Page 115 of Ashen Torment

Nothing pleases me.

Lucien gestures toward the room. “Here, brother, you can find every kind of distraction you desire.”

I pull away from him, letting his pace lead mine by a few beats, certain he will have no trouble finding suitable company.

My eyes settle on a table not far off. There, sprawled on a dark leather sofa, is Elijah Lirael. His golden-blonde hair falls past his shoulders, wavy and light, grazing the exposed skin of his collarbones. Legs crossed, glass gripped in thin fingers, shirt partially unbuttoned.

“I thought you fed on boredom,” I say, approaching his table. “Does it surprise you to see so much living flesh all at once?”

He barely raises his eyebrows and motions with his hand for me to sit. “Even indifference needs a truce, sometimes.”

I settle in without haste, he signals a waiter who approaches immediately, bringing the absinthe glass, sugar, slotted spoon, and burner.

“You don’t seem the type to mingle like this,” I say, watching his movements.

“I’m not,” he replies, slowly pouring the absinthe into the glass.

The dark green liquid intertwines with the light, flickering under the flame of the burner.

“But even the cleanest eventually descend into the mud, if they don’t want to drown in their own heads.”

The fingers gripping the spoon tighten until they turn white.

And what if he were within these walls too? What if I saw him lower himself into this mud, laugh, yield to all of this?

Lirael observes me, his translucent eyes fixed on mine. I grip the spoon, pour the sugar into the absinthe, and slowly light the flame.

No. He is too young for this.

My mind wanders, restless.

He is, isn’t he?

Green smoke rises, enveloping the air around us. I try to concentrate on the gesture, but that image returns to wrench my chest.

“Why are you here, Lord Vasiliev Ashford?”

I lift the absinthe glass, bring it to my lips, and drink, letting the bitter liquid go down. He does the same, unhurriedly.

“In truth,” he sighs, “there is nothing my mind finds interesting here.”

He spreads his arms, resting them on the back of the sofa with a fluid, nonchalant gesture.

“And why don’t you leave, then?” I press in a low voice.

With an imperceptible hint of movement, he shifts his fingertips to the edge of the sofa. Shortly after, a woman with auburn hair approaches, sliding onto his knees without hesitation.

Without breaking his stride, Elijah lets his fingers run through the woman’s neckline, tracing her curves.

“I said my mind, not my body.”

He tilts his face, bringing it close to the woman’s, and begins to kiss her. I leave the glass on the table and stand, walking away.

I push further into the other rooms, the music grows denser as I advance, wrapping the gloom until it turns into palpable flesh.

Peering eyes.

Intertwining tongues.