Valeriya didn't want to leave the music, of course. Whatever she was doing, she did it, heedless of the consequences. Armande had to remind himself that she really was a child- though not necessarily in age. In experience rather. The child playing near a road, heedless of the danger. The inexperience camper, fatigued with hunger, falling upon an army of mushrooms shading under an oak tree, ignorant of the painful convulsions and coma that would follow, kidneys and liver enlarged and hemorrhaged.
They had some of freedom. Some. But calling attention to themselves- despite all the precautions he'd taken- was foolish.
Thankfully, her attention span was short, as her eyes fell on the feast spread out before them. And he couldn't help but smile as she fell to eating ravenously, sampling everything. After a lifetime of the flesh of oni, of mosses and vermin and insects, this had to be nearly overwhelming to the senses.
He laughed as he sipped his drink. "Slow down, my dear. I do not want you to choke." His warning was only partly in jest. She was inhaling her food. His eye fell upon the plate with sliced peppers and sausage and he was about to caution her when she took a bite- and nearly yelped as her eyes widened and she spat out the offending morsel even as she desperately reached for her drink. He held out one of the butter rolls. "Here. It will help far more than your drink." He was going to order some milk if the pain continued to bother her. Not necessarily a possibility with Valeriya of the thousand lashes.
As she medicated herself, he laughed sympathetically. "I am sorry. That is the spicy cajun gumbo. I had gotten that mostly for me. The hot flavors wake up your tongue." He continued to eat his food while at the same time enjoying her experience.
A shadow darkened their table and for a moment, he expected it to be a waiter. Instead he found a youth looking at them with a lopsided grin, leather jacket hanging jauntily off his shoulders. His eyes lingered on Valeriya far longer than was appropriate and his smile changed slightly, a slight question in his eyes. His temper, already simmering at this interruption, being to grow hotter as the man turned to insolently look him up and down, amusement and assumption plain on his face.
Armande was not a jealous man. Nor was he a man prone to outbursts of violence. It was always premeditated; calculated as to need, efficacy, and degree. But this man...this insolent, arrogant man...was a tumbleweed burr in his boots, digging into the small of his foot; the buzz of wasps around his head. Action prompted immediately- and without thought.
Armande reined himself in, taking a breath. He was about to tell him to leave them when the man spoke in Russian. His eyes narrowed at each word, at the easy way he seemed to sink into flirting with Valeriya.
But that was not what chilled him to his bones. That was not what flashed a furnace in his chest. It was not what filled his mind with such rage as to burn the world to the ground.
The man was a god. And there he was, casually playing with his power, as if it were a toy, as if it were nothing. A man playing with a black widow, with a serpent, with a scorpion, heedless of the danger to himself and everyone. The shadows of the room seemed to change the cast of the man's face and he saw the familiar demon flashing his eyes, taunting him. The same one he'd seen in Lissandra's eyes.
Oh yes, there it was in the flesh. He could see the arrogance of the power of these reborn gods, who thought nothing to intrude on people, to interject themselves, to seize control. Small. It started so small. Just a parlor trick. Nothing. But how long. How long until this demon god decided that joking and playing with the power wasn't enough. That he was entitled to more. And then more still. And that his power meant he could have it.
Brandon called himself Ascendancy. That was no accident. Beyond human.
Here was the embryonic arrogance of power, the greed and lust nurtured and husbanded, fed and cared for, until this demon child-man rose up to take his place at the feet of Apollyon, along with Vellas, DuBois, and so many others. Apollyon was setting up his kingdom. It was unthinkable that those in the United States or China or any other nation were not also doing the same thing.
The god-wars would come again.
But that was why they were here. Valeriya had to know. She had to see the evil that he represented.
She seemed concerned more for where the proprietress was from. He despaired. This world would lull her into a sleep, if he let it, lure her with its beauties, explain and excuse the evil and danger before them.
The man must have seen something in his face. He looked at Valeriya and winked at her. "Looked like I scared your old man, doll." He gave a condescending smile. "Come on, old man, don't worry. I won't hurt you." He came closer and Armande assumed the Chongg Ran to keep his emotions in check even as the man made the flame dance around him.
The blade on his hip itched to taste this man's blood, to see it spill hot and red from his slit throat. So easy. Power or not, the man would be dead before he knew what was happening to him. He put his napkin down very slowly, though his body language made it clear his movements were deliberate, his limbs loose and ready. He looked at Valeriya and gave her a slight nod. He hoped she understood.
He stood, towering over the man, blue eyes blazing. His voice was a quiet whisper, but every ounce of his will and anger and focus was on him. "You will escort us to your mistress, boy."
Special people. He knew what that meant. But he needed to see for himself. He wanted Valeriya to see. This was a war. Not a battle. A few dead gods was meaningless, in the long run. That was the only thing that held him back. The only thing.
