I stand there still, absorbing the quiet of the moment and hoping it will silence all the uncertainty and worry I feel inside. I don’t know how to start trying to process everything; it all just feels so overwhelming. I sigh and turn around, forcing myself to leave the refreshing air as I walk back into my room.
Washing all the ash and filth off of me is probably a good place to begin to unravel the knot that is my life right now. I make my way to the black and gray wall at the far end of the room, blinking slightly at the sight of a fern plant potted right beside the first door. I gape at it but then shake my head and toss that into the not gonna talk about it pile. So what if the only plant in this room just so happens to be a fern that’s identical to the only plant at my house?
I shake off the sense of déjà vu and walk through the doorway, finding a very masculine looking bathroom. There’s no shower or even a conventional tub, but there is an onyx toilet built to accommodate wings, and a large sunken pool filled with steaming water.
The hot water is calling to me, and my clothes and skin are still covered in dead demons and wrinkled from my time in the dungeon. I waste no time stripping down and stepping into it. I hiss at the boiling temperature, forced to lower myself inch by overheated inch until my body acclimates enough to be submerged. I let the hot water cocoon me for a minute, trying to get my tense and knotted muscles to relax.
There’s a platter of soaps within reach, so I grab the first bar I see and start going to town, scrubbing myself down. My wings are incredibly heavy now that they’re wet, but they seem to like the hot water, because they flutter out, the ends moving to pop the bubbles that form on the top layer of the water. I jump at the intrusion on my peaceful moment, grimacing at the sight of them.
Ugh.
I don’t want wings. I don’t care if people think they’re cool or pretty or badass. They one hundred percent freak me out, and they don’t belong on me.
“Go away,” I hiss at them. The purple feathers are darker now that they’re wet.
The unwelcome appendages don’t seem to care how I feel about them, and my left one reaches out like a defiant toddler and pops another bubble. I roll my eyes and do my best to ignore them, but I get the distinct impression that they’re taunting me.
Feathers continue to pop bubbles, and I bat the wings away. “Fucking settle down,” I grumble at them, and I’m a little appeased when they actually seem to listen and stop moving, pulling tightly against my back again.
I scrub my skin, but I refuse to look at anything. I keep my eyes trained forward onto the piss throne instead. Seeing any ash or blood will set me off, and I can’t afford to lose my shit. Not when there are a shit ton of Abdicated apparently coming here as Tazreel hosts some fucking useless party because apparently, it’s the “rules” to be like, hey, I stuck my dick in a female and procreated another Nihil. Who’s bringing the keg?
Once I’m sure that I’m clean from hair to toes, I frown at the cloudy gray water I leave behind. I look around, trying to find some sort of drain or plug to pull, but I can’t find anything. I step out, grabbing a towel that feels more like a blanket as I dry myself off. The silky, probably priceless material doesn’t absorb nearly as well as my Dollar Tree thin cotton towels at home, which is a little pathetic.
I search the room for other toiletries, but there’s nothing else in here except for a mirror and a red free-standing sink. I stare at my reflection for a long moment. I’m still me, but not quite the same. My hair is electric and practically glowing. The purple is stunning, and I now have some lighter natural looking violet highlights mixed in with the darker. Just as I suspected, the color looks natural now, some strands lighter like they’ve been kissed by the sun. It’s long and voluminous, and as much as I hate the feathered appendages, they match my hair exactly.
My skin is smooth and radiant. I look at my knee where I used to have a scar from when I skinned it really badly in eighth grade when I was trying to look cool and ride a skateboard. The scar is gone. My gray eyes flicker like the embodiment of storm clouds, but beyond that, there’s nothing overly demonic about me. I’m suddenly a level of hot I don’t really know what to do with, but that seems to be the Abdicated way, judging from Tazreel and his obvious vanity.
Eyes flicking over, I notice that the hanging mirror I’m staring at myself in has some little knobs, and when I pull them, it opens and I find the toiletries I was looking for. I snag a brush and start to comb through my hair as I let the silk blanket-towel hang over my wings, which are dripping huge piles of water all over the floor. I have no idea how to dry these fucking things, so I end up going outside on the balcony again, sitting there wrapped up in a blanket I steal from the bed, deciding to just let them air dry.
It takes a long fucking time. I really wish I had my blow dryer right about now. I lean back in the chair, soaking up whatever it is in the air that feels so invigorating. My thoughts race, but I dread trying to focus on any one of them. They’re all too overwhelming, and I need to focus on getting out of here.
I can lose my shit when I’m in the privacy of my own home again. Until then, I need to shut everything down that wants to derail me.
Just when I’m starting to relax, Tazreel pops out of nowhere, landing right in front of me on the balcony. “How old did you say you were again?” he demands.
I shriek and nearly fall backward in my chair. I clutch my chest and shoot him a scowl, irritated that he thinks he has the right to appear whenever the fuck he wants to. He’s staring at me expectantly, a large looking ledger in his hand. It’s bound in what I would guess is black dragonhide, but I don’t know if that’s my imagination running away with me or if that’s an actual possibility.
“Could you knock before you come barging in?” I scold.
“No. This is my house. How old?” he asks again.
“Twenty-eight,” I repeat on a sigh, and his brows dip in concentration as he flips through the pages of whatever book is in his hands.
He’s mumbling to himself, like he’s doing conversions in his head, like I’m a dog and he’s trying to see how old that would make me in—I listen closer—Marakas, Zael, and Goblin years.
I cringe. “You fucked a goblin?” I ask, my tone bleeding with judgment.
His eyes briefly swing up to me. “They are actually very attentive and gentle lovers. They do amazing things with one’s taint,” he tells me matter-of-factly, like it makes a difference.
“Ugh. I don’t want to hear about your taint,” I snap, suddenly wondering if I jump off this balcony, how quickly could I fly away from this dude.
But just the thought of having to use my bird parts gets me feeling all anxious and squeamish, so I decide against that plan of action.
“I need another book,” he declares, and suddenly, he’s just not there anymore.
Getting up, I head inside, locking the balcony door after me. Not because I think it will actually keep him out, but it feels like a small act of rebellion I can get away with to irritate him.
I make my way over to the second door in the room and pull it open, finding a walk-in closet just like I guessed. Everything hanging up is mostly made of leather, fur, and chains.
Swiping through the clothes, I finally manage to find a semi-normal looking pair of pants, and although they’re made of leather, they’re not stiff, shiny, or squeaky like the pair from the graveyard uniform. Instead, they’re supple and soft.