Chapter 3: Smoke and Mirrors
"Octavius!" I shuffled onto his balcony, the wind catching my voice and whipping it towards the obsidian cliffs.
I found him perched on his iron railing, one powerful claw wrapped around the scrollwork, his back to the chasm as he stared, unblinking, into some middle distance, a thin stream of black smoke curling from his beak.
He didn't turn.“Ah. The prodigal office drone returns. You smell like a distillery had a carnal accident.” His voice was flat, betraying none of the sarcastic flourish I usually loved.
Ignoring him—I was too full of it—I leaned against the rail beside him. “Listen. I met someone.” I couldn’t keep the shaky grin off my face.
Octavius finally tilted his owl-like head, his great luminous eyes narrowing to discs of amber judgment. He took a slow drag."Clearly."
“Kai. A hellhound likes me. He’s…, he’s incredible.” My empathy pricked a sudden, sharp tension threading through Octavius, but I barreled on, the memory too vivid. “He took me into one of those soundproof booths at Beezle’s and–” I leaned in, lowering my voice. “He bent me over. The sounds he made… and his…”
My words hung for a second. A violent tremor wracked Octavius’s frame, a shudder so intense his left wing snapped out in a reflexive jerk.
It caught the edge of the priceless obsidian ashtray on the railing. The thing cartwheeled into the dark with a soundless grace, vanishing into the howling abyss below.
He watched it go. He slowly turned his gaze back to me, his face an inscrutable mask of feathers. “Well,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, a hiss like steel on stone. “That’s a development.” He raised the black cigarette to his beak. “A thorough debriefing was required for this asset?”
I swallowed. The frantic joy leaking out of me met the cold wall of his… something. It wasn’t anger. It was deeper, colder. “Asset?”
“Your virtue, you daft mutt. Was it a tactical exchange? Did you at least get a decent portfolio review out of it?” He blew a stream of smoke directly into my face. “Archdemons like that collect hellhounds like brooches. Shiny. To be pinned and displayed until the next shiny thing.” The bitterness wasn’t sarcasm. It was clinical. And it scraped across my raw nerves.
“It wasn’t like that,” I whispered, the phantom ache in my body a sudden, hollow echo. Octavius’s expression shifted, the clinical mask cracking to reveal something jagged and raw beneath. He looked away, across the desolation. “Of course it was,” he said, softer now. He dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with a claw. He cleared his throat, a rough sound.“Well. I believe I’ve ruined the atmosphere.”