Approach him with kindness.
Choosing to keep his hair short was a sign of moral defeat.
Lower your guard.
Proof Cassian had successfully worn his spirit down.
Become someone to him.
Finnian smirked.
And he will tell you all his secrets.
Cassian reserved his emotions through centuries of experience, but something told Finnian that if he were to lower his guard, Cassian could not resist opening up.
Finnian’s eyes flitted to the mirror. He took in his poorly cut strands once more and scrunched his nose. They looked horrendous. He’d never cut his hair shorter than his jawline. If he was going to endure it, he’d at least need to clean it up a bit.
With the power of his glamor, the ends of his wavy hair grew into a messy style over his forehead. He didn’t bother straightening out any of his curls, and he kept the sides trimmed around his ears and straightened up the line around his neck and sideburns. It sufficed.
He exhaled sharply, turned off the shower, and left the bathroom.
Cassian did not look back as he walked towards the bar cart.
On his way, he observed the shape of Cassian’s backside through his suit. The High God was broad-shouldered with aphysique that mortals had to spend hours at the gym for each day. Not an unpleasant view for someone so dreadful.
Finnian forced his gaze away from Cassian and uncorked one of the crystal bottles. He sniffed the rim. “I take it that we are in your home.” Making a face, he set the bottle of brandy aside.
“Nothing gets past you.”
Finnian poured himself a glass of bourbon and tossed it back in one gulp. The smooth liquor glided down his throat, filling his stomach with a comforting warmth. A welcomed distraction from his hearing aid delivering Cassian’s words in anything but perfection.
He refilled the glass and moved over onto the sofa, ignoring the urge in his fingertips to snatch the magical device from his ear and tinker with it.
There’s nothing wrong.
Cassian turned and scrutinized him, rubbing a thumb over his lips. “You did not fully regrow your hair.”
“Nothing gets past you,” Finnian remarked, lounging back on the sofa. He lifted his glass in a snide manner to toast the observation and took a swig.
A hint of a smile twitched at Cassian’s mouth. “Yes, this is my home.”
Finnian glanced around, unimpressed. He was used to the walls of his own home decorated with the artwork he’d collected over the centuries. Oddities and trinkets scattered over the surface of worn furniture he’d scavenged at old markets. The aroma of plants and wet soil mingled with the steam of his four-shot espresso and the licorice he chewed on while he worked on potions or wrote in his grimoire. He preferred the low volume of a vinyl and pretended to be annoyed when interrupted by his ghouls or most trusted friends—interruptions he secretly welcomed.
The home of Cassian was minimalistic and orderly, with surfaces far too clean. The room held only what was necessary—sofas for sitting, the bar cart, and an aroma of lemon-peelings and freshly plucked mint. Such a stiff atmosphere.
“After years of playing a delightful game of cat-and-mouse with you,” Finnian said, “I assumed this day would eventually come.”
“Years of playing cat-and-mouse?” Despite Cassian’s leveled tone, Finnian sensed an edge of enmity beneath it.
Finnian cocked his head with a mocking twist to his lips. “What else would you call our history together? The apothecary, the temple, the graveyard, my city. All you’ve ever done is try to curse me.”
“Precisely.” Cassian’s voice went hollow around the words as he strode to the bar cart and poured himself a glass of the same bourbon Finnian drank. “Nothing more.”
Finnian noted the tension in his shoulders, unsure what to make of it.
“My souls are in celebration today, as it is the anniversary of when I was granted my title as the Ruler of Death.” Cassian downed his drink without turning around. “You will attend the festival in Caius.”
The Village of the Souls. Finnian had read about it. Where souls lived in the Land if they did not wish to move onto Paradise of Rest or reincarnate.
