8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

T he nights grew opaque, and the days shortened. Candles lined windowsills, haunting icy glass. Briar spent his time organizing the library. Some mornings he would wake in his own bed, nestled like a fox under too many blankets, but usually he watched the sun rise from the east wing, tucked carefully against Aster’s chest or sprawled beside him. When he wasn’t re-shelving books, he was on Saga’s back or seated at the dining table or reading next to the fireplace. Sometimes, though, he found himself apprehended—tugged into the stables and hoisted onto a table or crawling into Aster’s lap as they shared the fainting couch or fucked in the atrium behind the confetti bush. At times, they were gentle with each other. Tenderness shared in the blue hour before dawn, slow movements and slower kisses, and hushed words whispered after. They talked about beginnings and endings, but mostly, they talked about the in-between. Occasionally, Briar would kiss Aster hard, encouraging the Great Duke to bend him over the secretary or shove him to his knees. Sex had become a casual occurrence, and Briar had learned to laugh against Aster’s mouth, to let himself become loud and rough when he could no longer contain himself, to be curious and adventurous and loving, somehow.

Weeks stretched, but Briar Wright hardly noticed. His clippings, though still sensitive, began to heal. The estate became less a stranger and more a home, and soon enough, the winter solstice was on the horizon.

Two mornings before the longest night of the year, Sam left the estate to find an appropriately festive tree while Jennifer, Luca and Mallory pawed through cardboard boxes, hunting for garland and twinkle lights. The manor buzzed excitedly. Briar bounced down the stairs, dressed in his breeches. He tucked his too-long scarf into his coat as he entered the dining room, snatching a banana from the fruit bowl. Clementine, who had scoured Pinterest boards, vintage cookbooks and famous blogs, was busy ordering ingredients for an extravagant feast. She typed quickly on a purse-sized tablet.

“Briar, I’ll ask you,” she said, eyes still trained to the screen. “I’ve decided on Cornish hens, but I think we need something more. . .” She raised her clenched fist. “Impactful! Don’t you agree? I’m stuck between roast pork and beef tenderloin.”

“Well, what excites you more?” he asked.

She shot him a devious smile. “Everyone loves to spit roast a pig, Briar.”

“Then I guess we’re having pork, aren’t we?”

“I’ll stuff it with honey-soaked cranberries and rosemary,” she said, and gave a curt nod. “Braise the heart in red wine—a splash of chardonnay and garlic for the lungs. Will they be too delicate to sauté, though. . . ? Oh! I can use them in the meatball blend. Yes, good. Perfect .”

Briar drained a glass of grapefruit juice. Lungs? Really. . . ? He furrowed his brows but forced a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Clementine.”

She flashed a grin.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Aster (Bat Emoji): Are you ready?

Briar: Yeah, coming

He finished the banana, tossed the peel in the compost bin, and traded his house-shoes for riding boots at the door. Fresh powder dusted the ground, bleaching the path through the courtyard. He touched a gloved hand to a dry fountain surrounded by trimmed evergreen bushes, and glanced upward at brick spires and square windows. Once he rounded the corner, he saw Aster waiting with the horses. Saga greeted Briar with a whinny, tail flicking, ears perked, and stretched her face toward him as he approached.

“What’s that for?” Briar asked, gesturing to the basket attached to Crown’s saddlebag.

“Pinecones,” Aster said. He adjusted his coat and tugged a thick beanie over his ears. “Luca insisted we harvest some. Apparently, the house won’t be ready for the solstice until they’ve created centerpieces for the tables.”

“Right,” Briar said, laughing. He hoisted atop Saga. She was strong and warm beneath him, walking leisurely toward the tree line in the distance.

Crown tossed his mane, and Aster clucked his tongue, tugging the reins until the horses were side-by-side. They walked at first, sharing silence and the snow, but the moment they hit the windy path, Briar nudged Saga with his heels. She ran through the trees, hopping over frozen trunks and careening around bushy firs. Frozen wind snapped at his cheeks. His eyes stung, and his clippings throbbed as he braced for every gallop, every hard hit of Saga’s hooves, but that primal action, grounded to the earth, still felt a little like flying. They stopped at the river to dismount and scan the trees for loose pinecones. Above them, gray clouds cloaked the sun, turning the sky silver. Fat waxwings chirped from low-hanging branches, and racoon tracks peppered soggy dirt where the snow didn’t touch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked about your work,” Briar said. He tossed a pinecone into the basket and shot Aster a curious glance. “What, exactly, do you do?”

