1.6

-6-

Sappharon frowned at as the violent knock on the front door reverberated through the cottage.  Lord Lucias hadn’t been expecting any one today.  The other one that served him—the ugly freak with the beard—had visited yesterday.  And the stupid bitch that Lord Lucias currently bedded was sleeping down the hall.

            Ignoring the knock, he returned his gaze to his book.

            As it continued to reverberate, Lord Lucias whistled through his teeth.

            “Are you going to answer the door?”  He sighed heavily as his brow raised and an irritated expression crossed his handsome face.

            “Why should I?”  Sappharon quipped.  “We aren’t expecting any guests.”

            “All the more reason that you should open the door.”  Lord Lucias, who was sitting behind his desk, lowered his quill and assessed Sappharon quizzically.  “If someone has come unexpectedly, perhaps it’s with news.”

            “No one ever visits us with news.”

            “Perhaps today they have.”  There was a bite to his tone that Sappharon didn’t care for.  He raised his eyes and met those of his Master.  “What is wrong with you lately?  Why must every request that I make of you be a bark or a bite?”

            Sappharon shrugged his slender shoulders, ran his hand through his greasy black hair and threw his book aside as he stood.  He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Lord Lucias.  He was too damn angry with him.  Any argument that they might engage in would land Sappharon on his back with a cracked jaw and the cold shoulder until Lord Lucias forgave him for whatever unwanted words he spat out.

            And unwanted words would be spat out.  That was something that he knew for sure.

            He left the library and made his way through the cottage to the front door.  When he opened it, the irritation that he had earlier felt suddenly seemed all flowers and roses.  Here was a face that Sappharon hadn’t seen since his exile.  And it wasn’t a face that he had any desire to ever see again.

            Michael was the second son born of Raziel.  Lord Lucias, who had been married to Raziel at the time, had sired him and his eleven idiotic brothers.  His face—the faces of the entire Quorum—was a painful reminder that Lord Lucias had always loved Raziel best.

            Best.  He snorted to himself.  As if I was ever in the running.

            Though Sappharon had served Lord Lucias long and loyally, Lord Lucias had ever kept his distance from Sappharon when it came to matters of the heart.  Sappharon, who had been bred for complete servitude, didn’t find that very fair.  Other Gods fell in love with their servants.  What was so wrong with him that made him any less deserving of passion with his God than any of them?

            As a result of Lord Lucias’ spurring of his attentions, Sappharon had, once upon a time, regrettably strayed.  And though he had done so on only one occasion, a child had been propagated from that union.  Half of Sappharon’s life had been lived hiding and protecting that child from Sappharon’s betters.  He wondered briefly, now, if his dear daughter were still alive and, if she was, how she faired. 

            He had been extremely grateful, upon reading Lord Raziel’s Tomb when a copy had been slipped into Lord Lucias’ library and Lord Lucias had been away, that Azrael had respected his and Anael’s privacy and not mentioned the dathanorna to Lord Raziel when he had recounted the story of Lord Lucias’ revolt and Sappharon’s part within it.

            “What do you want?”

            Michael’s thick lips danced at the corners as his black eyes flicked over Sappharon’s face.  He was handsome enough, Sappharon supposed.  But Sappharon would always loathe him.  Whether it was his fault that he was Lord Lucias and Raziel’s son or not, Sappharon didn’t give a wit.  “Hello to you too, brat.”

            Sappharon felt his teeth grind.  He’d been patient with Lord Lucias for calling him a brat.  From Lord Lucias it was a term of endearment.  He’d always hated the fact that others thought that they could take liberties with him by doing the same.  “I asked you what do you want?”

            The corners of Michael’s lips twitched again as he shook his head.  “Is Lord Lucias about?”

            “Yes.” 

            Michael waited.  For a bit.  “May I come in and speak with him?”

