But he’s already a small dark dot in the distance, wings beating against the sky. Damn, he moves fast when he wants to escape a conversation.
I sigh and lean against the thick stone window frame, the carved details pressing into my back, then shake my head at the sheer absurdity of my life. The view from up here is incredible—endless green forest stretching to the horizon, broken only by the sparkling blue lake far below and what looks like mountains in the distance. There’s no sign of civilization anywhere, no roads or buildings or even a wisp of smoke. We really are in the middle of nowhere.
What in the absolute hell have I gotten myself into? Flying men with tails and twin faces and moving mosaics and family drama involving stolen divine sparks? I know I wanted adventure, but next time I’m definitely going to be more specific in my prayers.
Dear God, I want adventure. But maybe the kind that doesn’t involve potential kidnapping by supernatural beings with serious communication issues and mysterious flasks?
I glance toward the sky through the diamond-paned glass, close the heavy window with a satisfying thunk, and groan when I look down the steep spiral staircase stretching below me. The stone steps seem to go down forever, disappearing into shadows, with only those narrow arrow-slit windows to light the way.
Eleven flights of stairs. Here we fucking go.
At least I’m getting my steps in today.
FIVE
REMUS
My consort is absolutely fuckingperfect. It couldn’t be going better if I had planned every delicious detail myself—which, obviously, I did. And they call my twin the tactician! Ha! That fool couldn’t have caught himself a consort in a thousand years, not with all his cold logic and careful planning. I accomplished what he never could in a single glorious afternoon.
The perfect consort.
It’s more than a little difficult to focus on where I’m flying as I remember the intoxicating feel of her lush curves in my arms, every stolen touch burning itself into my memory. She didn’t pull away from me—not once. Of course she didn’t. I am, after all, the perfect male specimen in every way that matters.
I feel an irritating tug at the back of my skull and clench my teeth hard enough to crack stone.
Well,almostperfect.
If only there weren’t one Romulus-shaped parasite attached to my head and annoyingly integrated into every aspect of my existence, true perfection would finally be mine. But justbecause it’s the only problem in my magnificently chaotic life that has yet to find a permanent solution doesn’t mean one can’t be found.
The bastard locked me in a dungeon for two hundred years.Two fucking centuriesof mind-numbing boredom and frustration. It only seems deliciously fair that I’ve found a way to send him nighty-night for... well, as long as I can manage to keep the elixir flowing. And after meeting my sweet, gorgeous Lo-Ren, I’ve suddenly become even more powerfully motivated to make this arrangement permanent.
As I near the sprawling lights of the city below, I weave runes around myself like an invisible cloak. Unlike my dramatic, show-stopping entrance in that quaint human town square earlier—god, that was fun—I’m back to skulking about their world like some common thief.
Unfortunately, mortals have developed some of the most exquisite toys and food during my imprisonment. My stars, thefood. Especially in this particular city where I’m descending now through the evening air. Ah, Paris—the city of light, the crown jewel of culinary excellence. Even under Napoleon, in the midst of those tedious blockades, this glorious place never truly lost its magnificent shine.
I drop down to my familiar hideaway in the 5th arrondissement, where I keep a large black trench coat and hood stashed behind the ancient stone buttresses of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. It’s painfully tight and scrunches my wings into uncomfortable angles, butc’est la vie—sacrifices must be made for the perfect romantic evening.
I curl my tail up against my spine to hide it and try not to let my grin stretch too wide as I take to the crowded cobblestone streets. Mortals seem to find my natural expression somewhat... disconcerting. I’ve been trying to be more careful with Lo-Renthus far, but my perfect little consort has been taking everything in stride with the most delightful courage.
I sigh happily as I allow the concealment runes to fade once I’m safely lost among the bustling evening crowd. Parisians in their elegant coats and scarves hurry past, the air filled with the scent of fresh bread and coffee and that particular autumn crispness that makes this city so intoxicating.
I hate to leave her alone at the castle for long—anything could happen, and she might start getting ideas about exploring escape routes—so I slip quickly through the ornate doors of La Tour d’Argent to collect the feast I ordered earlier. They always say to plan for success, after all, so naturally I prepared for victory. It turns out some of these ingenious new contraptions the humans have invented during my long confinement—phones especially—have their decidedly useful applications.
The maître d’ recognizes me immediately despite the hood, though I’ve been coming here for centuries under various guises. “Monsieur Remus, your order is ready. The 1959 Beaujolais you requested, and Chef insists the duck is perfection tonight.”
Naturally it is.I tip him generously—mortals do so love their paper currency—and soon I’m airborne again with my precious cargo, soaring through the star-swept sky back to my prize.
I’m absolutelyeagerto see her again. To watch those expressive eyes light up, to hear that delicious laugh, to see how magnificently she’s handled my little test.
Yes, I am supremely confident in my obvious perfection—apart from the minor issue of my unwanted passenger—and she did volunteer quite enthusiastically when presented with the opportunity to be consort to a god. Exactly as all Earth females should when faced with such unprecedented fortune.
Yet I’ve been acquainted with these delightfully foolish mortals long enough to know that when they encounter a Horseman of the Apocalypse—as they’ve so charmingly namedus in their quaint mythologies—they also have an unfortunate tendency to panic. Flight responses, hysteria, occasionally some rather undignified loss of bladder control. The reactions really do vary depending on the day and the individual’s constitution.
So I thought I’d give my sweet little pudding cup a small test of her mettle. To hear Abaddon tell it, his Hannah-wife fled the moment he foolishly let her out of his sight. Not that she got very far—my eldest brother can be remarkably persistent when properly motivated.
My anticipation has made the flight feel wonderfully short, and soon I’m dissolving the protective runes around the castle and striding through the heavy oak doors into our grand dining room. The massive table my brothers and I crafted from a single fallen oak sits long and proud in the center of the space, already elegantly set for a dinner I don’t expect to be enjoying quite yet.
I’ve been through enough skirmishes and battles to predict exactly how this scenario typically unfolds when mortals are left to their own devices.
