Chapter Thirty - Seven
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
ASHER
Timing is everything.
That's what I've learned in my centuries of existence—be in the right place at the right time, and the universe hands you exactly what you want.
Like now, for instance.
I'm lounging against the wall in the east corridor, idly spinning a small flame between my fingers (a trick that drives Malachi absolutely mad when I do it near his precious antiques), when I spot her.
Sage, coming down the hallway from the direction of Malachi's office, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her eyes holding that particular dazed look that I recognize all too well.
Well, well, well. Isn't this interesting?
I extinguish the flame with a flick of my wrist and push off from the wall, timing my casual stroll to intercept her path perfectly.
"Good morning, librarian," I call cheerfully, enjoying the way she startles at my voice. "Fancy meeting you here."
She freezes momentarily, then composes herself, though that delicious blush deepens. "Asher. Hi."
I circle her slowly, taking in every detail—the slight dishevelment of her hair, the way her fingers nervously smooth down her dress, the lingering tension in her shoulders.
"You seem... flustered," I observe, stopping directly in front of her. "Been somewhere interesting?"
She lifts her chin slightly. "Just talking with Malachi."
"Talking," I repeat, letting my disbelief color the word. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I think she might deny it, but then something shifts in her expression—a flicker of newfound confidence that's both surprising and incredibly appealing.
"Among other things," she admits, the flush spreading down her neck.
I throw my head back and laugh, genuinely delighted by her honesty. "Look at you, getting all brave and forthright. I like it."
She smiles tentatively, and I'm struck by how different she looks when she's not actively trying to disappear into the background. There's a quiet beauty in her features, something that goes beyond conventional prettiness—a depth, an intelligence that shines through when she lets her guard down.
"Where are you headed?" I ask, falling into step beside her when she starts walking again.
She shrugs. "Nowhere specific. Just... processing."
"Ah yes, processing. A heavy burden after an encounter with our brooding overlord," I say dramatically. "Luckily for you, I'm an excellent distraction."
She glances at me skeptically. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," I declare, placing a hand over my heart. "It's one of my many talents. Along with making excellent cocktails, dancing the tango, and—" I lean in conspiratorially, "—certain other activities that would make you blush even harder than you already are."
Right on cue, the pink in her cheeks deepens, but she doesn't look away.
"You're ridiculous," she says, but there's no bite to it.
"Ridiculously charming," I correct. "Come on." I take her hand, tugging her toward a different corridor. "Let's go have some fun."
She hesitates but doesn't pull away. "What kind of fun?"
"The kind that doesn't involve brooding or ancient rituals or magical politics," I promise. "Just good old-fashioned enjoyment."
After a moment's consideration, she nods. "Okay."
I lead her through the winding corridors of Malachi's absurdly enormous mansion, taking shortcuts I've discovered over years of snooping where I shouldn't. Finally, we reach a door tucked away in a rarely used wing.
"Close your eyes," I tell her.
She raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because surprises are more fun that way."
She sighs but complies, and I guide her through the door, positioning her in just the right spot before saying, "Okay, open them."
She does, and her gasp is exactly the reaction I was hoping for.
The room is my secret hideaway—a greenhouse of sorts, but filled with exotic plants from every corner of the world.
Massive windows let in streams of sunlight, and the air is warm and fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers.
A small fountain bubbles in the center, surrounded by cushions and low tables.
"What is this place?" she asks, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
"My sanctuary," I tell her, flopping down onto the cushions and patting the space beside me. "The one place in this mausoleum where Malachi never bothers me."
She sits more carefully, running her fingers over a nearby orchid. "It's beautiful. I wouldn't have expected... this from you."
I clutch my chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Sage. What did you expect? A dungeon filled with empty liquor bottles and discarded lovers?"
Her lips twitch. "Something like that."
"Well, I have one of those too," I assure her with a wink. "But this is where I come when I need to think."
"You think?" she teases gently, and I'm struck again by this new boldness.
"Occasionally," I admit. "Don't tell anyone—it would ruin my reputation."
She laughs—a genuine sound that transforms her entire face. I find myself staring, oddly captivated by the way her eyes crinkle at the corners.
I clear my throat, reaching for a crystal decanter on a nearby table. "Drink?"
"It's not even noon," she protests.