“Invest, usually.” Aster shrugged, swatting at a pinecone that clung to a high branch. He hopped. Swatted again.

Briar laughed in his throat, watching. “In what?”

“Depends. Recently, coffee. Well, not recently , but recent enough. Right now, I enjoy being a homebody.”

“So, you make deals with people, right? Ensure their success in exchange for. . . ?”

“I’ve spent a long time building a network. Too long, honestly. But yeah, I strike a deal with someone, invest in them, pull strings, make sure what needs to happen does happen, and in return, I get a lifelong piece of their livelihood.”

“Do they know who they’re making a deal with, though?” Briar asked.

Aster’s mouth curved. “Some do, some don’t.” He kicked the tree. The pinecone hardly moved.

“You’re having a difficult time with that tree, aren’t you?”

He hopped again. His fingertips connected, jostling the pinecone enough for it to fall. “Obviously not.”

You act human, Briar wanted to say. So, so human . But he kept the observation buried. Sometimes Aster spoke with such brashness, as if he’d been alive for twenty years, and sometimes he stretched his wings in the bedroom, and a sea of eyes blinked at Briar from beneath his feathers. Was human a learned thing? Had Aster chosen to be more like them on his own or had his life here—his long, long life—imprinted on him? Clearly, his ancient self had not been subdued. But his playfulness, his eagerness, his hunger for a life laid out by human hands, made Briar wonder about his heart.

Ever since Briar had arrived, he’d waited for an inevitable break. For Aster to reveal his cruelty, his demonic nature, his profound brutality. Yet all he’d found was Aster’s bashful need for companionship, an appreciation of literature and artwork, and his fondness for horses.

“What?” Aster’s brow arched.

“Nothing,” Briar said, too quickly. He cleared his throat. “I was admiring you. That’s all.”

“Ah, I see. Did you honestly think I’d let a pinecone make a fool of me?” He asked, and plucked the pinecone from the ground, tossing it into the basket.

“Of course not. I simply—” A glob of snow smacked Briar in the chest. He startled, fixing Aster, who knelt to make another snowball, with a pensive look. “You’re absurd.”

His smile sharpened. “I am, yeah.” This time, a snowball hit Briar’s arm.

Briar’s mouth squirmed. He hurriedly made a snowball and tossed it, sending snow fanning over Aster’s leg. The situation rapidly changed. A few small, amateur snowballs became fistfuls of snow. Laughter rang out, startling finches and robins from their perches, and boots crunched as they chased and played and grabbed for each other.

Briar shoved snow down the back of Aster’s coat and Aster pushed his bare hands under Briar’s scarf. They kissed against a tree in their damp clothes. Briar had come to understand moments like these—kisses that led nowhere, sensuality that remained contained. They had never talked about their feelings for each other, not in any tangible way, but Briar recognized Aster’s care. Knew it in kisses like these, simple and unhurried. Knew it in the kettle that was always on after their shared shower and the way he touched him when they read together, Briar’s legs over his lap, Aster’s fingers making patterns on his kneecaps.

“You think too loudly for your own good,” Aster said. He nuzzled his cold nose against Briar’s cheek. “Tell me.”

Briar shook his head. “I’m rather fond of you,” he said, surprised. “Even though you’re insufferable.”

“You’re just now realizing that?” His smile softened. Cute, hiccupping laughter tumbled over his lips. “Well, if it’s any comfort, I’m rather fond of you, too. Even though you’re stubborn and picky.”

“I’m not picky.”

“You organized our library by category, author, and publication date, Briar. You’re very picky.”

Briar’s throat worked around a swallow. Our . He kept that buried, too. “Someone had to.”

“And someone did. The picky one.” Aster pecked him on the lips. “C’mon, Luca will stab me with a fork if we don’t get these back soon.”

Saga and Crown pranced through the woods. Wind snuck through the wet patches on Briar’s clothes. He shivered, but thankfully, the cold wasn’t harsh enough to make the ride all that bad. Saga clipped a rock with her hoof and sent it toppling through the snow. A rabbit peeked at them from a burrow dug around bulbous roots, and shadows crisscrossed the path as they neared the tree line. Soon enough, the sky opened and the house came into view, a black blotch against the white landscape.

Briar didn’t hear the air go still. He didn’t notice the heavens split or the shadow cross the sun until Saga reared back and swung her hooves. The ground shook. Something—someone—had collided with the earth, a high-speed impact only another bird-boned creature could survive . Someone like me, Briar thought, panicked, and again , someone like us. Crown’s high- pitched cry echoed. Snow glittered, tossed far enough to flurry, as if time had reversed and it was falling for the first time.

