Chapter 5
FIVE
REMUS
My consort is absolutely fucking perfect.
It couldn’t be going better if I had planned every delicious detail myself—which, obviously, I did.
And they call my twin the tactician! Ha!
That fool couldn’t have caught himself a consort in a thousand years, not with all his cold logic and careful planning.
I accomplished what he never could in a single glorious afternoon.
The perfect consort.
It’s more than a little difficult to focus on where I’m flying as I remember the intoxicating feel of her lush curves in my arms, every stolen touch burning itself into my memory.
She didn’t pull away from me—not once. Of course she didn’t.
I am, after all, the perfect male specimen in every way that matters.
I feel an irritating tug at the back of my skull and clench my teeth hard enough to crack stone.
Well, almost perfect.
If only there weren’t one Romulus-shaped parasite attached to my head and annoyingly integrated into every aspect of my existence, true perfection would finally be mine.
But just because it’s the only problem in my magnificently chaotic life that has yet to find a permanent solution doesn’t mean one can’t be found.
The bastard locked me in a dungeon for two hundred years.
Two fucking centuries of mind-numbing boredom and frustration.
It only seems deliciously fair that I’ve found a way to send him nighty-night for.
.. well, as long as I can manage to keep the elixir flowing.
And after meeting my sweet, gorgeous Lo-Ren, I’ve suddenly become even more powerfully motivated to make this arrangement permanent.
As I near the sprawling lights of the city below, I weave runes around myself like an invisible cloak. Unlike my dramatic, show-stopping entrance in that quaint human town square earlier—god, that was fun—I’m back to skulking about their world like some common thief.
Unfortunately, mortals have developed some of the most exquisite toys and food during my imprisonment.
My stars, the food. Especially in this particular city where I’m descending now through the evening air.
Ah, Paris—the city of light, the crown jewel of culinary excellence.
Even under Napoleon, in the midst of those tedious blockades, this glorious place never truly lost its magnificent shine.
I drop down to my familiar hideaway in the 5th arrondissement, where I keep a large black trench coat and hood stashed behind the ancient stone buttresses of Saint-étienne-du-Mont.
It’s painfully tight and scrunches my wings into uncomfortable angles, but c’est la vie—sacrifices must be made for the perfect romantic evening.
I curl my tail up against my spine to hide it and try not to let my grin stretch too wide as I take to the crowded cobblestone streets.
Mortals seem to find my natural expression somewhat.
.. disconcerting. I’ve been trying to be more careful with Lo-Ren thus far, but my perfect little consort has been taking everything in stride with the most delightful courage.
I sigh happily as I allow the concealment runes to fade once I’m safely lost among the bustling evening crowd. Parisians in their elegant coats and scarves hurry past, the air filled with the scent of fresh bread and coffee and that particular autumn crispness that makes this city so intoxicating.
I hate to leave her alone at the castle for long—anything could happen, and she might start getting ideas about exploring escape routes—so I slip quickly through the ornate doors of La Tour d’Argent to collect the feast I ordered earlier.
They always say to plan for success, after all, so naturally I prepared for victory.
It turns out some of these ingenious new contraptions the humans have invented during my long confinement—phones especially—have their decidedly useful applications.
The ma?tre d’ recognizes me immediately despite the hood, though I’ve been coming here for centuries under various guises. “Monsieur Remus, your order is ready. The 1959 Beaujolais you requested, and Chef insists the duck is perfection tonight.”
Naturally it is. I tip him generously—mortals do so love their paper currency—and soon I’m airborne again with my precious cargo, soaring through the star-swept sky back to my prize.
I’m absolutely eager to see her again. To watch those expressive eyes light up, to hear that delicious laugh, to see how magnificently she’s handled my little test.
Yes, I am supremely confident in my obvious perfection—apart from the minor issue of my unwanted passenger—and she did volunteer quite enthusiastically when presented with the opportunity to be consort to a god. Exactly as all Earth females should when faced with such unprecedented fortune.