"Time is a construct," I counter, pouring two glasses of pale golden liquid. "Besides, this is special."
She accepts the glass cautiously. "What is it?"
"Mead from a hidden valley in the Himalayas. Made by monks who've never spoken a word aloud," I tell her. "It's said to show you glimpses of your true self."
She eyes the drink suspiciously. "Are you making that up?"
"Only one way to find out," I challenge, raising my glass.
After a moment's hesitation, she clinks her glass against mine and takes a small sip. Her eyes widen in surprise.
"It tastes like..." she pauses, searching for words. "Like summer. And honey. And something I can't quite name."
I smile, pleased. "That's the magic."
"Is it really from silent Himalayan monks?" she asks, taking another sip.
"No," I admit. "I made it myself. The recipe is about three hundred years old."
She stares at me. "You made this?"
"Don't sound so surprised," I say, leaning back against the cushions. "I've had a lot of time to perfect my hobbies."
She studies me over the rim of her glass. "How old are you, exactly?"
"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care," I say automatically, the deflection familiar and comfortable.
"That's not an answer," she points out.
I take a long sip of my mead, considering how much to reveal. There's something about her—something that makes me want to be more honest than I usually am.
"I was born in 1693," I tell her finally. "In a little village in what's now southern France."
Her eyes widen. "You're over three hundred years old?"
"I moisturize," I say with a grin, but then grow more serious. "I was seventeen when I discovered what I was. When the magic awakened."
"What happened?" she asks softly.
I rarely talk about this. In fact, I can't remember the last time I told anyone the full story. But something about her quiet attentiveness pulls it from me.
"It was during a storm," I begin, twirling my glass idly. "Lightning struck our barn. The fire spread quickly, trapping my younger sisters inside."
Her expression softens with sympathy.
"I ran in after them without thinking," I continue. "The heat was unbearable, the smoke choking, but I found them huddled in a corner. And when I tried to get them out, I discovered I could... control the flames. Push them back. Create a path."
"You saved them," she murmurs.
"I did," I nod. "But the village saw. And in 1693, people who could control fire weren't celebrated as heroes."
"They tried to kill you," she guesses.
"They would have," I agree. "But that night, a stranger arrived. A warlock passing through who sensed the sudden surge of power. He got me out, taught me what I was, introduced me to others like us."
"Malachi?" she asks.
I laugh. "God, no. Malachi and I didn't cross paths until much later. No, his name was Sebastian. He's long gone now." I take another sip of mead, feeling the familiar warmth of it spreading through my chest. "I never saw my family again."
She's quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "I'm sorry."
I shrug, pushing away the old grief. "It was a different time. And I've had a good run since then."
"Is that why you're always so..." she searches for the word.
"Charming? Devastatingly handsome? Witty?" I suggest helpfully.
She smiles. "I was going to say 'determined to enjoy yourself.'"
"Ah." I consider this. "Maybe. I learned early that life can change—or end—in an instant. Seems a waste not to squeeze every drop of pleasure from it while I can."
She nods thoughtfully. "That makes sense."
"What about you?" I ask, setting my glass down. "What's your story, librarian?"
She hesitates, then gives me a condensed version of her childhood—parents lost in a car accident, raised by a distant aunt, finding solace in books. It's sad but told with a matter-of-factness that suggests she's come to terms with much of it.
"So that's why you're so quiet," I observe when she finishes. "You learned to make yourself small, unnoticed."
"It was safer," she admits.
"But boring," I counter.
Her lips quirk. "Not everyone needs excitement the way you do, Asher."
"Everyone needs some excitement," I insist. "Some pleasure. Some fun."
She blushes slightly at the word 'pleasure,' and I can't resist teasing her.
"Speaking of pleasure," I say, leaning closer. "How was your 'talk' with Malachi?"
Her blush deepens. "It was... enlightening."
"Enlightening," I repeat, grinning. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
She laughs despite herself. "We really did talk. Mostly. But..."
"But?" I prompt, enjoying her discomfort.
"But there was a kiss," she admits.
"Just one?" I ask, feigning disappointment. "Amateur."
She throws a small cushion at me, which I catch easily. "Not everyone is as... experienced as you probably are."
"Probably?" I echo, pretending offense. "I'll have you know I am extremely experienced. Centuries of practice."
"I'm sure," she says dryly.