1.7 & 1.8

-7-

Paul approached Jamiason very cautiously.  James had come home late, barely missing the rise of the sun.  Concerned, Paul had spent the entire night pacing the apartment in the castle that belonged to the two of them, wondering if he would ever see his Lord again.

            Jamiason had not been his maker, but no one aside they two knew that.  Paul—who had once been a human man in the prime of his life with a wife and three children—had been made by a female.  After two nights the female had grown bored of her responsibility and had left Paul to his own devices, stumbling around, trying to figure out how to feed, how to sleep and how to live.  A week after she had left him, Paul had stayed out too late and nearly died in the rise of the morning sun.  Jamiason, who happened to be passing by, had saved him, taking his body in the beginning of its scorching, to his own lair and nursing him back to health.

            Or what passes for health, Paul thought now as his eyes danced across his Lord, terrified.  Jamiason was covered from head to toe in blood, streaks of it on his handsome face and clots of it matted into his fine blonde hair.  His well made fingers were toying with his lips and his blue eyes were staring vacantly into nothingness.  Just where in the name of the thirty Hells have you been, James?  And what have you been up to?

            He cleared his throat to announce himself, though he knew that it was not necessary. Jamiason’s hearing was acute.  He had heard Paul’s approach long before he had entered what passed as James’ bedchamber.  “My Lord?”

            “I’m in no mood for palaver, Paul.”  He muttered, his fingers still toying with his lips. 

            Paul nodded and bowed.  He backed away, running his hands through his thick copper hair as he turned his back to Jamiason and made his way to the door.  As he was opening it he heard Jamiason mutter under his breath, “Stupid child.  Damn stupid child.”

            Frowning, Paul looked over his shoulder.  There was only one child that Jamiason ever bothered to worry on:  that Gods be damned elf.  Though Paul, himself, had never seen the boy, he had heard plenty of times from Louis and Marchand—two vampires that James had made—that James was obsessed with him.

            In fact, if Louis were to be believed, Jamiason had obsessed over the child even before he had been conceived.

            James still wore that blank, not there look as he toyed with his pretty full lips.  “Good morning, my Lord.”

            “Sleep well.”  Jamiason muttered, though he didn’t bother to look at Paul.

            Had Paul had any breath in him he would have sighed.  He knew that, not being Jamiason’s true child, he had no right to expect anything from him.  Yet James had declared Paul as his heir.  So James’ lack of attention to Paul as he bid him ado for the day broached on irritating. 

            Paul shut the door behind himself and found his own room.  Frowning, he pulled back the covers to his bed, undressed, and crawled, naked but for the charm that he ever wore on a gold chain around his neck, beneath them.  The sheets were cool and refreshing in the shadows of the castle walls, whose windows had all been sealed off so that the demons and vampires could wake and sleep at their will rather than only during the nighttime hours.  Paul preferred to sleep during the day despite this convenience; he enjoyed the feel of the wind on his skin and the smell of the wild flowers too much to ever be forced to live indoors. 

The elf was still only a boy.  From what Paul understood, he was no more than twelve or thirteen in human years.  Given that, Paul didn’t understand how or why Louis was so damned determined to believe that Jamiason loved the boy as anything more than the child of one of his longtime friends.

Since he had been turned into a vampire, Paul had lost all naïveté.  When he had first been turned, he had preyed on everything and anyone until the guilt had consumed him.  Now, it was ever Paul’s rule that he would only feed to the death on those mortals who deserved his retribution.

Given that Paul had once had three young sons of his own, it was his less than humble opinion that if anyone deserved to die the agony of the type of death that he could deliver then it was child molesters; blatant pedophiles, as far as Paul was concerned, belonged at the top of his list.

But Paul couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that Jamiason was a pedophile.   Regardless of whatever obsession lived within him for the elf.   While feeding on James, Paul had seen the guilt that raged within Jamiason for having had to turn Marchand lest he die after having been attacked by another demon who had been made a vampire.  Though Jamiason had found the twins beautiful, there had never been any sexual desire for them.  They were, after all, only fifteen when they had been turned. 

