The next day came and went without Darius making an appearance.

I could admit I was miffed, upset even, and perhaps a touch worried. I knew there wasn't a force currently in the entire realm that could challenge Darius as he was now, but that didn't assuage the tiny knot twisting itself into a tangle in my middle. Darius wasn't prone to lying, as I could only remember him doing so once before, but he was capable of it and had probably done so in the past without my knowledge. The question was: why lie to me about dinner? 

Rising the next morning to see my living room and the sofa the Sin liked to sleep on vacant, I sank into the armchair and glared at the offending piece of furniture, telling myself I was being foolish. I felt like a silly woman who'd been stood up on a date—and that was just stupid of me, ignorant. Darius and I were not boyfriend and girlfriend. Nothing between us would ever be so simple, so definable. The man was not human and...neither was I. Our bond had been baptized in blood, forged by death, agony, and torment. Both of us had lost our lives and had taken many, many lives in return. 

I wouldn't trivialize either of our feelings by acting like a jealous, lovesick teenager or a kicked puppy. 

Sighing, I returned to my room, gathered my uniform, then went into the bathroom to shower. Once clean, I wiped the mist from the mirror and dressed, adjusting the fall of the black skirt's hem and smoothing the top's ironed collar. The woman reflected on the smudged glass was thin-boned and pale, but there was color to be found in her cheeks and in the bright hue of her eyes. I was pretty, but I'd never be beautiful: my visage was too harsh, my eyes too inexpressive. I often appeared jaded or ambivalent, and though I hadn't felt that way in quite some time, my smiles were rare and short, and my tongue quipped barbs far too quickly for my own good. 

The accumulated image was a pretty scene, but also severe, like the breaking of storm-tossed waves upon the shore's cliffs. The wild nature of the water is pretty, perhaps even beautiful to some—but no one dares touch it, embrace it. It is a thing to view from a safe distance, and only to satisfy curiosity. Beyond that, it is something many ignore or simply wish gone. 

Grimacing, I gathered my hair into a clip, brushed eyeshadow across my eyelids and foundation on my skin, then grabbed my purse and exited the house. 

Dalius had left many scars in Verweald, but the seething, sharp-edged giant couldn't be crippled so easily. Wounded, it retaliated with furious vigor, urged by the shaping hand of its unforgiving mistress. Towers rose, streets were repaved, the economy beaten into a semblance of stability. The media either lost interest in the "supposedly" supernatural scandal or were blackmailed into submission. Verweald still simmered, but it did so quietly, sullenly—or else risk the Sin of Lust's wrath. 

After parking my car in its assigned spot in the parking structure, I crossed the avenue and ducked into the entrance of what had once been Klau Tower, flashing my name tag at the standing guards with reserved annoyance. The lobby was as it had always been, composed of clean lines and stone with that enchanted chandelier dominating the space overhead, but the key difference was the name sprawled across the ledge of the upper balcony. Klau Incorporated had been replaced with Cu-Xiel Industries.

Katherine, the frizzy-haired girl behind the receptionist's desk, saw me walk by the bubbling koi pond and raised her hand with a friendly wave. "Good morning, Ms. Gaspard!"

"Morning," I returned, hurrying to the elevators. I ducked into an empty car and thumbed the number for the thirtieth floor, taking a breath as it ascended in silence and I leaned my back against the cold metal wall. Katherine and her coworker, Hamel, were both sweet people, but notoriously nosy. They were two of the few totally preternatural ignorant humans left in the building after Lust dissolved and restructured the company, and they were relentless in their curiosity. I wasn't in the mood to fend either of them off today.

The thirtieth floor was comprised of several sealed and reinforced offices. The white walls appeared bare, but if I tipped my head at just the right angle and changed the pitch of the fluorescent lights, I could see the tell-tale shimmer of scripts written into the paint like invisible ink on an empty page. I wasn't sure what they did, as the special name tag pinned to my top counteracted their magics, but I imagined they probably dissuaded intruders. Too many secrets were kept here for curious eyes to be poking about. 