Uriel resembled a hawk. Black tipped his rust-colored wings. He tilted his face toward Briar, and his ochre skin refined itself. Redness faded. Chapped lips softened. The weather ran from him, as did darkness. Like all archangels, no shadow shackled his ankles. He straightened, and folded his dual wings, tracking Saga’s movements as she pranced anxiously in place, turning left then right. Buttons lined the back of his long, navy jacket, tailored for extra appendages.

“You’re needed,” Uriel said, crisp as an icepick.

“You could’ve called,” Aster snapped. He moved Crown in front of Saga, tugging on the horse’s reins as he tossed his head and whinnied. “Brotherly visits are a rarity in our family. Explain yourself.”

Uriel offered a dismissive glance. “We’re not family.”

“Fine, I’ll rephrase. You’re on my fucking land. Explain yourself or see your wings mounted in the foyer. Your choice.”

“Enough,” Briar said. Nausea rolled through him. Minutes ago, he’d been throwing snowballs at Aster. Now, Uriel stood before him, demanding his attention. He lifted his chin, an attempt at courage. “What need could you possibly have for an exiled angel?”

“This conversation is more suited for a table,” Uriel said. He glanced from Briar to Aster and lifted his brows. “Unless the head of the house is too petty to extend an invitation.”

“My pettiness knows no bounds. Frankly, I’d rather choke to death,” Aster said.

“Don’t be childish. It’s freezing and the horses are spooked. I’ll have Jennifer stable them, all right? We can talk inside,” Briar hissed. He shot Aster a hard look, lips pursed, jaw clenched, and took out his phone. “ All right? ”

“How about this—we stand inside, and my brother stays on the porch. I’ll find him a nice dog bowl.”

“Aster, be reasonable.”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable.”

Uriel’s full lips split into a curious smile. He waved his hand gracefully between each horse. “I see. You’re lovers. Isn’t it like you to take your concubine riding, Astaroth. A nice treat for the live-in harlot, no?”

Briar’s spine straightened. He turned his eyes to Uriel, teeth set hard, bared like a wolf. “I’m no concubine, Scholar. You’re a guest here, and you’d be wise to remember that. Mind your tongue.”

Uriel’s dark eyes widened, just so. Apparently, he hadn’t anticipated Briar to be unmuzzled, nonetheless free.

“Or I’ll cut it out,” Aster added, because letting a chance to threaten someone pass him by? Briar rolled his eyes. Never .

Jennifer arrived in a puffy coat and snow boots, but stopped in her tracks the moment she laid eyes on Uriel. Her gaze flicked nervously from Briar to Aster. “Perhaps I should call Luca. . . ?”

“It’s all right, Jen. Take the horses. They’ll need to be fed, too, if you can manage,” Aster said.

“I can, sir. But—”

“How dare you. Sir? You know better. Please, call me by my name. I chose it for a reason.” He handed over Crown’s reins and winked. The tension wavered, slightly. “Go on. We’re fine.”

Uriel appeared fascinated. He lifted his elegant face and stared down at Briar and Jennifer. He stood tall, like most original angels, sporting narrow shoulders and a slender build. Briar couldn’t help dwelling. Wondering. Trying to piece together answers.

What would a Scholar—the Archangel of Intellect, at that—possibly need from him?

They made for the house, Briar and Aster shoulder-to-shoulder, and Uriel, smartly, a good distance behind them. Aster typed furiously on his phone, then shoved the device into the inside pocket on his peacoat.

“Wine or tea, Uriel?” Briar asked, angling his chin over his shoulder.

Aster answered for him. “Wine. We’ll talk in the sitting room.”

Inside, silence snaked through the halls. Briar almost startled, shocked the find the cheery chatter and festive spirit had evaporated. In its place, the manor held its breath, as if the estate was a living thing, preparing to be invaded. Luca stood at the bottom of the staircase, hands clasped at their waist, inhaling a long, steady breath as Uriel crossed the doorway.

Their jaw flexed. They scanned Uriel from laced boot to folded collar. “Honorable Scholar,” they said, syllables hard as stone. “Leave your shoes at the door.”

Oh . Briar met Luca’s eyes. His expression gentled. Guardians were technically Scholars, just as Medics were technically War Angels. Uriel would’ve been their overseer. They did not look at him for long. Their tongue darted across their bottom lip, attention shifting to Aster.

“Red, I assume?” They tipped their head toward the sitting room where a fire roared, illuminating one of the many colorful rugs scattered throughout the house. The coffee table had been stocked with glassware, a cheese plate and an uncorked cabernet.