Still boys themselves.

Aside from that, when Paul fed upon James and he was thinking of the twins James was filled with rage.  They had come into Jamiason’s service by virtue of the coin.  Their father had sold them to Jamiason when they had been twelve.  And both of them, by then, had long been passed amongst their father’s friends.

            Frustrated by his confusion over Jamiason’s obsession with the elf, Paul rolled over, dragging his blanket with him, onto his side. 

With his turbulent thoughts, sleep did not come easy.  But it did, eventually, come.

-8-

Pushing his stew around with his spoon, Loki let out a bray of laughter.  Across the table from him Aiken looked up and gave him a cautious smile.  “Something amuses you about your dinner?”

            “It does.”  Loki replied, looking upward and meeting the gaze of his dearest friend.  “Something Azrael said today at our monthly meeting.”

            Aiken’s stark white brow lifted over his violet eye.  “Oh?”

            “He told me that I probably don’t want to know what meat you put in your stew.”

             “Lamb.”  Aiken snorted.  “For the love of the Gods, Loki.  What else would I feed you?”

            This made Loki chuckle.  “With a fairy?  One never knows.”

            Aiken shrugged.  Loki noted that he didn’t deny that his people were cannibals.  “Rabble rouser.”

            Loki’s smile grew at the sentiment.  Azrael was discretion itself.  Rabble rousing was generally nowhere in it where the archangel was concerned.  “That he is.”

            “My Lord?”  Loki turned his gaze to the doorway where his demon, Samyael, stood.  Sam’s blue eyes flicked to Aiken and then back to Loki.  “Lord Michael is here to see you.”

            “Michael?”  Loki felt his brow furrow.  Michael was generally the bearer of bad news.  It was typically Michael that came to call when Loki had done something to displease Lord Noliminan.  He couldn’t think of anything that he’d done recently to earn reproach.  But that meant little and less.  There were days that Loki was called before Lord Noliminan simply because Lord Noliminan missed Lord Lucias and needed to admonish Loki simply because Loki was the only one not forbidden to visit Lord Lucias under the terms of Lord Lucias’ exile.  “Did he say what he wants?”

            “No, my Lord.”  Samyael frowned, his eyes darting to Aiken again.  “He only advised me that it is a most private matter.”

            Loki sighed at that.  “Fine.  Send him in.”

            “My Lord—“

            “Whatever he has to say to me I’m going to tell Aiken anyway.”  Loki interrupted him.  “So let’s all save the bother of our time.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”  Sam bowed to him and turned away. 

            Loki gave Aiken a guarded smile.  “Brutal lumps are better taken in good company.”

            Aiken made no reply to that.  Loki noted, however, that his expression was suddenly stern.  He had a moment to wonder what Aiken held against Michael before Michael stepped into his kitchen and gave them both a perfunctory bow.  “My Lords.”

            “Michael.”  Aiken stood and walked to the cupboard.  Loki found himself watching his friend’s back as he pulled down a bowl and began to dish out a plate of stew.

            “Take a seat.”  Loki forced himself to smile at Michael.  “We’re having dinner just now.  You’re more than welcome to join us.”

            “Thank you.”  Michael stepped to the table and pulled out a chair.  “I’m starving, truth be told.”  His eyes darted to Aiken’s back, irritated.  Michael was the model of propriety.  Loki knew that he found the fact that Aiken refused to don anything more than the loin cloth that Lord Noliminan had ordered him to wear unacceptable.  Given that this small bit of clothing was more than most mischief fairies would bother to wear, Loki didn’t understand the animosity.  “I have a delicate matter to discuss with you.”

            “What have I done now?”

            “No.”  He gave Loki a tired smile.  “Nothing.”

            Aiken stepped toward them and slipped the bowl of stew in front of Michael.  His brow furrowed slightly before he looked upward and gave Aiken a guarded smile.  Aiken gave a reluctant smile in return and returned to his chair. 