I could hear muffled voices raised in argument before I even opened the door to the far office. I did so, and noise poured out into the barren corridor, a woman shrieking, "You're just a scribblin', melon-headed, no-account flash-bang!"

Inside there was a single room, large but well-lit by the far wall of uncovered windows. The two interior walls were lined from end to end with sturdy oak shelves, some open and some sealed with clear glass, others partitioned with latticework where scrolls could be easily slotted. There were thousands of scrolls and hundreds upon hundreds of books, the air heavy with the pungent aroma of old ink and older parchment as the morning sun warmed the ancient leather spines. A multitude of other objects and colorful flora were interspersed among the literature, each item unique in its purpose, though that purpose eluded my knowledge more often than not.

A single, solid table dominated the floorspace and groaned under the weight of books, potted ferns, laptops, metal apparatuses, notebooks, shimmering baubles, crumbling artifacts, grimoires, and lexicons older than human memory. The table served as a divider for the room, keeping the shouting woman on one side and her opponent, a bespectacled man, on the other. I often thought the table was the only thing that kept them from coming to blows. 

Eme was a young local witch out of the Baba Yaga coven, a dark-haired priestess who advocated witch rights like every conversation was a civil war. After the atrocities committed by the syndicates against the covens during my...absence, I empathized with the girl and admired her spark, but there was a time and a place for anger and a time and a place for logic, and verbally attacking every man who crossed her path, be they mage or human or other, ground on my nerves. 

Across the table with his muscled arms folded was Liam. He was a mage, a scribe around the age of thirty, from a syndicate on the eastern seaboard called the Black Iris Syndicate, and he was—like Eme—an ambassador here for his people. He wore the uniform coat with its black lining every day, and the witch took every opportunity she could to mock him for it. It wasn't that Liam never provoked the woman, rest assured. For an ambassador he was decidedly...undiplomatic.

The two stared at me as I came through the door, Eme red in the face and Liam glowering like a taunted dog. 

"Really?" I said as I sank into my chair at the head of the table, dropping my purse on the floor. "Really, you two? Not even eight in the morning and you're already at each other's throats?"

Liam muttered something that could have been an apology as he rubbed the crown of his shaved head and returned his attention to the table. Eme wasn't so easily placated, and so she continued to all but bounce in place, fists balled and red lips curled. "Scribbler thinks he owns everything he touches. Get your mitts on my needlevine again and I'll show you what happens to greedy little spark-spitters 'round here! Sughs-kreeg-shock, tozuquj oq—!" 

"Eme, enough," I sighed without looking at the woman, lacking the energy to deal with her aggressive attitude this early in the day. Typically it took a few energy drinks before she got this wound up, but I wagered Liam had irritated her on purpose. He knew exactly what items on the table Eme claimed as her own.

I examined my own allotted space and spotted a new book resting atop my closed laptop. Touching it, I scrutinized the faded leather and the soft wear of the aged pages against my thumb, then picked up the note that had been hiding underneath the small volume. It read: At your leisure — KK. 

My death and subsequent resurrection had a few strange and unexpected repercussions in my professional life, as well as my personal one. As the Sin of Lust had liquidated assets and restructured her fiscal empire, I'd expected to find myself out of a job, since being a receptionist at Klau Incorporated had been a sham in the first place. Then, three days after I'd woken on my living room sofa, shivering and confused and alone but for the company of a half-mad black mage, I'd gotten a call. I'd been told to bring my resume to the new headquarters of Cu-Xiel Industries. I did so, if only because testing the Sin of Lust was never prudent, and I'd found myself interviewing for a job before a new board of directors and the motivated Sin herself.

I was now the head of Antiquated Preternatural Research at the company. 

