“Must be nice,” I mutter.
Ember shifts slightly, a ripple of heat flickering through the room. Even asleep, his phoenix is guarding him.
I stand there for longer than I should, watching him sleep.
It must be terrifying to be grown in your mind, but completely helpless and small physically. To be so vulnerable. Forced to trust whoever happens to be nearby. No wonder he made a deal with my uncle. My irritation toward this situation softens a little.
In the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is dusted gray with ash, there’s a streak of soot across my collarbone, and my nose is red from disinfectant fumes. Grunting at my image, I wonder idly how many people’s remains make up the grime covering my body.
Fucking ew.
I turn the shower on as hot as it will go, waiting until steam rises over the shower curtain before stepping in. The water runs brown for a full minute as I stand under the spray.I scrub my skin until the smell of disinfectant fades into steam and vanilla soap, then give myself one more once-over before shutting off the water, drying off, and changing into sweats.
By the time I crawl into bed, everything has gone quiet except for the pipes ticking softly in the walls and the mortuary humming faintly below.
I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep in seconds.
THUD!
I resurface slowly from sleep, disoriented and grumpy as hell. The room is still dim, the early light of dawn barely slipping through the curtains.
For a few blissful seconds, I pretend I didn’t hear anything and close my eyes.
THUD!
CLINK.
SCRAAAAAAPE…
I pull the pillow tighter over my head, wondering if it’s possible to smother myself back to sleep.
“If this is a haunting,” I mumble into the mattress, “respectfully wait until business hours.”
There’s a small grunt and then the unmistakable sound of wood being dragged across tile again.
I groan long and loud, throwing my legs over the side of the bed and shuffling out of the room to look for the maker ofthe racket keeping me from sleep. My hair is still damp from last night’s shower, and my soul is still firmly asleep.
When I step into the doorway, I freeze.
Ember has dragged one of the kitchen chairs across the floor and pushed it up against the counter. He’s standing on it, barefoot, with his hair sticking up wildly in every direction. He’s on his toes, stretching his little toddler body as far as it’ll go. His fingertips hover a tragic few inches away from the coffee maker. He reaches harder, as if effort alone might lengthen his arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask in amusement as I lean against the doorway and cross my arms, enjoying the absurdity of the scene for a moment.
He startles, wobbling precariously, before grabbing the counter to steady himself. He glares at me over his shoulder, looking annoyed by my sudden appearance.
“I require coffee.”
“I think what you mean to say isI require juice,” I correct.
“No… I. Require. Coffee,” he repeats with impressive authority for someone who cannot see over the counter without climbing a chair.
The sky outside is barely light enough to make out the tall trees in the garden outside the kitchen window. It can’t be any later than six in the morning.
“You are the size of a backpack,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Your body probably can’t even handle coffee right now.”
“I would have made it myself,” he snaps, “but someone installed these counters at an oppressive height.” He stretches again, wiggling his fingers uselessly.
I watch him continue his struggle for a moment. He’s wearing one of my shirts. It hangs nearly to his ankles. His bare feet grip the chair seat like a tiny mountain climber. The air around him shimmers faintly with frustrated heat.
