and he did not swear fealty. He stared at his captor and opened his mouth to speak, but the demon preempted him. “Don’t,” he snapped, “call me Asmodeus.”
“What should I call you then?”
His captor showed his teeth in a mock smile. “That depends on whose lie you’re looking to advance. You can call me the Aeshma Daeva if you’re trying to wax nostalgic, but honestly, I don’t feel it’s accurate. Do I look like an agent of rage to you?”
Michael shook his head, not quite sure what the demon was talking about but absolutely sure what the desired answer to his question was.
“You could call me Ashmedai if you wanted to suggest I had an unquenchable lust for women—that I ravished Solomon’s wives even in their . . . ‘time of separation.’” Here he made air quotes with his long, delicate fingers. “But if you call me Asmodeus, you’ll be suggesting that I killed seven innocent men simply because they married a girl I wanted for myself. You’d be lying not only about me, but about Sarah, and that I will not abide.”
Michael tried not to let his surprise show. He’d learned both stories as a child and believed them without question. Of course, the king of demons would not be above lying to him, but what would be the motive in this case? He had Michael at his disposal. Anything he wanted, he was going to get through force, not by convincing his captive he wasn’t so bad after all. “What should I call you if I don’t want to lie about you?”
The demon’s true smile was sweet, small, almost doll-like in a way. “You’d call me Ash if you were a friend. But in your case, considering your need to supplicate for mercy, I’d suggest Your Majesty.”
“You’re not my king yet. I’m still alive.” Michael regretted his own hubris almost as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Inevitability breeds resentment, I suppose.”
In the dim light, Michael noticed that his captor sat cross-legged and hovered an inch above the ground as though he were too good to touch it. The same stones the demon avoided jutted into Michael’s lower back in a way that was initially uncomfortable and eventually quite painful. Michael glared at him. “Can we come to the point, please? What is it you want from me?”
The demon frowned. “Such impatience. I should have expected as much from Samael’s issue. And to think I was going to challenge you to a game of chess.” The way he said chess made it sound more like a musical note than a word. He leaned back against nothing and crossed his arms. “I had hoped to discover whether Samael’s complete inability to strategize would be passed down to all his children universally. Your brothers and sisters were walking checkmates.”
Brothers and sisters? A wave of curiosity doused Michael’s anger. The demon king was an ancient creature, and Michael suddenly wanted to ask what else his captor knew about him that he himself did not. He realized he had never in his life spoken to another nephil, and he had so many questions. But how could he begin to ask them of someone who’d abducted him and chained him to the wall of an underground labyrinth? He shook off his own curiosity and mumbled, “Please, don’t compare me to my father.”
The demon—Ash—watched Michael with interest. His haughty expression had softened into something like sympathy. “Be grateful you know who your father is. There are benefits to understanding your lineage. Some of us are not so lucky.”
Michael shifted and heard his chain drag over the stones. “Do you not know who your father is?”
Ash shrugged. “My father was a cherub and a watcher, which narrows it down a touch. My mother, on the other hand, was a prostitute, which does not.”
“I’m sorry.” Michael frowned, fearing he’d angered his captor.
“Don’t be. I’m proud of my mother. She was a good mother and made an honest living. She didn’t want to marry, so she didn’t. Most women were forced to marry in those days. And what do forced marriages lead to? Do you know?” He sounded like a teacher addressing a particularly dense student.
Michael thought a moment and cringed at the answer he didn’t want to voice.
“It’s all right,” Ash said, barely hiding the disgust in his voice. “Say the word. It doesn’t disappear just because you refuse to acknowledge it.”
This conversation was wearing Michael down. He didn’t understand it. He wanted to go home. He wanted to know that Bryony was safe. He answered, “They lead to rape.”
“Good boy. And now you can begin to solve the riddle of why I killed seven ‘innocent’ men on their wedding nights.” A shadow passed over the demon’s face, and Michael began to see why an entire civilization had assigned him the attribute of rage. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you and where you keep that magnificent sword you stole.”
