Chapter 2 And An Even Worse One
AND AN EVEN WORSE ONE
Azrion
Melora was angry. Again.
Azrion didn’t know what he’d done wrong, something surely, because he always did, but Melora hadn’t been terribly specific in her letter.
Not in the first half anyway, but it went on for seven pages, front and back, so there was always the chance he’d given up before he got to the important part.
Not that it mattered, Azrion only need do the right thing, and what was right rarely had anything to do with what was wrong when it came to Melora.
She probably just wanted something shiny and expensive, and then she would be pleased with him again, and things—both right and wrong—would go back to normal.
Predictable, mundane, colorless normal.
Azrion ran hands through his hair and tried to gather it at the back of his head, but every white strand fell free.
That was the last thing he’d done wrong: chopping off the long length of his hair.
It was a wrong on which both Melora and his father agreed, but he thought it looked rather dashing short and messy.
He tousled it instead, being sure a carefree amount fell in front of his curling horns—ah, there, just messy enough—and strode out of his home.
A breeze blew through the portico, mussing the hard work he’d just done, but Azrion could hardly be upset when the wind smelled of ripe sytron.
The garden spread out before him, a maze of high shrubs and fruit trees that obscured the path between his home and his family’s.
It would be covered in fallen fruit soon if someone didn’t hire a crew to do the seasonal tending, but then that would require coordination with his father, and Azrion preferred dealing with the pack of tormots a load of fallen fruit would draw.
At least the furry creatures were amusing when they ripped open the splitting rinds and got themselves drunk on fermentation.
Indigo vines climbed the portico’s columns and reached for the moon.
He squinted but couldn’t see the decrepitude his father spoke of.
The plants just added color, and when the buds finally bloomed it would be even better.
Crimson, magenta, aureolin, all rare colors that had taken quite a lot of coin to cultivate.
They would be here soon, and they would be beautiful.
“Someone’s in trouble with their mate.”
Azrion snorted and turned, eyeing Zaiya who stood twenty paces off in the courtyard. She’d shown up silently, as always, and was frowning in that way that said she was absolutely thrilled.
“And how in Heck did you hear?”
“I have my ways.”
Ah, so he would never find out, which was, of course, the sisterly way.
Azrion took his time wandering to where she stood, sneaking a glance up the path toward their parents’ estate.
No sign of Mother or Father, thank the gods.
“Any idea how I might fix it?” He picked the best looking pinkcurrant from the bowl she held and popped it in his mouth.
When Zaiya said nothing, he frowned. “That bad?”
They shared the same lilac skin and silvery-white hair, but Zaiya’s horns were more like their father’s, curling around and pointing forward dangerously, their sharp tips just beside her eyes. “I wouldn’t bother fixing it, if I were you.”
“Come now, that’s not helpful.” But it was hardly surprising.
Zaiya hated Melora, and the feeling was mutual, but Azrion found it useful to have his younger sister and mate at odds—they would never conspire to thwart him and could be wielded against each other if need be.
He would of course never abuse that kind of power, but he might employ it when he wanted to slip out of particularly stuffy gatherings.
He reached for her bowl again, but she pulled it away.
Azrion clicked his tongue. “Well, I’m off then! En route to face the gallows alone, thrown to the veilhounds with no weapon or word of encouragement from my own blood.” He turned and flicked his tail as he went, knocking the bowl from her hands before darting through the family’s shared courtyard.
“Father’s upset with you too,” she called.
That made Azrion pause, but only for a moment. When the bowl didn’t clatter to the ground, he knew she caught it and waved over his shoulder before slipping through the hedges. “Smooth things over for me.”
Zaiya would make things better or worse depending on her mood, but there was always the chance she might fuck up too and distract their father from whatever minuscule, unworthy thing Azrion had done. The Zizreni patriarch was more than capable of holding multiple grudges, but a demon could dream.
The Lucent District was still quiet despite the late-morning hour.
Hands in pockets, Azrion strolled along the wide bridge that led to Melora’s family estate.
A drayk swooped by, brilliant feathers a blur of viridian under the moonlight, and a choir of toads sang from the reeds. It was the perfect day for groveling.
That’s what he would start with: apologies.
It didn’t matter for what so long as he lavished Melora with praise for being so beautiful, so smart, and most importantly, so forgiving.
All true, of course, in varying ways—Melora was gorgeous and clever and she forgave him every time she chose to be angry with him.
Then he would wrap her in his arms but carefully so as to not muss up her hair, make a show of kissing her perhaps with an added dip depending on the crowd, and tell her just how she makes his soul sing.
Also true, mostly, if by sing he meant the tuneless screeching Zaiya did when in one of her rare cheerful moods and thought no one was listening.
