14. Apathy is Worse
APATHY IS WORSE
ASHER
T he veil of fog had burned off and sunlight streamed through the lattice-paned windows, turning Asher’s room into a greenhouse.
Asher ripped off his hoodie and hurled it onto the bed. Whatever Lev’s problem was, Asher’s art was faultless. He was damn proud of his new take on the series.
He’d even painted a second version of Gluttony so he could continue his story with the fairies feeding a poisonous last meal to their human guests.
Then, for Wrath, the fairies had fertilized their poisonous plants with the tainted blood of their victims, potentiating the lethality of the next batch of poison in an endless cycle of growth and destruction.
Achieving that level of concentrated color had taken hours of experimenting, and hours more of patient precision as he layered brush strokes, lest he poison his entire painting with pigment.
Lev had no business ranking him so low, especially if he’d only done so because of last night, or because he’d snooped through Asher’s sketchbook and wanted to distance himself from a fanatical stalker.
That well-worn sketchbook was his home; a friend that reminded him who he was and validated his emotions. Lev had broken his promise and violated Asher’s privacy.
He crossed to the window and twisted the brass crank, but it was stuck.
For a fleeting moment, he feared Lev had bolted the windows, locking him inside Lichenmoor like the figure in the east wing, but finally the wheel turned, and with a hollow crack like a baguette snapped in half, the thick layer of paint surrounding the frame broke.
Crisp autumn air and birdsong slipped into the room, accompanied by the distant sound of the ebbing tide. It was the first time he’d seen a blue sky since he’d arrived at Lichenmoor. Hell, it was the first time he’d truly seen Lichenmoor.
Verdant hills dotted with oak trees and pockets of forest sloped down toward bluffs overlooking a rocky beach and, beyond that, the North Sea.
An old stone road meandered from Lichenmoor’s front door down through soggy lowlands sparkling with sunlit puddles.
The path didn’t look so long and winding now that he wasn’t wading through fog.
Lev paced at the edge of the bluff. His red hair glowing in the sunlight made him impossible to miss. Even at a distance, Lev took up so much space he was almost omnipresent. Lev turned, and looked at Asher’s window.
Asher ducked, and facepalmed with a groan. There were dozens of windows on that side of the castle. It’s not like Lev could have sensed him watching. Asher was acting like a child, just like he had last night when he ran away from Lev. Twice.
The wardrobe was heavier than it looked. After pulling it away from the wall, Asher checked for another door behind it, but the tapestry was nailed down. Good.
Wood groaned against wood like a ship’s hull breaking apart as Asher pushed it across the room, gouging marks in the floor.
“Shit.”
His stomach clenched with guilt, almost as if by wounding Lichenmoor, he’d harmed something alive. Beneath the guilt, however, a part of him liked that he’d left a mark on Lichenmoor, at least until Lev refinished the floors.
He pulled off his long-sleeve, ignoring the tattoo of Lev’s eye on his forearm as he wiped his face.
At least if Lev wanted to spy on him, or kidnap him, he’d have to enter through the squeaky main entrance or shimmy up the castle wall like a normal stalker.
If Lev cared to stalk him any longer.
A floorboard creaked. Asher suppressed a shiver, feeling eyes on him as he stripped, even though that wasn’t possible. The castle had a way of feeling occupied, even when no one was around, like all the people who’d passed through Lichenmoor had left an imprint.
A door slammed. Asher jumped.
Heavy footsteps hurried down the hallway, landing louder as Lev drew closer. It had to be him. No one else walked with the power and frenetic energy of a thunderstorm. Besides, no one else resided on their floor.
More proof that Lev was up to something.
The footsteps stopped. Lev’s door opened and shut. Lev’s presence chased away the unease Asher had felt when he was alone.
Asher imagined him kicking off his boots. A moment later, the shower started. He was probably undressing, exposing freckled skin flushed from his run, a bead of sweat dripping down his sternum that Asher would swipe with his tongue before lowering to his knees.
Lev would stroke Asher’s hair like one would a pet and take back everything he’d said, tell Asher he was a good lad, lavish his art with praise, explain he’d treated him that way because he didn’t want the others to know he’d already selected his winner, that of course it was him.
Mimicking his fantasy, Asher slid to his knees, facing the wall between their rooms. He spat into his hand and worked his cock with the punishing grip he imagined Lev would have. He focused on the tattoo of Lev’s eye on his forearm.
“Eyes on me,” Lev would have said, reminding Asher each time his lids closed with pleasure. “Look at you on your knees for me, slutty mouth waiting to be fucked.”
