Soldier of the Sand (Witchfire 5)

EPILOGUE

- JEROME -

Nobody wanted to care for a pitiful drunk. It was one of the many reasons Jerome feigned passing out in the bathtub, though truthfully, he hadn't consented to consuming that much liquor in the first place. He endeavoured to embody elegance and poise at all times, and a drunkard was the farthest thing from the version of himself he cultivated more carefully than any of the potted flowers or pandering socialites that typically livened his balcony.

No, he was inebriated because his father insisted. It was Jerome's blood, after all, that filled those hideous chalices carved from desecrated bone in the Court of Wings. Spiking it was the surest way to loosen the elite's inhibitions — and their wallets.

So Jerome had no choice but to grit his teeth and clutch the arm of the Golden One's throne for support as the spell sank its insidious teeth into his heart and pulled on everything he was, leaving him a pale and trembling wreck, a withered husk of a man.

His father had squeezed his shoulder all the while. And thanked him for his service, like he'd gone to the grocer on his way home and picked up a bottle of milk, not sacrificed nine tenths of the blood in his body. The white-robed servants had to carry him down the stairs like a child when Isaac summoned him, not a moment too soon.

As soon as they were in the car Jerome pretended to pass out. Piper's body was already rotting in Isaac's arms; the silver-haired warrior refused to close her eyes and admit she was gone, so Jerome had closed his instead. He'd watched too many eyes deflate over the years to stomach the sight of his friend's flesh sinking and sagging, the edge of her wicked smirk going soft, then stiff.

Better to look like a drunkard than like I care, he thought grimly, easing up out of the memory, into a sitting position. The water they'd thrown on him gurgled quietly down the drain as he stretched, touching his ear to his shoulder. The soap-holder left a crick in his neck, but he'd felt like punishing himself and relished the ache. It distracted him from the burning sensation in his mouth, the slight boiling of his blood as it thickened, restoring colour to his cheeks in the mirror. And at least it looks like I made a choice, he thought grimly, however poorly it reflects on me.

He was always making choices — relished that exhilarating moment of deliberation where all the consequences hung in the air, the eddies of potential futures spinning out in every direction — though the options were rarely up to him. Getting up, Jerome briefly considered opening his mouth before the mirror to assess the damage, but quickly decided against it, preferring to play pretend for a little while longer.

His eyes raked over his dishevelled form instead, narrowing at his dark hair, scattered every which way like the freshly turned soil of a new grave. Grabbing the hand-towel, he ran the corner under the tap and scrubbed golden smudges off his neck, rubbing his skin raw. He hadn't particularly enjoyed Megan Harlow's attention, but she had certainly enjoyed his.

His father treated her with cool contempt, but issued no complaints over Jerome taking his place as the object of her affection. He shuddered at the memory of being stranded on that balcony with both of them, pushing it deep. Another one for the vault.

He was really starting to run out of space in there, but it was easier to focus on the little problems, the ones he had power to solve. The circles under his eyes were appalling, but his compact colour-corrector was still sitting on the bench at home, as was his chapstick. A small line had taken up residence between his brows. He tried to relax his face, afraid of inviting wrinkles, but to his consternation the groove remained. It made him look — dare he say it — old.