“Thank you, Luca. Don’t bother with Uriel’s coat. He won’t be staying long,” Aster said. He shrugged his coat away and handed it to Luca. Briar did the same.

Luca inclined their head. “Noted.”

Uriel wasn’t fazed. He followed Aster into the sitting room and eased into a solitary chair, scanning the ornate walls and lace curtains. Briar sat on the sofa. He pulled the sleeves of his knitted sweater into his palms and took the glass Aster handed him.

“There’s a situation in Olympia, Washington. A young person has offered sanctuary to a cluster of lesser demons. Seven of them, to be exact. The extraction team—your previous unit—has been charged with removal and rehabilitation,” Uriel said. His brow twitched, but he smiled. “They need someone with a gentle touch, if you will. So, Michael has asked for your assistance.”

Briar’s throat dried. He paused, resting the glass against his mouth. Wine soaked his bottom lip. Michael . The festering anger he’d pushed to the far corners of his mind rushed forward. He took a long sip. “Michael has the audacity to ask for my help after testifying against me? Where is he now, then? Why send you instead of coming here himself?”

Uriel’s gaze flicked briefly to Aster. “Your buyer in the Celestial Auction and your late overseer have a complicated relationship. Michael thought it best to send a mediator, so to speak. Since I’ll have a Guardian on stand-by during the extraction, I was a good fit. Not to rush through this lovely meeting, but we need to leave as soon as possible.”

“I’ve agreed to nothing,” Briar bit out.

Again, Uriel’s eyes widened. He lifted his chin, regarding Briar with a cool once over. He turned toward Aster. “Michael is willing to pay for Briar’s compliance. Sign over his retainer for a seven-day period and we’ll return him in one piece, as unharmed as the mission allows.”

“Briar is not on retainer,” Aster said, quietly, and narrowed his eyes. “He does as he pleases.”

“Michael sent you here prepared to purchase me?” Briar asked, as if all the air had been knocked from him.

“You have been purchased once already. Trading and renting are popular and fully contractually agreeable within the auction circuit. I wasn’t made aware that your contract had been dissolved,” Uriel said, and added, nonchalantly, “My apologies.”

“ Agreeable? ”

Uriel pressed his lips together. “Yes, agreeable. How do you think Astaroth found his pretty chef? Clementine, is it? Died by suicide after murdering, cooking, and eating her husband, and narrowly escaped damnation by being purchased in the Celestial Auction, first by Zagan, then traded to Astaroth. And who else? Ah, yes. Luca, of course—”

“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” Aster snapped. Energy pulsed from him. His ancient form shimmered like a second skin, coming and going. For a moment, fast as lightning, the outline of wings filled the space, knotted and stitched together, riddled with black pupils. A feathered sphere. A looping infinity filled with pure, old light. They were gone in an instant.

“You’re needed ,” Uriel said, flinging the words at Briar. “A child will die painfully, regrettably, and their death can and will be avoided if you join us. We all know what you’re capable of. No other medic has the skill-set you do. No one else is as sensitive, as aware , and no one else has successfully subdued an infestation except for you.”

“I lost my wings for it. A girl still died because of it.” Briar’s lungs squeezed. The residual wing-bone jutting from his clippings ached again, same as they had the day they’d been broken. “Successfully subdued an infestation? Hardly. I assessed an intervention that called for immediate cease and desist, and Michael took judgment into his own hands anyway.”

“You have the chance to do something good, Briar Wright,” Uriel said, sadly, apologetically, and each word mimicked the sound of a snare being tied. “Michael has asked for you, specifically. If your contract is dissolved, then I’m sure your team is prepared to welcome you home.”

Briar shifted his jaw back and forth. His hands began to tremble. Rage pooled inside him, that rotten, rigid feeling, like being speared with hot metal. He remembered the concrete underneath him, scrabbling there, and Michael’s boot pressed firmly to the back of his neck. This is for your own good, Briar . You will be stronger for it. He didn’t recognize silence until Aster touched his arm, tearing him from a wretched memory. He inhaled sharply, blinking away an uncomfortable sting.

“Let them welcome someone else,” Briar said. He swallowed the rest of his wine in two, long gulps. “Get out.”

Aster said something, but Briar didn’t hear. Everything suddenly sounded far away. Drowned. He watched fury form on Uriel’s face, how his mouth moved, slowly, distorted, like a warped film reel, but Briar didn’t stop to ask him for clarity. He made for the library without looking back. Focused on each step, grasped the brass handle, slipped inside, and slammed the door behind him.