Sword? So that’s what the demon king wanted from him—his father’s sword. Michael could only begin to imagine why anyone would want the Angel of Death’s indomitable weapon. It took him several long breaths to fortify his answer with every ounce of courage he had left. “No.”
“Excuse me?” The demon actually laughed at him.
“I said no.” The sword was too powerful to blithely hand over to anyone, let alone the demon king. The consequences could be devastating. Michael trusted very few people to understand just how permanent true death could be, to know exactly what it meant to use that weapon on another living soul.
The demon king stood and towered over him. “I want you to think more carefully about your answer, son of Samael. Until now, I’ve been courteous. We made our introductions like civilized creatures, and I’ve given you a reasonable request. You can tell me where the sword is, and after I have it, you can go home to your woman, take a hot shower, and forget about all this. Or you can refuse me and quickly discover why the Zoroastrians called me the bloody mace.”
Michael could almost hear his own heartbeat, thunderous in the dark. He wanted to surrender. He wanted to give everything just to see Bryony again, but the only reason the death sword was even up for grabs was because he’d stolen it from his father. He closed his eyes and answered firmly. “I can’t give you the sword. I won’t.”
A monstrous wind howled through the caverns and rattled the chain that bound him. He heard a roar like torrential rain. Sand and pebbles struck and stung his skin. Then there was total darkness and silence, and Michael lost track of the world again.
The whir of the sewing machine was as familiar to Bryony as rain on the roof, and in that cloudy space between sleep and consciousness, she almost believed her mother was alive again. She saw a needle dancing over fabric behind her closed eyelids. She heard her father hum as he stacked freshly laundered sheets in the linen closet. But the fading dream couldn’t conjure her little brother’s feet slapping against the floorboards as he ran downstairs to get breakfast. Her mind wouldn’t allow it. He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.
She kicked off the sheets and sat up. Early morning light filtered through the curtains. The sight of her old twin bed strapped sidelong to the foot of the one she slept in brought her back to the present. Sometimes grief crept up on her and took her back in time to when it was fresh. She was glad to open her eyes and find she’d passed through that nightmare and come out safe, albeit changed, on the other side.
Her new family, it seemed, had already started on his sewing. She patted her head and felt the braids he’d woven the night before. They held together rather well, which must have meant she slept better than usual. Odd, considering how uneasy she’d been about the change she saw in her fiancé. The word fiancé tripped lightly through her thoughts and made her smile to herself. Change or no change, she loved him, and she was determined to show him how much.
She dressed in Eliza’s street clothes from My Fair Lady, which included a patched jacket that looked much classier dyed black, in Bryony’s opinion. Then she unraveled her braids and shook out her hair. It fell over her shoulders in playful waves. Michael had been right. She practiced her smile, marched to the sewing room, and tapped him on the shoulder.
He sat hunched over the sewing machine, carefully guiding fabric under the needle. At her touch, he perked up. “Look at you!” he cried when he saw her. “You look stunning in waves.”
Bryony forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“Look what I’ve been working on.” He held up a nearly finished, white shirt with black and gray accents. “What do you think? I decided monochrome would complement your style. Speaking of, where on earth did you get that jacket? Oh, don’t tell me. I already know. Of course I do.”
“Were you up sewing all night?” Bryony looked doubtfully at the shirt.
“Not all night, but you know, I can’t go around with only one set of clothes. It’s just not dignified. I plan to make black slacks, devastatingly plain, but one must have something that goes with everything when one’s wardrobe is small. I considered a cravat, but I’m fairly certain you’ll tell me it’s too much.”
Bryony shook her head. “You should wear whatever makes you happy.”
His eyes widened, and a spark of mischief ignited in them. “Oh, never tell me that, darling, or you’ll live to regret it. Promise to keep me on a short fashion leash, will you? Preferably one studded with diamonds.” He laughed.
Her smile began to slip, but she caught it and tugged it taut again. “I promise.”