            “I’ve been to see my father today.” Aiken and Loki exchanged a quizzical glance across the table.  Michael, out of every creature under the sun, was nothing if not obedient.  If he had gone to see Lord Lucias it had been under Lord Noliminan’s command.  Loki braced himself for whatever catastrophic news would come next.  “Lord Noliminan sent me to find out who it is that Lord Lucias wanted to take Ishitar out of the Quorum’s hands.”

            Loki started at this, dropping his spoon.  He had never heard anyone actually say Ishitar’s name aloud.  Even Lord Lucias refused to discuss the matter with him.  The only reason that he even knew that Ishitar existed was because Lord Lucias had come to Loki to explain to him why he would, necessarily, be dropping out of sight for a year or two to birth him.  “And?”

            “Obviously he wants Ishitar to live with you.”  Michael’s lips thinned.  Clearly he didn’t agree.  Aiken, Loki saw, was leaning slightly forward with his head cocked.  Loki suspected that he was more interested in this conversation than even this surprised reaction let on.  He had asked Loki, once, if the rumors regarding Ishitar’s existence were true.  Despite the fact that Aiken was Loki’s best friend, Loki had refused to discuss the matter with him, telling him only that he didn’t know for sure.  “Given that you are my father’s right hand.”

            “I’m honored by that request.”  Loki replied, honestly meant.  “I shall prepare Sappharon’s old bedchamber for him.”

            Michael nodded.  “You’re to ask Lord Zuko to help you.”

            “Zuko?”  Aiken snorted. 

            Michael gave him a guarded smile.  “I had the same reaction to such news.”

            “Maybe.”  Loki muttered.  He didn’t care much for Zuko.  But that didn’t mean that he didn’t understand why Lord Lucias thought he was a good fit for Ishitar’s training.  Zuko was the guardian of disowned children.  It was his responsibility to watch over them—in so far as he could—and guide them.  The horrors that he saw caused at the hands of others was a lesson that Ishitar desperately needed to learn.  “Have you talked with Zuko?”

            “No, my Lord.”  Michael shook his head.  As he did so he took a bite of Aiken’s stew.  A surprised, pleased expression danced over his face as he lowered his spoon back into the bowl.  “I thought it best to bring the matter directly to you.”

            Loki nodded as he passed Aiken a smile.  His friend’s expression had softened.  Obviously he was pleased that Michael enjoyed his stew.   Loki took a moment to ponder the tender side of Aiken, which—since he’d lost Jamiason—he showed on only the rarest of occasions.  “And Ishitar?”

            “I doubt that his father has spoken with him yet.”  Michael muttered around another bite of stew.  He raised his hand to cover his mouth, giving Loki an apologetic smile for forgetting his manners.  “I’ll report to him Lord Lucias’ desires.”

            Loki nodded his agreement and turned his gaze to Aiken.  “I’ll need your help as well.”

            “It’s yours.”  That was said all too eagerly, Loki marked.  He didn’t think that Aiken would ever use Ishitar for ill gain.  But part of him would watch Aiken around the boy all the same.  He was, after all, a mischief fairy. 

            “Will you stay with us?”  Loki asked and Aiken’s eyes danced.  Loki noticed that his fairies wings twitched slightly at his back.  “I don’t have any extra rooms so you’ll have to sleep with me or Sam.”

            “That will be a chore.”  He replied.  His cheeks flushed red and he looked swiftly away.  Loki, who had long suspected that his friend coveted him, cleared his throat and returned his attention to Michael.

            Though he loved Aiken thoroughly and completely, his bend was not toward males. 

            Fairy or otherwise.

            “When do you think that he’ll arrive?”

            “I’m certain soon.”  Michael replied, his eyes narrowed as they danced with disgust over Aiken’s profile.  “Most likely by the end of the day.  Tomorrow at the latest.”

            Feeling the weight of the responsibility granted to him, Loki sighed and returned his attention to his stew.