If Melora didn’t immediately melt, Azrion would trot downtown and buy her whatever seemed most impressive—maybe a sweet-smelling perfume from the Kosteri son who ran the apothecary, or he would brave the florist in the southern district for some fanciful, out-of-season bouquet.
But Azrion had a feeling he wouldn’t need to go so far.
For the last four or so years, he’d been chastised seasonally for one thing or another—inattentiveness at the Vumheri autumnal soirée, the incorrect gift given during the winter festivities, and too much attention during the Naevas sisters’ shop opening just last spring.
It was summer now, so they were due for a disquieting.
Melora was sitting in her family’s courtyard with her two closest friends when Azrion finally found her. So his apology would have an audience. Even better.
He wiped off his grin just in time for Naranni to spot him and gesture furtively with her long nose in his direction.
Melora steeled herself before she turned, pink tail flicking and shoulders stiffening.
In kind, Azrion drew solemnity over his features and clasped his hands behind his back.
When she finally deigned to grace him with her radiant facade, he bowed shallowly. “Dearest.”
“Azrion,” she said in a voice tauter than the skin over her sharp cheekbones. “What are you doing here?”
He straightened, eyes finding hers. Melora really was one of the most beautiful demons in Heck.
Magenta hair shimmering in thick plaits fell over her dainty shoulders, the paler pink of her skin almost iridescent in the moonlight.
Her horns were dainty too, kept small with constant filing and white as the moon.
Together they were a striking match, everyone said, the daughter of a councilor and the son of a scholar.
A match made in…well, made in the blazes.
“I told you not to come.” She turned swiftly back to her friends. Naranni just snickered, but Tuli gave Azrion a pitiful look. Perhaps Melora had told him, but that was probably in the second half of her letter.
“Yet your soul compels me regardless.” He kept his voice level as he paced up just behind her. “I am drawn to you, Melora, if only to beg forgiveness.”
“For?” She didn’t look back, but her friends caught the grimace he let pass over his features.
“Being an utter cad.” He placed a hand on the back of her chair and leaned down to the long point of her ear, the delicate charms hanging from it dancing in the breeze.
Those were nice—he’d have to borrow them when she was in a better mood.
“A scoundrel, a rotter, a worm beneath your boot, imploring you for mercy.”
Tuli placed a hand on her chest, small mouth drawn into a sympathetic circle, but Melora’s eyes must have flashed at her because she just as quickly corrected and glowered into her lap.
“I told you, there is nothing you can say, no sweet words that will heal me this time.” Melora’s slight shoulders rose and dropped with a sharp breath. “We are done.”
“Sweet love, I—” His breath caught. “Dear, did you say done?”
“Done.” She twisted quickly then, nose grazing his and black eyes burning. “Finished. Spent. Over.”
Fine.
Azrion didn’t move, mind conjuring up the image of Melora’s exquisite features painted with shock as he simply walked away.
It was enticing, but he blotted it out, eyes falling to her lips.
He’d been kissing those lips just two nights ago in celebration of their fourth year together.
She’d sent him home early though, and perhaps that should have been his first clue…
“Dearest,” he finally said, gaze rising back up to meet hers, “if ever the bond we had were to sever—”
“Bond,” she snapped and twisted toward him more fully, her controlled anger shifting to something more feral. Now that was interesting.
Azrion’s brow narrowed against his wishes, betraying the sorry-for-gods-knew-what facade he was struggling through. A poor choice of words on his part, but it probably wasn’t…wasn’t that she was so bothered by, was it?
Should have read the whole fucking letter.
“You know what I mean, my sweet.”
Her gaze flicked downward, and he smirked. That was right, all she need do was take a look at him dressed in his finest brocade vest and tightest pants, and—
“I do know what you mean.” Her jaw was tight and her fangs flashed. Melora almost never showed her fangs, not in the literal sense anyway.
“My heart shatters to have wounded you so deeply,” Azrion mumbled, standing straight and laying a hand over his chest, and really, he actually meant it then. He’d perhaps never seen her so upset—or at least never noticed under all her showy huffing.
“Just go.”
Azrion straightened, still answerless as to how he had possibly wrecked things in such a brutal way.
But then, this was not the first time he and Melora had been “done,” and each of those conversations had gone almost identically, which meant he already knew what identical measures to take.
Not the most drastic, not yet anyway, but this was a game that she never seemed to tire of, so he would play it to restore what little peace he could recover.
“I shall heal this wound,” he said quickly, backing away. “Naranni, Tuli, mark my words: I intend to win back the love of our sweet Melora.”
He slipped out of the Thiemos family courtyard with only one simpering look backward.
He kept up the maudlin expression until he escaped the Lucent District then took a deep breath of the summer air before plastering on a grin.
The plan would be threefold as it had been before, and it started with showering Melora with what she wanted above all else: attention.
It was probably their greatest commonality, after all, and Azrion could give as good as he got.