𝔸 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕎𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙 (Book 2)

Hundred-Twelve

It was a conscious effort to force my thoughts down another path as they began to stray that way. Toward my reality. Forcing them to turn a corner and dive into something absolutely pointless. Something easy.

Like the fact, I decided that when I went home—to Velaris—I wanted a dog, and I was going to name it something ridiculous like Bernie or Charles the fifth. An un-dog like name. And the fact I'd train it to bite Cassian's ankles and hound Azriel until he started yelling and screaming—barking, if you will.

I wouldn't train the dog to do anything to Amren for fear she might gobble it up and drink its blood.

That was my favorite meaningless thought, simply for the sole fact I intended to carry it out.

I reached over toward the table beside the bath again—not reaching for Bob, much to my dismay—but instead toward the dark bar of soap that smelled of pine and smoke. A dark scent that reminded me of a city called Orynth in the late days of Autumn when the fires just began to burn, keeping winter at bay as its people danced.

When I was done washing, I sat in the tub, watching the steam slither around the candles. Wrapping around the flame like an old friend.

Mate.

Again I steered my thoughts away and into a ditch.

What would Mor do if wine ceased to exist? Would she turn to hard liquor, or common party drinks like cocktails? Or would she just die without her favorite drink?

Mate.

What would Cassian do if he found himself sitting in a pile of pollen without allergy medicine? The general had confessed that he struggled with seasonal allergies, and it was a terrible mistake for him to tell me. I hadn't let him live it down since.

Mate.

With a soft sound that was eerily similar to a snarl, I pulled myself from the warm waters of the bath. Chased away by my own thoughts. Annoying as hell.

The single word hounded me again and again as I dried myself and found the clothes that I now decided were my favorite ever. The house knew exactly what I wanted even if the clothes were from a different world. The wonder of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. My favorite fashion statements ever.

Pulling on the soft, light blue fabric, I sighed in comfort. To anyone in Prythian, I'd look like I was insane, they did not have clothes like this here. But in Midgard...gods I loved their fashion.

My stomach grumbled, and I realized I hadn't eaten since the day before, because—

Because he'd been injured, and I'd gone out of my mind—absolutely insane—when he'd been taken from me, shot out of the sky like a bird.

I'd acted on instinct and training, on a drive to protect him that had come from so deep in me...

Whatever, I'll deal with it later when I decide to stop procrastinating my procrastinating.

But before I ate there was one thing I had to do. I jiggled open drawer after empty drawer. Silently grumbling to myself as I came up with nothing but air after pointless air. "Come on." I drawled as I opened the last door and found nothing but, you guessed it, nothing.

The house is spelled to take care of you—merely wish or speak for things, and it'll be done, I recalled Mor's words and pursed my lips. How exactly does one go about wishing for the house to say something. It felt entirely awkward to say that aloud when I was alone. But it was also awkward that right my only company was a glass bottle of whiskey.