Ouroboros II | The Wolf

11 | Ira Kisses A Prince (And Goes To Hell)

Ira was so close he could taste the ash and sulfur. As the last few Faun stepped through the milky-toned gate, Ira prepared for his turn. He calmed himself with a handful of anchoring breaths and scrubbed his knuckles at the edges of his tear-rimmed eyes. Ira had never cried this easily before--he didn't know what had come over him. Or, he knew exactly what had come over him. It was a needle sharp ache embedded behind his ribs--he just couldn't place a name to it. It had always been there. For as long as Ira could bear to recall, making it easy to ignore. But lately  it seemed to be growing stronger. It had burst forward in the alley a couple blocks south from Eden, and Ira had yet to fully shove it back down since. 

"You ready, kid?" 

Ira sucked in a wince of air and turned to glance at the girl leaned against the bar to his left. She had placed her elbows on the smooth wooden table and planted her chin in her palm. Her Fae-Iron bo leaned against the side of her leg, as docile as a guard dog. 

"Yeah." Ira answered. He forced his shaking legs to take his weight, carrying himself away from the stool he had been previously wallowing on. 

Ira did not often spend time in clubs. Never could he have imagined how one might look to be abandoned. From the stained glass windows lining the highest edges of the walls, warped and pink sunlight filtered in from the oncoming morning. 

Monday. Ira realized. Not that it mattered--not that he would stick around to see it--but somehow it was amusing. It was just another endless Monday in New York City. 

The tables and chairs sat in their collected towers against the furthest wall. The music had been shut off hours ago. The half-full bottles of liquor sat still on the shelves behind the vacant bar. The building was perfectly silent. Preserved, like an echo. 

The gate carved into the rustic red brick wall swirled with fog, an old dusty mirror. Ira walked towards it as if drawn in by a trance. Was that it? Was it really that simple? Melchior was just on the other side. His fingers extended, reaching for the misty surface. 

"Whoa, hold all of your horses, cowboy."

Ira winced by reflex as his wrist was caught, pulled away from the rippling surface of the doorway. He twisted, turning to face the Third Prince. His eyes raced down to the skin of his arm, where the Prince held him in a viselike grip. 

"What?" Ira balked. 

"It's an expression." The Prince explained. "It means to slow down. I don't really know why-" 

"It's like stop your horse, boss." Mayvalt interrupted. "I think it's pretty self explanatory."

"A Heimrian couldn't pick up a horse to stop it, Mayvalt." The Prince scoffed. 

"Yeah," Ira grumbled. "That certainly wasn't my problem with it. Why are we stopping?" 

Ira tugged on his arm. His efforts were as valiant as an earthworm pulling on the roots of an oak but the Prince let go instantly. His hand returned to the hilt of his kris instead. "You're not ready yet." 

For one singular second--Ira tried to swallow those words. He imagined that the Prince probably had a reason to deny his crossing, that it was for the best. And then the single second passed--and Ira's cheeks flushed with red. "What? What do you mean not ready?" He growled, temper flaring and heart rising to meet it. "Angels, what's your problem? Why do you keep cutting us off every time we get close? Do you even want this mission to succeed?" 

"Kid-" Mayvalt tried, but Ira whipped around on her next. 

"You, too! You Just keep halting us! You refused to ease the Faun's crossing, you're inventing missions to see more Princes! I just want to find-"