Asher would ask if he could taste him, and Lev would laugh darkly and say only after Asher came first, and the reward promised would push Asher over the precipice.
The sight of Asher getting off would take Lev by surprise with an orgasm of his own, and he’d guide his tip toward Asher’s waiting mouth, lips already parted on a moan.
“Don’t you dare swallow,” Lev would warn as he milked his thick dick.
Then Lev would feed him the cum that hadn’t made it into his mouth, rubbing Asher’s jaw with his thumb, and finally command him to swallow.
Lev would tell him what a good lad he’d been, how well he’d listened, how much that pleased him, and with eyes still locked on Lev’s tattooed gaze, Asher came all over the tapestry.
Utterly spent, Asher sat back on his heels, planting his palms on his knees as he caught his breath.
Shame and self-loathing swept in. Lev had humiliated him in front of his peers, and in retaliation Asher had… What? Jacked off to a feral fantasy and ejaculated on an antique tapestry?
“Fuck,” Asher whispered as he blotted the cum with his shirt.
“Stupid, stupid boy,” Ben would have said, and he’d be right. Two weeks at Lichenmoor and he’d already lost himself to an obsession with an older man who didn’t respect him. Just like Ben.
Did Lev tell all the artists he bedded that he’d fallen in love with them through a painting?
He never should have come here. He was weak. Too much. No one wanted him beyond his role as a sex doll marionette performing with each string plucked. No one truly knew him.
Last night, he’d hoped Lev could be the one person who did know him because they’d met through their art, but that was just a pick-up line he’d fallen for.
Fuck. He sniffed.
His tear-glazed eyes caught on something scratched into the baseboard under the bed, standing out from centuries of dents and nicks.
He traced the letters with his fingertips. It looked like Latin. Who’d carved it into the baseboard and when?
Sunlight pierced the stained glass windows, scattering gemstones along the empty hallway. The crypt-like silence made him feel more like he was walking into the maw of a hungry beast than taking a shortcut to the ballroom.
Asher consulted Lev’s map again. He was running late after taking a last-minute shower. If he wasn’t completely lost, and that was a big if , the next left turn should dead-end at a side door to the church.
From there, he could pass through a hidden door in the priest’s quarters and arrive from behind a bookshelf tucked inside an alcove. In a tiny script, much tidier than the east wing’s warning, Lev had promised this passageway was short, just a few paces.
Lev had scribbled out the entire third floor of the east wing save for a warning written in the center:
Much like Lev, himself.
The warning was a waste of ink Asher would ignore. He had to see what was inside that locked room, even if it meant braving the secret passageway without Lev, even if it meant facing the shadowy silhouette he’d seen through the keyhole.
But he wasn’t ready to risk Lev’s wrath when he still felt the ghost of his grip lurching him back from the door last night. He’d wait at least until after he’d secured the mentorship.
Asher rounded the corner and met an oak door with a stained glass cross, and pushed it open. A pigeon leaped into flight from a nest perched atop a life-size statue of Christ on a crucifix, face painted with bird droppings.
“Jesus.” He laughed a disembodied burst of nerves from his lips.
The door boomed shut behind him, startling him a second time. He inhaled, attempting to rein in his stuttering heartbeat.
The cathedral was in far worse shape than the forbidden east wing.
Disemboweled Bibles and their torn-out pages littered the floor.
The pulpit had fallen on its side and rested on the dais like a corpse.
Charred pews piled in one corner, remnants of a sacrilegious pyre.
A few rows of pews remained untouched, loyal servants facing the empty dais, spared by their god, or whoever had interrupted the arsonist.
The level of destruction was far more than years of neglect would have left. Who was responsible? Lev? Or had it been like that for decades?
He walked down the center aisle, tensing as he passed each row of high-backed pews. On his right, a wall of stained glass, most of it intact, faced seaward. In one window, Tudor roses cascaded from Christ’s crucifixion instead of blood.
At the top of the dais, he scanned for the priest’s door, and stopped. Ice dumped into his bloodstream. Someone was sitting in the last pew.
What. The. Fuck?
Wait. He blinked. No. There was no person there, just the shadow of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Hallowed silence was his only company.
He shook his head, exhaling his relief. He needed to catch up on his sleep or Lichenmoor would turn into a waking nightmare.
Hopefully he could finish his painting of Envy quickly and take a nap after lunch. He already knew what he was going to make, but he wasn’t sure if the result would impress Lev or enrage him.
He wasn’t sure if he cared.