Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
ABADDON
My consort—no, my Hannah-consort. My chest warms at having her name. At her trusting me with something so personal.
Hannah-consort frowns at the bear meat. “Wonderful. Bear for breakfast. Delicious.”
I sense deception in her tone, given the persistent frown marring her features.
But then her stomach produces an audible rumble.
She is hungry, though apparently not for the finest meat available.
Peculiar, since bear truly is choice sustenance.
But perhaps mortal digestive systems operate differently than I understand.
I haven’t spent time among humans in centuries.
These days, instead of revering me as a god, they tend to point and scream upon seeing me.
“Come.” I fold my wings tightly against my sides to navigate the narrow doorway.
I hear her delicate footsteps on the stone behind me as she follows.
Her obedience pleases me immensely, as does seeing her beautiful form unclothed once again. Though perhaps she’s merely attempting to regain my favor after yesterday’s betrayal. I barely suppress a growl at the memory of returning home to find her gone.
I won’t forget such treachery easily. She’s betrayed me twice now—that pathetic earlier attempt by the lake when I was bathing and yesterday’s flight.
I refuse to be made a fool a third time.
Still, I lead her down the numerous flights to the main level where I’d abandoned yesterday’s carefully gathered provisions. They remain by the entrance where I dropped them to battle my brothers.
“What happened here?” She surveys the overturned furniture from our conflict.
“What do you think?” I snap. “I had to restore order after you freed my brothers.”
She has the grace to look ashamed, then spots the food bags. She rushes forward, and the way her breasts bounce with the movement makes desire coil in my belly as delight transforms her face. “Oh my God, where did you find all this?”
She drops to her knees, sorting through the bags. The castle’s cold has preserved everything adequately.
“Cheese!” she exclaims, lifting a mottled yellow-and-white block.
“Is it supposed to appear so... diseased?” I ask with distaste.
She laughs—a musical sound that does strange things to my chest—and continues exploring. “And lettuce!” She holds the leafy greens against herself like a precious gift.
I assumed consorts valued only jewels and finery, but this one treats vegetation like treasures.
“Broccoli and onions and peppers!” She looks up at me with shining eyes. “Please tell me there’s an actual kitchen in this ancient fortress, and I don’t have to cook everything over the fire.”
I grunt acknowledgment. The word triggers old memories. I haven’t heard the word “kitchen” in forever. Not since Creator-Father walked these halls. He maintained elaborate cooking spaces for his delicacies.
“Follow me,” I command.
She repacks everything and attempts to lift the bags. They’re weightless to me, but she struggles visibly.
Part of me wants to ease her burden, while another part resents the impulse.
I cannot trust her completely. She still hasn’t explained her disappearance or those foreign male garments.
The thought makes me want to withhold the food until she confesses everything—
But my Hannah... I recall her passionate responses last night, and despite her occasionally sharp tongue, she yields to me beautifully when it matters.
And she was walking toward the castle when I found her. Perhaps her mortal senses simply became confused in the snow, and she thought she was still fleeing.
I’ll extract the truth eventually. My Hannah-consort needs proper nutrition so my seed might take root and grow within her. Then she’ll have no choice but to accept this life as mother to my offspring.
So I take the burdensome bags, though only to expedite our progress.
“Come,” I repeat. “We cook.”
“Why have you reverted to single-word responses?” she asks as I claim the bags. She crosses her arms over her exposed breasts while walking, then drops them to match my longer strides. “You were quite eloquent this morning.”
Perhaps too eloquent. She should be answering my questions, not the reverse.
“Which male provided those clothes?”
She avoids my gaze. “I simply found them.”
“Where?” I bark.
Her eyes flash with familiar defiance. “Somewhere.”
I halt abruptly. “Do not test me. I will restrain you again.”
“So you’ll starve me instead?”
I look skyward, wishing for some deity to petition like she does constantly.
But surely no God above would aid a creature like me.
Starving her won’t advance my goal of getting her with child, so I remain silent and continue toward the stairwell, descending one level through a heavy door into the underground levels.
“Some assistance? Can you actually see in complete darkness? Because I certainly can’t.”
I turn to find her hesitating at the threshold where only minimal light filters down.
Right. Mortal limitations.
“Yes, I have night vision.” I return to crank the large lever from down to up.
Harsh electric lights buzz to life overhead. I wince and squint. I despise artificial illumination.
Creator-Father needed it no more than I do, but he prized human innovations greatly when they were invented. The gas ranges, the electrical systems—he coveted mortal ingenuity while claiming it as stolen gifts from his divine Father.
He had Romulus, our engineer, modernize the castle with electricity and devices far beyond contemporary human technology. Over the years, when he’s lucid—meaning when Remus isn’t in control—I’ve allowed Romulus out to update our infrastructure so the fortress doesn’t crumble around us.
Hannah-consort gasps upon entering the kitchen, and suddenly, I’m grateful for Romulus’s projects. She seems particularly impressed by the modern appliances. I’ve never found much use for them, but Romulus occasionally prepares elaborate feasts with the strange devices.
“Holy hell! All this was down here, and you’re only showing me now?”
She swats my arm as she passes—the contact feels like a caress, making me want to pull her back against me. But she’s already exploring the expansive kitchen area.
Creator-Father rarely permitted me here when he lived. He claimed I was too large and clumsy for delicate implements. Though Romulus has upgraded everything far beyond Creator-Father’s era, and in all that time, I’ve never broken anything.
I did, however, destroy many of Creator-Father’s treasured human possessions after his death. The castle once overflowed with such objects. In celebration, rage, and grief, I destroyed everything and burned it all in the same pyre that consumed his body.
I approach cautiously, assuming Hannah-consort will also find me too ungainly for this space when my horns strike the numerous pots hanging from ceiling hooks.
Despite crouching uncomfortably, I still collide with cookware, setting off a cacophonous clanging. Frustrated, I drop the food bags onto the gleaming silver counter with more force than necessary.
“Careful!” Hannah-consort turns toward me with concern. “Are you hurt?”
I freeze, fury dying in my throat. Her expression. She looks worried about me, not the cookware. But this space feels suffocating—too many memories of Creator-Father flooding my mind—
Monsters don’t belong here! You’ll never fit in anywhere.
I don’t know what I was thinking, creating something like you.
What use is a warrior who can’t move undetected among mortals?
I should try again—create something that isn’t a revolting abomination!
He’d paced while I hung my head in shame. You’re still here? Get out of my sight!
“Abaddon—” Hannah-consort begins, but I spin away, my horns striking more hanging pots in a discordant symphony.
I snarl in fury. If she won’t reveal where she went, I’ll discover it myself.
I head for the exit, anger blazing in my chest—a welcome emotion. Anger, I understand. Not these tender, confusing feelings that make me vulnerable.
I’ll hunt down the male who gave her those clothes and unleash my rage on him.
Then I’ll return to claim my properly fed Hannah-consort.
“Abaddon!” she calls, but I storm through the door, slamming it behind me.
But even as I stride away, her concerned voice echoes in my mind.
Are you hurt?
When was the last time anyone cared if I was harmed?
The thought stops me cold halfway up the stairs.
Perhaps... perhaps I’m the one who’s been wounded all along.