Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
He was describing the impulses of a wounded animal, to den up and to hide.
“So in all that time, you never met any mysterious strangers? Never did any deals with any devils?”
Tristan tightened his lips, and Mort knew what was coming was a lie even before it was spoken.
“No.”
Mort sat back in his chair, pensive. He considered whether beating the truth out of Tristan might be an option but discarded that fairly quickly. The boy was still wounded.
There was no immediate rush, he supposed.
And there were other avenues of investigation. Others he could ask about the mark. If Tristan was unwilling, or unable to confess, he would find another way.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said. “I know that was not easy.”
Tristan colored with guilt. “It’s okay,” he said, avoiding Mort’s gaze.
13
Tristan’s wounds healed over the following weeks. With no further demonic visits, he had no reason to create any devastatingly dangerous situations for himself. The two men settled into something like a routine. Mort was largely preoccupied with learning as much as he could not only about Tristan, but the world he intended to live in with Tristan. First aid was only the beginning of his self-education. He bought a computing device and discovered that mortals had created a vast library of videos teaching every aspect of social and practical life possible.
For his part, Tristan seemed to be in a lull of sorts. One could not be wildly chaotic all the time. He still drank daily, but not to excess.
Mort could tell Tristan was restless, not to mention horny. He felt the same way himself. But there were matters to attend to before they could indulge themselves even a little more in physical intimacy.
He had a plan.
A plan that lasted up until Tristan threw a tantrum.
“I can’t fucking stand this anymore!” Tristan made the declaration at breakfast time, his eyes flashing bright blue, his chest and abdomen beautifully tight with the rage of unfulfilled desire.
“What is it you cannot stand?” Mort asked the question mildly while knowing the answer. He could smell Tristan’s desire. It was contained in bits of tissue underneath the mortal’s bed, strewn about and collected inefficiently only occasionally.
This dry spell, as it were, was truly torture for the poor boy. Mort did not mean it as a punishment. He was not withholding for disciplinary reasons, but then again, if he had been, it would have served Tristan right.
“You don’t want me anymore, is that it?” Tristan made the accusation with an unintentionally petulant pout.
“Of course I want you.” I intend to kill a god for you, Mort did not add.
Tristan put his hands boldly to the fly of his pants and started undoing them. He could be very bold and brave when properly motivated. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Mort looked up at the beautiful body of the man he had saved, wondered at the artistry of it. Even through the abuse Tristan had subjected his body to, and the abuse that had been heaped upon him by others, he was exquisite. His hair fell forward over his face, creating a shadow in which his blue eyes gleamed brightly. It would be easy to give Tristan what he wanted. But it would not be what was best for either of them.
Mort reached forward and put his hands on Tristan’s thighs. “We have some other business to attend to first, my love.”
“Other business?” Tristan looked genuinely confused. He had obviously forgotten Mort’s promise, or worse, considered his words to be empty.
“I promised you a reckoning for your reckless disregard for your body, your life, and your position. On your knees, boy.”
Tristan’s jaw dropped, rough stubble catching the desert light. He did not kneel. Instead, he argued.
“That was so long ago!”
“A matter of weeks is not a long time for a creature like me. I have not forgotten how you spoke to me, your rudeness, your refusal to submit.”
Tristan folded his arms over his chest, a defensive posture.
“Do I owe you submission?”
That question caught Mort like a right hook.
On some level, the level on which Mort was immortal and Tristan was a scrappy little mortal, yes, Tristan owed him submission. It was a matter of natural order. But modern people weren’t nearly as invested in hierarchy as they had once been, and those who claimed to hold power, or even did have great power were just as likely to be ruthlessly mocked as worshipped.
Mort had not been idle. He had learned much in the past weeks, immersing himself in modern culture. The modern world was a socially flat one, at least in terms of respect. The common folk had disdain for their masters and resented their greed. Mort understood that. He also understood that there was still a craving in some part of the psyche to be mastered, or at least led by a competent leader.