Of Opium and Asphodel

X. Bitter Blood

There was a spot of dried blood that hadn't been cleaned on the stone floor of the entrance hall. Cairn stared at it numbly, detachedly aware of his surroundings. His head pounded from hangover as he gazed determinedly at the rust-colored stain, already fading from the tread of footprints trampling over the stones. Soon to be forgotten. But how was he to forget the feeling of warmth seeping into his shoes as blood soaked through to his feet? How was he to forget the face of the man with half-lidded eyes and mouth sagging open in a scream, who Asmodeus had presented to him dead at his feet.

There were other, more pressing concerns demanding his attention just then. Expression unchanging, Cairn sank the nails of his right hand into the flesh of his left arm. He grit his teeth when, after a second or two, the pain came on dull and throbbing. He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the man sitting across the table from him.

Osmanthys the Witch Prince was a picture of haughty regality. Wearing a kimono of fine silver silk, his hair swept up in an elegant style that accentuated the curve of his neck and a dangling earring the only jewelry he wore, Cairn couldn't help thinking the man--demon--would have made an excellent courtesan.

Cairn, o the her hand, was far out of his element. He couldn't help but feel like an impostor. This was worse than the time Euphrasie had volunteered him to entertain her guests at formal tea when she fell ill with a head cold. He had been eighteen then, hands shaking as he tried to pour the tea in an even stream. Now, he very nearly couldn't be bothered to entertain Asmodeus' guest. He would much prefer to crawl back beneath his gossamer sheets, lay abed a few hours more. But something about the twinge in his blackening fingers--more ashen than they had been last night--and the fact that Osmanthys looked sly enough to kill him at his leisure made Cairn sit up straight. Made him say, intoning flirtatiously, "What can I do for you, guest of Asmodeus?"

Osmanthys settled back in his seat, sleeves of his robes neatly tucked. Cairn met his eyes determinedly, finding them a darker shade of gold than Asmodeus' own. The stranger unnerved him--his hair colour shifted in a dizzying whirl, from black to red to silver according, it seemed, to its owner's whims. Cairn forced deep breaths in through his nose, turning his thoughts away from the bloodstained floors and the ache in his charred fingers and whatever this new guest could want from him.

Instead, he determined to recall every detail, no matter how trivial, of the baths at Asphodel. Cairn had liked nothing so much after a day of receiving clients or composing poetry than to sink into the streaming, rose-petalled waters of the bathhouse. It was a huge, dome-ceilinged room constructed after the Turkish style, with elaborate patterns carved into the screens. Frescoes decorated the walls, pulling from Grecian influence. Cairn recalled his favourite erotic wall art - that of Aphrodite and Ares, entangled below a bower of orange blossom and night-blooming jasmine.  Incense burned in the corners of the bathhouse, candles shimmering off the petaled water's surface. The lights hung reflected there like stars.

He breathed deeply. Steadier now, he leaned in towards Osmanthys as the other man replied, "I have come in response to the rumours that the demon lord Asmodeus has taken a lover. It seems my informants were not wrong." He smiled softly. "I confess myself quite curious about you. The one to catch the demon lord's attention, and a human at that."

Cairn would not mention his demonic blood. Nor the fact that he was not Asmodeus' lover--they had barely spoken. But given Cairn's public reputation and his work at Asphodel, it was the obvious conclusion people would make.

A smile tugged at his mouth. "Are you telling me Asmodeus has never taken a lover?" He tried not to grin. This was interesting news.

Osmanthys seemed disinterested. "Not for many millenia. He had his days, when we were much younger. But there is never much room for people to make home with us. Our lives outpace theirs by centuries, our emotions of greater magnitude and yet more restrained than any mortal could comprehend. They simply cannot survive being loved by us, as we tend to burn through the objects of our desires at a rather alarming rate."