He took her hand in his considerably larger one and ducked through the door with her. “Now, let’s have breakfast and discuss your wedding gown. I thought perhaps a nautical theme for the wedding and a cephalopod-inspired gown. Nothing overt, mind you. But what do you think of an asymmetrical, cobalt band around the bodice with tentacles of color descending into a full, black skirt?”
Bryony didn’t answer, and he didn’t press her. He just went on talking about open backs and upswept hair. When they reached the parlor, she was startled at the sight of the yawning front door. But she said nothing, and Michael didn’t close it. The kitchen door was also open, but nothing else was out of place. In fact, the entire kitchen appeared to have been scrubbed top to bottom. It practically sparkled.
“Did you clean last night?” she asked.
“Oh, it was nothing.” He grinned and pulled out a chair for her.
She glanced down at his bandaged hand. “You shouldn’t do any cleaning with that cut.”
“I know how to use gloves, darling.” He began rifling through the fridge and fished out eggs, onion, mushrooms and a block of cheese. “I was pleased to find our Martha thought to bring you a variety of cheeses. I wouldn’t have survived if I’d been forced to use cheddar. Oh, forgive me, would you like an omelet? I hadn’t even thought to ask.”
“Sounds delicious. But really, you don’t have to—”
“Not another word. I’m making you breakfast, and you’ve no say in the matter.”
“Where did you find all this energy?” she mused, more to herself than to him.
Still he answered. “I’m just so happy to finally be sharing your home.”
After breakfast, which was admittedly delicious, Bryony went to town with a new list of fabrics Michael wanted. On her way, she stopped by Martha’s and ordered a coffee. She needed some time out of the house. Her mind was reeling.
Martha brought coffee and sat down beside her with an almost imperceptible head shake. “You’re miserable, and you should be happier than you’ve ever been.”
“I’m just exhausted.” Bryony lifted her cup to her lips, but Martha’s hand covered it before she could drink.
“Don’t lie to me now. No coffee until you tell the truth.”
The familiar booth, with its wine-red curtains and copper-penny tabletop, was an oasis to Bryony. If she couldn’t tell Martha, who could she tell? She definitely didn’t want to forfeit her coffee. “Promise you won’t tell Bill?”
Martha drew her fingers across her lips like a zipper.
Bryony sighed and looked away. “I feel like I don’t know my own fiancé, and it can’t just be the engagement. I’ve never seen this big of a change in anyone. Granted, I’ve never known an angel. Maybe that’s just how they are, but if it is . . .” She choked but composed herself. “If it is, I wish I’d never proposed to him. I miss him. Is that even possible? I feel like I fell in love with a completely different person, and he’s been stolen from me.” She hesitated before she voiced her next thought. It implied distrust, but she had to know. “You’d tell me if Bill had been absent more than usual, wouldn’t you?”
Martha nodded. “I swear it. Our mutual friend has been with me all day, every day. So unless he can be in two places at once, this isn’t his doing.”
“I almost wish it was.” Bryony stared down into her coffee, realizing she hadn’t added sugar. She drank it anyway. “As it is . . . I don’t know. It would hurt Michael to know how uncomfortable he makes me now. I can’t tell him, but I can’t keep it from him forever. At some point, he’s going to wonder why I don’t really . . . want him anymore.”
“Oh, no.” Martha knit her brow. “That’s not good. Are you sure it isn’t just stress? An engagement is a big change, and you’re sharing your home with someone new.”
“I suppose it could be stress, but I really don’t think so. I mean did you have this experience when you first got engaged?”
“No.” Martha frowned. “I was nervous, but nothing like this. Of course, I wasn’t engaged to an angel, which would give any reasonable person extra jitters, considering.” She stood and handed Bryony the sugar. “Sit back and enjoy your coffee. Your secret’s safe with me, especially when it comes to Bill. I’m not a hundred percent certain he wouldn’t kill your fiancé given the right excuse.”