Why Amoroth—or Kyra, as she was known now—got me this job I'd never know, though I wagered it was out of a misplaced sense of guilt or debt. Either way, unlike my previous position as a receptionist, I enjoyed this career and was qualified for it—within reason. No one in this realm was a true expert in antique preternatural artifacts or journals, unless you counted Darius. Even he knew little of what I researched, as he'd been content for the duration of his existence to shun the other populations and to lead a solitary existence.

I made a decent living now utilizing the skills I'd learned in school while delving into the fascinating histories of the creatures that prowled my world's dangerous nights.

There came a bang, followed by another slurred round of curses in the Esoterica from the other end of the room. I breathed through my nose and sank deeper into my chair, raising my shoulders toward my ears until I was hidden behind the worn journal.

Of course, my assistants were less interested in the history of the items we identified and categorized for Kyra than I was. They were more interested in testing practical uses—and, more than once, the specialized wards tiled onto the floor and into the ceiling flared to douse a potentially disastrous fire.

Even as the thought occurred to me, something broke, glass crackled with fragile, delicate snaps, and Liam snarled at Eme. She retorted with magic, and steam issued from the wards in hissing waves, rendering whatever spell she'd hurled inert as the air filled with the scent of defunct witch magic.

I licked a thumb and turned a page. It was going to be another long, trying day.

It was around noon that the steady rap of heels upon the hall's floor roused my attention from the journal's words. I heard the sound like the beat of a metronome and lifted my pen from my page of notes, meeting the glances of Liam and Eme as the afternoon's warmth filtered from the room. With unusual tact, both witch and mage rose, picked up whatever task they were engrossed with, and departed from the office. The door had yet to close behind them before it was caught by a manicured hand, and the Sin of Lust strolled inside.

For all her blatant brutality, Kyra Khrest was a beautiful woman. Her appeal lay in the symmetry of her sharp features, the confidence inherent in her posture, and the haughty exaggeration of her simpering grin. She unsettled people with her mere presence, never having to say a word or share a glance as she came into a room and dominated everyone's attention. She was much like Darius in that regard. Both Sins had an alien magnetism that either repulsed or attracted the eye.

"Gaspard," the woman acknowledged as the door swung shut and I shivered in the rising chill, watching her from my peripheral vision as I closed the journal. She prowled a bit, though the motion unconscious on her part as Kyra knew I wasn't intimidated by her presence, and took in the disorder cluttering the table with a disinterested eye. "How does anything get done here?"

I grunted and waved a hand. "They've some method to their madness, though I surely haven't found it yet."

I couldn't tell if the sound that left her in response was displeased or not. Kyra jerked one of the vacated chairs from the table and settled upon it, smoothing the hem of her white skirt across her knees.

"What are you doing here?" I asked without malice. It was her company and her tower, after all: she could go wherever she pleased and did so most of the time. I only asked because her wandering whims didn't typically take her to this level of the building.

"I'm on a lunch break." The woman examined her painted nails as she crossed her legs, the diamonds at her throat and on her wrist bright in the sunlight making its way through the office. "Find the journal?"

"Yes." I lifted the journal in question. "I haven't made it far. It makes no sense."

Kyra smirked. "It's another piece of Cuxiel's collection, the diary of a drunken Irishman who stumbled afoul an Aos Sí's spell and spent the ensuing twenty years wandering the countryside, everything he said spoken in reverse. It was one of Cuxiel's favorites."

Pursing my lips, I glared at the book. "Well that makes sense now."

Her answering laugh wasn't cruel, but it was close, and the sound chased chills down my spine. "What's the matter, Gaspard? You're in a particularly glum mood this day. I would have thought it impossible for such a fatalistic creature to be any more of a depressing sight, and yet here you are before me."

"Har har," I muttered in response as I avoided her lavender gaze and drew my legs up into my chair with me, resting my arms on my bent knees. "I made dinner last night."

"Did your house combust?" 

"No, thank you very much. I can cook." I poked the journal, suddenly aware of how very sullen my mood truly was. I had thought I'd convinced myself this morning that such theatrics were silly, but my displeasure must be transparent if Kyra could see it. "I made dinner because Darius said he'd be there and he...never showed." 

