Page 35 of The River of Fire
Who talks like that? And why am I panting? I don’t have a freaking foot fetish! “You know what, I think it sounds more fun to watch than to participate,” I say airily.
“You know what?” he mocks. “I know when you’re lying.”
“T-this is beside the point!” I stammer, making him smile all the wider. “Wait, have you been with males before?” I have to know.
“Of course.” He’s unbothered. “The constraints over sexuality mortals impose have no meaning here.” Oh. That’s… something. His impressive frame being caressed by calloused fingers.Yum.
I snap myself out of my salacious daydreams. “Kevin didn’t consent to this. All of you need a lesson in consent, actually.”
“Does it matter when he would enjoy it immensely in the end?” It’s not a question, really. It’s a haughty statement and my hackles rise. I’m no longer up for joking arguments away.
“It does when he’ll hate himself after. I know that more than anyone.” I did hate myself after that first time, but I find it’s only half true right now, as most of my common sense has left my body sometime between dinner and dessert.
He doesn’t like my semi-true proclamation though – his facetwists into a rictus of contempt. “Your feelings do not matter to me. As long as you are ready to spread your legs at a mere glance from your owner, you may feel whatever the hell you want,” he snarls.
I feel all the blood drain from my face until pinpricks are burning over every inch of it. It’s one thing to know you’re being used for the amusement of unfeeling creatures while you’re being treated well. But the truth will always rear its ugly head, making sure there’s no comfort in delusion.
He was always arrogant, presumptuous, pompous, and high-handed. But I realize now that he never truly hurt me until this moment. And this really hurts, like a slap to the face; a sharp stinging pain followed by a burn I feel in my throat.
Trying to hide the tears overfilling my eyes, I turn without a retort and pick a direction at random. He doesn’t follow.
Chapter 26 – Lana
This is the first time that I get to explore an archdemon’s fortress alone and without sneaking through tunnels. Ashtaroth’s sanctum is very unlike Asmodeus’. Instead of being an ancient ziggurat with little decoration, this domain makes me think of what a Gothic cathedral and medieval castle’s baby would look like.
The hallway I escaped into is gloomy despite regular intervals of mounted candelabras. It’s just too big to be properly lit, both wide and tall, horizontal support ribs meeting above me on the vaulted ceiling like archways. The ceiling itself is adorned with intricate carvings and, for all its austerity, I still find it incredibly beautiful.
I don’t sit in any of the alcoves with their sturdy benches, decorated on each side by gargoyles. I’m full of a painful nervous energy and I want to push myself into expending it, try torelieve it somehow. If I wasn’t worried that running would cause guards to stop me, I would have broken into a sprint. As it were, the guards and servants I encounter just bow out of the way. Why? Because their master had me for dinner and staked a claim over me publicly? I would tell them that I’m sure their behavior towards me matters nothing to him, but that would mean stopping to talk, and I can’t stop. I need to keep going.
A small gray imp wearing scaled black armor bursts out of a room to my right. It must have pilfered someone’s lunch because it’s holding two squished cherry tomatoes, one in each claw-tipped paw. It’s lightly furred and it can’t be much taller than two feet – definitely below knee height. Its small wings have hooks on the upper tips and claws on the bottom of the phalanges extending from them. The membranes stretched in-between the delicate bones are a dusky claret red, similar to the tomatoes it still holds, juices leaking over its little fingers. It teeters back on its tiny clawed feet and its bat-like ears flick. The round black eyes look even bigger in the imp’s surprise at seeing me, glittering above a button nose and a Cheshire-Cat-like mouth full of shark-like fangs.
The imp chirps, impales the tomatoes on its tiny gray horns, and darts away, a spade-tipped tail spinning behind it in the air current of its rapid departure. Blinking in bewilderment, I continue down the hallway, avoiding the occasional slimy drop full of tomato seeds.
Going aimlessly from one hallway to another, occasionally peering into the large halls revealed by open doors or entrance archways, I feel like I’ve been exploring for at least an hour, but I don’t seem to be walking in circles. Just how big is this place? I didn’t get to see it from the outside, having entered it by being squished into the size of a ping-pong ball and pulled through the ether.
How will I find Kevin and get out of here? Now I no longer have to worry just about myself and how long it will take for that unfeeling baboon’s ass to be done playing with me – I have Kevin’s wellbeing to take into consideration as well. I’m madat him and I can’t help it. While I understand his motivations, he acted without forethought, like a child, and just made everything worse.
Angry tears return to my eyes and as they slide down my cheeks, I find myself feeling tired… empty.
There’s a balcony just ahead and, while it may give me an insight as to the appearance of the fortress from the outside, I mainly head there because I want to sit in a corner out of the way, and not have to worry about looking like I’m keeping it together.
The balcony is even wider than I thought. Vaulted archways support the roof, sharp tracery descends between the decorated pillars, throwing a thorny shade over the terrace, while the waist-high railing sports root-like decorations. It feels like I’m in a gazebo that nature overtook in its abandonment.
The balcony overlooks the Garbhodaka Ocean and, stepping close to the railing, I can see some of the fortress I’m in. It’s as massive as it felt while walking through it, a black gothic monstrosity perched on the edge of a stark cliff, with numerous battlements and pointed spires – all black with an orange glow in some windows – in sharp relief with the stormy skies behind it.
Despite the emotionally numb state I’m in, my jaw drops, and, perhaps because of the state I’m in, I can’t find it in me to process what my eyes are seeing right now. The sheer size and dark beauty of it. I back away from the railing and turn to the long sofa set against the wall. It’s like the gothic negative of a renaissance sofa – instead of bright teal cushions decorated withfleur de lysand gold painted wood, this one is all heavy dark wood and dark, dark brown leather cushions.
I sit for another hour in a meditative (or dissociative) state, listening to the thunder and the crashing waves. Of course, I feel him before I see him in my peripheral as he sits next to me. He’s quiet for a while, just sitting, his arms crossed.
“You must be hungry,” Ashtaroth finally says, and I turn to look at him. His features are unreadable and no longer angry, the occasional wisps of fire in his amber eyes calm.
“Are you? Is that why you’re here?” I return. And, okay, I sound a bit salty, but who can blame me?
His jaw grinds, a muscle under his eye twitching, but he hesitates. “I came to apologize.”
My eyebrows crawl up to my hairline in surprise. “For what?” I ask slowly.
“You are upset,” he remarks coolly in answer.
