The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 14: Lovers: Section IV: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: The Palace: Qemassen

Morning and night she came to him: Lilit, demon or goddess, mortal woman turned ghost or something still more vile. Some nights she would appear to Ashtaroth in a blood-stained dress with yellow hyacinths in her hair just like the corpse he'd seen in the Eghri, and on others she was naked and whole, crawling into his bed with the steady creep of a serpent.

Without Samelqo's amulet to protect him, Ashtaroth had taken to pretending she wasn't there, but there was only so much you could shut out, and the deep hollows that had always haunted his eyes grew deeper with every chitting whisper at his ear, every night's sleep broken by the pawing of her hungry hands at his throat.

Every morning, Ashtaroth's body slave, Danel, would brighten Ashtaroth's complexion with the best facepaint a man could afford, but when Ashtaroth had assessed his own reflection this morning he'd still looked sallow as a dead man.

Unless his appearance, too, was his imagination. If he could pretend Lilit wasn't trailing beside him on his way to today's council meeting, he could pretend he wasn't sick and sleepless.

Lilit's foot dragged across the floor as she followed him—the scrape and creak of her broken ankle like a nail hammered inside Ashtaroth's brain. He didn't have to look at her to see her—the sound alone was enough. Broken face from where she'd been struck or fallen, broken ankle, bent at an impossible angle yet walked on as though nothing were amiss. A click and a scrape, and blood soaking through her robes, the same as he'd seen her when the horse had chased him down during his vision.

Click, scrape.

Dannae: a murdered wife, a murdered priestess of Ashtet. So why did she torment Ashtaroth? If Sabaal eq-Sabaal had killed her as Samelqo had thought, why did she blame it on him?

A week ago, he'd commanded his slaves to anoint the perimeter of his room with fish oil like in the story of Ashmodai, but it had done nothing. Lilit couldn't be deterred.

Ashtaroth clenched his fists, willing the sound of her broken footsteps away.

The corridor was empty but for Ashtaroth. The corridor was empty.

"You belong to me, don't you understand?" Lilit's lips brushed his ear as she whispered, and she looped her arm in his so that they walked abreast. The sound of her limp disappeared as she made herself whole. "I want you so much more than they do. I lie awake at night dreaming of your scent, your taste, your touch. You're meant for great things and they don't see it. They'll never see it."

Defying her never achieved anything, only made her hold him tighter, leer longer. She clung to him like a child, giggling and chattering, pressing her body against his. If he ignored her instead, he could perform his duties.

Lilit flicked his ear with her thumb and forefinger.

"Ow." He drew his hand to his face instinctively.

"Say something," Lilit pestered. "Or I'll make you piss yourself."

Could she do that? A shiver coursed through him—could Lilit be responsible for his physical illness?

She laughed. "No, but the source is the same."

"The source?" Ashtaroth asked quietly. He scowled at his own question. She was baiting him. "I can't stop myself hearing you, but I don't have to listen. Demons have only the power we grant them." It sounded like something true. In saying it, perhaps he'd make it so.

Lilit pouted. "Why do you hurl that word at me? Your heq-Ashqen thinks I'm a goddess."

"Thought you were a goddess. Samelqo's dead."