Some of the derision innate in the Sin's face shifted as her hand fidgeted. "Ah," was her only response. 

"Stupid, right?" I scratched the nape of my neck and fought against the embarrassed heat creeping into my face, biting the inside of my cheek. "It wasn't a date or anything insipid like that. It was just a meal, and yet I'm...disappointed he wasn't there. I dislike that he lied, even about something so simple."

We sat in silence for a minute, the Sin staring out toward the windows and the blue sky draped above her bustling metropolis while I exhaled and attempted to shake myself out of my emotional slump. Looking at Kyra, the weight of her experience became apparent, like a shadow rippling just behind the brilliant light of a gilded chandelier. Sometimes it was easy to forget the woman was over four hundred years old, and other times it was impossible not to remember.

"You understand...life with Darius will not be normal, not as you comprehend normal to be, correct? Even had he retained his mortality, Darius would not be as you are, and as a Sin he isn't as I am. He is different, like Cuxiel. Sloth used to...." She hesitated, taking in a measured breath. "He used to delight in the irony of romance, in flowers and gifts, in dinner dates and dances. We were even married once, though it was more for appearances and my public elevation into the peerage than anything. He found such things...frivolous. Like play acting. So, when events necessitated his serious attention, Cuxiel would shed his playful guise, and there would be no more dinner dates or flowers or gifts. The lack of these normal tokens didn't mean Cuxiel wasn't any less attentive or devoted to me: it simply meant he lacked the desire or the time to pretend to be mortal and to indulge in our faux-courtship."

The Sin crossed her arms and her hand rose as if to toy with her hair, but she remembered at the last second that she'd cut the wavy curls short some months ago. Her fingers tightened into a reflexive fist. "Darius isn't like Cuxiel. He's never felt the urge to pretend he's mortal."

"I don't think he should pretend to be anything," I responded. "He should simply be who he wants to be."

"And he will. Trust me, he will." Kyra gave a derisive snort and rose from Eme's chair. "Expect him to disappoint your little mortal heart's sensibilities, but expect Pride to be there when you need him. He did, after all, die for you."

She didn't have to remind me. I glared at the woman as she swept from the room, her heels tapping against the dark tiles of the floor before the sound vanished, and I assumed she'd used the Realm to return to her office. I knew Darius had sacrificed much for my sake, though it wasn't a topic of conversation he was comfortable with. His death had given him new respect for mortality, and my death had imparted a new appreciation for loss. Neither was an emotion he enjoyed expressing or exploring, so I'd let the motion drop.

I didn't want Darius to be anyone but who he wanted to be, and Kyra's words lifted my spirits because I realized his unpredictability and convolution were essential parts of the Sin of Pride's being. That was who Darius was. I could accept there'd never be flowers or soft words between us, because such things weren't in the Sin's nature, and I didn't want him to contradict himself just to please me. I enjoyed his sincerity and blunt honesty. I would much rather have Darius scare the holy hell out of me by appearing out of thin air at four in the morning with blood on his hands and a grin on his face than have him ring the doorbell and kiss my cheek like a gentleman.

The former scenario had already happened, twice, and the latter was frankly cringe-worthy to imagine. I loved a demon, not a human. Kyra had reminded me I should not expect Darius to ever be understandable. I just wished I knew why he'd lied.

I got on with my day and pushed thoughts of Darius from my mind, concentrating instead on the wealth of strange and intriguing artifacts I had at my disposal. After a time, I stood and meandered over to the shelves, searching for an anthology that would allow me to brush up on my Irish folklore—when a ridiculous notion occurred to me: Kyra Khrest, once my enemy and a woman worthy of my contempt, was now my best friend.

Eme and Liam returned ten minutes later to find me leaning on a shelf, breathless from laughter. They both looked at each other as if concerned the world was coming to an end.

A/N:

The Esoterica: Sughs-kreeg-shock, tozuquj oq. -- Little mage boy, sucking up.