The boy quailed, wilted like a flower for a moment, the fires winking out, looking up at him with eyes slightly wide before trying to regain face, briefly looking to Valeriya. Armande could not help the small twitch of his lips.
He held out his hand. "Come, my dear. Let us see this woman."
They had some of freedom. Some. But calling attention to themselves- despite all the precautions he'd taken- was foolish.
Thankfully, her attention span was short, as her eyes fell on the feast spread out before them. And he couldn't help but smile as she fell to eating ravenously, sampling everything. After a lifetime of the flesh of oni, of mosses and vermin and insects, this had to be nearly overwhelming to the senses.
He laughed as he sipped his drink. "Slow down, my dear. I do not want you to choke." His warning was only partly in jest. She was inhaling her food. His eye fell upon the plate with sliced peppers and sausage and he was about to caution her when she took a bite- and nearly yelped as her eyes widened and she spat out the offending morsel even as she desperately reached for her drink. He held out one of the butter rolls. "Here. It will help far more than your drink." He was going to order some milk if the pain continued to bother her. Not necessarily a possibility with Valeriya of the thousand lashes.
As she medicated herself, he laughed sympathetically. "I am sorry. That is the spicy cajun gumbo. I had gotten that mostly for me. The hot flavors wake up your tongue." He continued to eat his food while at the same time enjoying her experience.
A shadow darkened their table and for a moment, he expected it to be a waiter. Instead he found a youth looking at them with a lopsided grin, leather jacket hanging jauntily off his shoulders. His eyes lingered on Valeriya far longer than was appropriate and his smile changed slightly, a slight question in his eyes. His temper, already simmering at this interruption, being to grow hotter as the man turned to insolently look him up and down, amusement and assumption plain on his face.
Armande was not a jealous man. Nor was he a man prone to outbursts of violence. It was always premeditated; calculated as to need, efficacy, and degree. But this man...this insolent, arrogant man...was a tumbleweed burr in his boots, digging into the small of his foot; the buzz of wasps around his head. Action prompted immediately- and without thought.
Armande reined himself in, taking a breath. He was about to tell him to leave them when the man spoke in Russian. His eyes narrowed at each word, at the easy way he seemed to sink into flirting with Valeriya.
But that was not what chilled him to his bones. That was not what flashed a furnace in his chest. It was not what filled his mind with such rage as to burn the world to the ground.
The man was a god. And there he was, casually playing with his power, as if it were a toy, as if it were nothing. A man playing with a black widow, with a serpent, with a scorpion, heedless of the danger to himself and everyone. The shadows of the room seemed to change the cast of the man's face and he saw the familiar demon flashing his eyes, taunting him. The same one he'd seen in Lissandra's eyes.
Oh yes, there it was in the flesh. He could see the arrogance of the power of these reborn gods, who thought nothing to intrude on people, to interject themselves, to seize control. Small. It started so small. Just a parlor trick. Nothing. But how long. How long until this demon god decided that joking and playing with the power wasn't enough. That he was entitled to more. And then more still. And that his power meant he could have it.
Brandon called himself Ascendancy. That was no accident. Beyond human.
Here was the embryonic arrogance of power, the greed and lust nurtured and husbanded, fed and cared for, until this demon child-man rose up to take his place at the feet of Apollyon, along with Vellas, DuBois, and so many others. Apollyon was setting up his kingdom. It was unthinkable that those in the United States or China or any other nation were not also doing the same thing.
The god-wars would come again.
But that was why they were here. Valeriya had to know. She had to see the evil that he represented.
She seemed concerned more for where the proprietress was from. He despaired. This world would lull her into a sleep, if he let it, lure her with its beauties, explain and excuse the evil and danger before them.
The man must have seen something in his face. He looked at Valeriya and winked at her. "Looked like I scared your old man, doll." He gave a condescending smile. "Come on, old man, don't worry. I won't hurt you." He came closer and Armande assumed the Chongg Ran to keep his emotions in check even as the man made the flame dance around him.
The blade on his hip itched to taste this man's blood, to see it spill hot and red from his slit throat. So easy. Power or not, the man would be dead before he knew what was happening to him. He put his napkin down very slowly, though his body language made it clear his movements were deliberate, his limbs loose and ready. He looked at Valeriya and gave her a slight nod. He hoped she understood.
He stood, towering over the man, blue eyes blazing. His voice was a quiet whisper, but every ounce of his will and anger and focus was on him. "You will escort us to your mistress, boy."
Special people. He knew what that meant. But he needed to see for himself. He wanted Valeriya to see. This was a war. Not a battle. A few dead gods was meaningless, in the long run. That was the only thing that held him back. The only thing.
The boy quailed, wilted like a flower for a moment, the fires winking out, looking up at him with eyes slightly wide before trying to regain face, briefly looking to Valeriya. Armande could not help the small twitch of his lips.
He held out his hand. "Come, my dear. Let us see this woman."