Page 137 of Mortis
His gift to me had been surprisingly sentimental.
The first was a sterling silver ring from the local jewellers, with “eternal husbands” engraved on the inside. Which, okay. Adorable. Especially when he pulled out a matching one for himself.
But the second somehow meant even more.
I’d told him about my favourite mug. How it had been smashed when the beastie went on a rampage through Adler & Sons. How Grandad had given it to me after I finally came out to him and Grandma. So, on Christmas morning, before I’d even had my coffee, Kael handed me a rectangular box messily wrapped in tin foil.
Arlo had apparently told him that presents needed to be wrapped. He’d just neglected to mention that most people used wrapping paper instead of whatever they could find at home.
After fighting my way through what equated to an entire roll of said foil, I opened the box to find a mug. The base was bright yellow, and a giant red heart had been hand-painted on one side. Inside the heart were two smiling blobs. One was peachy, with brown hair, blue dots for eyes and round grey glasses. Beside it was a slightly darker blob with long black hair, red-and-black eyes and two curled brown horns.
Me and Kael.
I turned the mug over. On the bottom, written in shaky black letters, were two words.
My Treasure.
The handwriting was worse than a toddler learning how to write their name for the first time, but I didn’t care. It was the best gift I’d ever received.
“So this is what you made at that pottery painting night Arlo took you to,” I said, my eyes starting to burn.
Kael nodded, his chest puffing up with pride, and that was it. I launched myself into his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him until my lungs screamed for air.
New Year’s and Valentine’s Day had been just as memorable, and every ordinary day in between had been filled with love, laughter, and all the kisses I could want from a seven-foot cryptid.
Plus orgasms.
There’d been a lot of orgasms.
If I hadn’t made a deal with a Prince of Hell for immortality, I’d have worried the sheer volume of cum I’d lost might kill me.
Kael had come out of his shell over the last six months, slowly discovering who he was now that he wasn’t a slave to Mammon. Well, technically, he still was. But it was more of a part-time job these days. His full-time job was by my side at Adler & Sons.
Grandad had started training him in more of the front-of-house operations. He’d attended more services with Arlo and had even helped Grandad plan one for Mrs Holloway, an elderly lesbian who’d spent years running a queer-friendly youth group for the teenagers of Blackthorn.
And Kael was good at it.
Not perfect.
There were still moments when we had to remind him that telling a grieving widow he would “ensure her husband’s corpse was treated with the utmost respect” wasn’t quite the comforting reassurance he thought it was.
But he was learning.
And more importantly, he was enjoying it.
For so long, Kael’s existence had revolved around what other people demanded from him. Mammon. The cult. The Beast. Even his own hunger.
Now, he got to decide what he wanted his life to look like.
And apparently, what he wanted was funeral directing, blue Crocs, Frappuccinos, mobile games, and me.
He was thriving.
And so was Adler & Sons.
We’d been busier than ever for the last few months. People were dying off left and right, and Arlo was thrilled. There was less time for him to nap in the refrigeration units or make dirty innuendos over my shoulder while I worked, but it meant the days passed quickly. More importantly, the freezer drawer I’d dedicated to Kael was packed with chunks of the deceased, so he and the Beast were eating like kings.
Mammon was also pleased, because we’d regularly surpassed our monthly soul quota. I’d tried explaining during one particular visit that this wouldn’t always be the case. Death wasn’t exactly something I could schedule around his rivalry with Lucifer. But Mammon hadn’t cared. He’d been far too preoccupied with thinking of ways to rub his success in Lucifer’s face.