            “No.”  Sappharon replied, crossing his arms over his slender chest.  “You abandoned him when he needed you most.  You don’t deserve to make yourself feel better about your stupid self—“

            “Michael?”  Lord Lucias’ voice cracked slightly.  But only slightly.  Sappharon doubted that the Neanderthal standing in front of him had even marked it.  He smirked at Michael, wanting nothing more than that he mistook the depth of Lord Lucias’ tone for displeasure.  “What in the name of the Thirty Hells are you doing here, boy?”

            “Lord Noliminan has sent me here so that we might palaver.”  Michael replied.  His eyes remained on Sappharon for a long moment before flicking up and to meet Lord Lucias’ gaze.  His expression hardened as he did so.  Sappharon’s hate for him grew tenfold in the assumption that such disdain might cause Lord Lucias pain.  “But your brat won’t let me sully your space.”

            Sappharon heard the whistle that Lord Lucias had a habit of making through his teeth when he was either irritated or scared.  He suspected that it was the result of the latter on this occasion.  If Michael were here with word from Lord Noliminan, then surely trouble for Lord Lucias would follow.  “Come.”  His tone was low.  Sappharon would pay for his insolence later.  He would make no mistake in thinking otherwise.  “I’m in the middle of some paperwork for Loki, but we can talk while I finish it up if you’ll do me the favor of delivering it to him when you go.”

            “Of course, my Lord.”  Michael, always polite, always steadfast, replied with a thin smile.  “It would be no bother to me.”

            “Fine.”  Lord Lucias replied.  Sappharon, who had yet to turn to face his Master, heard the smile in his voice and winced.  “Sappharon can make us lunch.”

            “I’m afraid that I am not here for pleasantries.”

            Of course he wasn’t.  But did he have to say as much?  Did he have to turn his Gods be damned sword deeper into Lord Lucias’ heart?  Sappharon would have destroyed him if he had thought that he wouldn’t be punished for the mere thought alone.

            And who in the name of all the Gods that are or ever were would have known if Michael would have sullied his pristine reputation for the purpose of having one Gods be damned meal with Lord Lucias?

            “Sappharon, move out of Michael’s way.”  Lord Lucias flared.  “For the love of the Gods.  What is wrong with you today?”

            What is wrong with me?  Sappharon turned toward his God, flashing him an angry, irritated grin.  What in the name of the Thirty Hells is wrong with you?  You would never have forgiven me if I had turned against you in the manner that your other sons have.  Yet this idiotic bastard as much as captured you and turned you in!  And something is wrong with me?

            “I suppose if I were a woman I’d be on my menses.”  He bit his tongue.  Given that his only child was a daughter, though by her own choice rather than any sex she had been birthed with given that she had been born with no face and no form, Sappharon hated such references to women as lesser than men.  Yet, he supposed that in this situation prosperity demanded a joke.  It’s what the bearded freak would have said and Lord Lucias had ever loved Loki’s idiotic quips.  As he did now.  Not realizing Sappharon’s misdirection, he smiled and shook his head.  “Just a bad day.”

            “Very well, my dear.”  Lord Lucias chuckled.  “But please.  Won’t you let Michael in?”

            Sappharon turned to Michael, raised his hands high, flew them to each side—looking nearly cartoonish, had he but known it—and then forced himself to temper his madness.  Michael slid past him and into Sappharon’s home.  As he passed, Sappharon reflected on how good he smelled.  He hated himself for the kind thought but there it was.  Michael’s special scent was that of rain in a meadow. 

            Sappharon turned to follow the pair into the library.  When they were nearly there, Lord Lucias looked over his shoulder and gave Sappharon an irritated smile.  “I’m rather certain that Noliminan meant this to be a private conversation.”

“Who else would hear it?”

            Michael gave him a strange glare as Lord Lucias let out that whistle again.  “Go to your room.  If I need to share what’s discussed with you then I will.”

            More irritated than ever, Sappharon wrinkled his nose and did as he was bid.