Yet I’ve been acquainted with these delightfully foolish mortals long enough to know that when they encounter a Horseman of the Apocalypse—as they’ve so charmingly named us in their quaint mythologies—they also have an unfortunate tendency to panic.
Flight responses, hysteria, occasionally some rather undignified loss of bladder control.
The reactions really do vary depending on the day and the individual’s constitution.
So I thought I’d give my sweet little pudding cup a small test of her mettle. To hear Abaddon tell it, his Hannah-wife fled the moment he foolishly let her out of his sight. Not that she got very far—my eldest brother can be remarkably persistent when properly motivated.
My anticipation has made the flight feel wonderfully short, and soon I’m dissolving the protective runes around the castle and striding through the heavy oak doors into our grand dining room.
The massive table my brothers and I crafted from a single fallen oak sits long and proud in the center of the space, already elegantly set for a dinner I don’t expect to be enjoying quite yet.
I’ve been through enough skirmishes and battles to predict exactly how this scenario typically unfolds when mortals are left to their own devices.
Needless to say, I’m not particularly surprised to find that my Lo-Ren is not seated obediently at the table, hands folded, waiting patiently for my return like a good little consort.
But perhaps I am experiencing a small twinge of disappointment, which does surprise me.
When did I start caring whether humans behaved predictably?
However, in the very next moment, my grin returns full force.
Because there’s absolutely nothing I love more than a proper chase, and it’s been far too long since I’ve had an excuse for one.
Perhaps it was slightly unkind not to warn her about the fundamental rule of monsters: if you run, we inevitably chase.
But then again, I did intentionally show her that moving mural upstairs.
I figured I might as well paint us as angels first rather than reveal my true nature immediately and risk sending her into complete hysterics.
But if chase I must... My grin stretches deliciously wide as anticipation floods my veins. I rub my hands together gleefully and feel my tail rise with excitement behind me as I drop the large bag of Parisian delicacies onto the polished table.
Just then, the furthest door—the one leading to our luxurious bathing chambers—swings open, and Lo-Ren steps out in a cloud of lavender-scented steam.
“Oh!” Her entire face lights up like sunrise, and my dead heart actually stutters. “You’re back already!”
I freeze completely, blinking in absolute bewilderment as I try to dampen my predatory grin. She... didn’t run? Didn’t even attempt to escape? Not even after seeing Romulus and learning the rather shocking truth about my dual nature?
My heart starts doing something very strange and irregular in my chest as she walks toward me across the stone floor, looking utterly calm and genuinely pleased to see me.
Her hair is slightly damp from what must have been a bath, and she’s somehow managed to make herself even more beautiful in my absence.
“What’d you bring back? Please tell me it’s not sushi.
” She wrinkles her nose in the most adorable expression of distaste.
“I would have mentioned that if you’d given me half a second before taking off like some kind of bat out of hell.
I’ve tried to get into the whole raw fish trend, but I just can’t make myself like it. ”
I continue blinking like an absolute fool. I am rarely—never—the one caught off guard in any situation.
Finally, I manage to force actual words from my throat.
“Duck.” And then a rush of additional information follows.
“From one of the finest Parisian restaurants, world-famous for the dish. I’ve been patronizing them for.
.. many years.” Centuries, actually, but no need to overwhelm her immediately.
“Accompanied by olive tapenade, an exquisite cheese selection, and the most exceptional Beaujolais.”
She continues gazing at me with those warm, dark eyes in a way that’s both thrilling and deeply unsettling.
The direct eye contact is more intense than I’m accustomed to—most beings, mortal or otherwise, tend to look away from me rather quickly.
When I finally break first, breathing out heavily, I begin unpacking our feast with perhaps more focus than necessary.
Lo-Ren approaches closer than people usually dare to stand—close enough that I can smell the lingering lavender from her bath mixed with her own intoxicating scent.
“Wow, everything smells absolutely incredible. This is actually really thoughtful of you.” She reaches out boldly and snags a slice of aged Roquefort, popping it into her mouth while I pour the deep red wine into crystal goblets. “And I definitely love wine and cheese.”