“Welcome, Briar.” Jennifer’s smile dimpled her copper cheeks. Thick black hair waterfalled down her back. “Are you making yourself at home?”

“I’m considering,” Briar said.

Luca tsk’d.

Sam offered a slow nod. “Give yourself time.”

“Are you. . . treated well?” he asked, shooting an apologetic glance at Luca. They simply rolled their eyes.

“Well enough to stay. I spent five years as a concubine to Vinea before Aster bid on me. Naturally, I braced for. . . well, hell. Landed here instead. A year later, Aster made a private bid on Jennifer.” She smiled, running her fingers along the sole of Jennifer’s foot until she squirmed. “He pulled her from purgatory.”

He nibbled on a hardboiled egg. “Is he a regular attendee at the auction or—”

“Heavens, no!” Luca barked out a laugh. “If only you knew what it took to convince him to bid on you. Not much after he saw you, I’ll admit. But Aster is ferociously stubborn when it comes to expanding his social circle. I think it’s been. . . Lord knows. How long, Sam?”

“I’ve been here for seven years,” Jennifer said.

Sam nodded slowly. “Seven years, then.”

“ Seven years ,” Luca repeated, squawking like a crow. “That means it’s been easily a decade since his last concubine.”

“Oh, my, you’re a concubine,” Sam said. She gave Briar a curious once over. “I’ve never known Aster to bring a lover here. I thought he sought partners—” she shrugged “—elsewhere.”

“Please, he’s shy as a mouse. Do you know how many times I’ve had to whisk him away? How long I’ve been saving him from his own poor decisions? Rooftop nightclubs, dive-bar bathrooms.” They shivered, mock gagging. “Our Great Duke is prone to hiding in the dark and fucking people who won’t remember him. It’s like dealing with a frat boy, I swear.”

“Do you always gossip about him. . . ?” Briar asked. He tried not to eat like a wolf, but his stomach refused to quiet, and the food was, once again, annoyedly delicious.

“Of course,” Luca chimed.

“Oh, yes. Frequently,” Sam said.

Jennifer nodded vigorously.

Briar poked at a solid egg yolk. “What happened to the last concubine?”

Luca, Sam and Jennifer said, all at once, “They broke up.”

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— right here. 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 brothers on high pretend 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 bring lawlessness to an orphaned species, I fell because it was my right to do so.”

Briar’s throat cinched. He wanted to argue. He wanted to defend his creation, his celestial birth, and believe in all he’d been taught. But the girl he’d tried to save was still dead. Michael had still put his boot to Briar’s back and busted his hollow bones. Briar still knew in his heart that he’d done the right thing—the holy thing—and he had still been deemed a traitor because of it.

Perhaps Aster was right, and even if he was wrong, Briar would never know the truth. None of them would. Loyalty, it seemed, was all that mattered.

“Tell me, when they locked you in your cell, did you pray for freedom?” Aster asked.

Anger twisted inside him. “I did,” Briar said.

“And who answered?” He guided the reins. Crown pranced in front of Saga, trotting around her in circles.

You did. Briar chewed on the inside of his cheek. He met Aster’s eyes again, and found a gentle smile curving the Great Duke’s mouth. Steamy fog tumbled over his chin. Aster winked. Briar’s cheeks flared. Before Aster could say another word, Briar nudged Saga with his heels and sent her galloping through the trees.

White branches whipped past his face. Muted sunlight illuminated gray cloud-cover. Snow flurried, tossed by Saga’s hooves, fluttering from above, knocked loose by a startled robin. Briar focused on the path, on his unsteady heartbeat, on the pain echoing under his clippings, and imagined desire—the color of it, the shape of it, the smell of it—stamped into his skin. Saga’s heaving breath filled the stillness. She whinnied, trotting to a stop at the bank of a frozen river, sliced apart by blue rivets where the ice didn’t meet.

Aster arrived, breathing heavily, cheeks chapped from the cold. “No one answered me either,” he said. “Surprisingly enough, I prayed for a long time. I prayed to the creator, to the mother, to my brothers. No one listened. No one came for me.”

“You answered me,” Briar snapped, haughty and ill-restrained. He tugged on Saga’s reins, causing her to halt. “You came for me.”

“And?” Aster lifted his chin, curious. “You owe me nothing, Briar. Your price-tag might’ve been steep, but you didn’t break the bank. Trust me.”

“Give me a job, at least. I can’t just. . . Just eat your food and stay at your home and spend your money. I’m not decoration whether you admire me or not.”

“Fine, pick something.”

“I’ll. . .” He swallowed hard, thinking back to the taxidermy bat and the upended books. “Your library. Let me organize it.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“You mentioned courtship.”

Aster tipped his head like an owl, narrowed eyes pinned to Briar’s face. “And?”

“I’m interested. If I say stop, it means stop. If I say no, it means no. If you take what isn’t given, I’ll cut your heart out.”

“You’ll try to cut my heart out.”

“I’ll die trying.”

“Anything else?”

He couldn’t place the feeling. Like falling, maybe. Diving headfirst through open sky. For once, he was truly, unexplainably free. The High Court could not touch him. Michael could not touch him. His life had started again, and now, he yearend for recklessness. To want without complication. To experience being desired by someone unequivocally powerful. “I’d like to kiss you,” he said, speaking through a nervous tremor. “If that’s all right.”

“Now?” Aster asked, tempering a surprised smile.

“Soon.”

His lips ticked upward again. From his physical response—his light smile and timid surprise—Briar wanted to kiss him right then, before he changed his mind. He stayed on Saga’s back, though, waiting.

Aster said, “Soon, then.”

The bravery swelling inside Briar leant him the courage to laugh, just a little. He tapped Saga and sent her prancing beside the river. “Your assistant said you’re shy as a mouse,” Briar said, tossing the words over his shoulder. “Strange thing to say about a Duke of Hell—someone who could have whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”

Aster snorted. “My assistant says a lot of things. . .” He lifted one hand off the reins and flicked his wrist dismissively. “They read a book about a necromancer and demanded I animate a slew of skeletons to serve our food. Real skeletons, mind you. Sometimes I think Luca talks to hear their own voice.”

“Clearly.” Briar bit back a laugh. “It’s not like you sweep lovers off sweaty dancefloors. And you’re surely not fond of dirty bathroom stalls.”

There was no telling whether Aster’s face had flushed from the wind or from their conversation. He chewed on his lip, turning his gaze toward the river’s broken ice. “I desire a specific kind of bodily warmth from time to time, and I enjoy the disconnection that comes with it. It’s easy.” His lips pursed. “Uncomfortable at times. Unfulfilling, mostly. But it’s there. I can fuck someone in a bar, give us what we both want, and walk away without the shape of them carved into my life.”

Briar wanted to understand, but he didn’t. How satisfying could meaningless be to someone like Aster? Someone who had lived a thousand lives? Someone who filled a house with discarded souls to keep himself company, yet refused to share his bed with a lover? Until now , Briar thought. Until me. They turned the horses around and trotted down the path toward the manor.

“Do you want distance?” Briar asked.

“When it comes to you?”

Briar nodded.

Aster shot him another curious glance. “I’d prefer closeness.”

“Why me, specifically?”

“You fascinate me.” He lifted his brows, smiling. “Your turn. Why me?”

Briar swallowed hard. “I’m still trying to understand that myself.”

“Well, it’s certainly not my devilish good looks,” he teased.

“Certainly not,” Briar said, smothering a laugh, and snapped the reins, sending Saga galloping through the snow.