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Griffin snorts, unfazed by my objection. "Who said anything about people? These are gargoyles.” He pokes the chef in the stomach.
“I mean it. No one besides those living inside this keep or those that sleep in boulders in the front lawn comes,” I say, putting my foot down.
"Great! No problem." Griffin grins from ear to ear. "If anything is worthy of celebrating, it's Asmo's awakening." The gargoyle chef gives him a pointed look, and Griffin quickly adds, "And the ghosts coming back to life, of course. Being dead for two hundred years is no easy feat."
With a flourish of his hands, Griffin conjures a large wooden crate in the middle of the throne room.
I jolt as it slams into the floor, eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell is that?"
"My party supplies," he answers nonchalantly. "You know, the basics: booze, drugs, streamers, some flutes…"
I gape at him, wondering what kind of parties he's been attending—or throwing for that matter. But instead of dwelling on it, I join him as he begins hanging up decorations in the throne room and delegating tasks to the gargoyles of the keep.
"Okay, I'll admit it," I say as we work side by side, a smile tugging at my lips. "This might actually be fun."
"See?" Griffin grins. "I knew you'd come around."
Hours later, the placehas been fully decorated, complete with long tables that the chef can fill with food, the piano from upstairs placed in the corner of the throne room, and all the various instruments that came in Griffin’s box beside it.
Griffin reaches into his box, grabbing two large bowls out. “Here, pour these in one and the other will be for punch. Put them on the long table.”
“You could say please,” I say under my breath, doing as he suggests. “What is punch?”
Griffin stills as if I offended a god. "It’s like wine, but more of a community thing. Everyone can fill up a goblet, and sometimes other things are added in.”
“Like what?” I ask, trying to figure out what you add to wine.
“Well, if you ever go to a celebration in Hell Hold, never drink the punch. Lust, one of the demons there, likes to spike it. That shit makes you go mad and next thing you know you’re naked in an orgy have no idea how you got there.” Griffin shivers as if ridding himself of a mental image.
“I see… Isn’t lust a sin demon?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t look at me while he takes up his make-shift sign. In large bold letters, he’s painted the words, ‘Welcome back from the dead’ on a banner he made from a spare sheet.
“I thought sin demons can only force the sins they embody through their tears.” I pause, refraining from looking over my shoulder at him, even though it’s taking him an awfully long time to answer.
“You’d be correct,” he finally says.
“So, you’re telling me lust is crying into the punch bowl at these social gatherings?”
“Yes. Sometimes he does it on purpose, or others someone has coerced him to. You’d be surprised what mentioning dead hellhounds would do to the man. Blubbers like a baby every time.”
I turn, hands on my hips. “Please tell me you didn’t make the man cry to start yourshenanigans.”
“My lips are sealed, but it’s okay to say the word sex you know. You don’t have to be a prude about it.”
“I am not a prude.”
“You didn’t say the word earlier, when the gargoyles were all but humping each other. You didn’t say orgy now. That sounds an awful lot like prudish behavior.”
“Think what you want,” I say, pouring the silver packets into the bowl. “What are these?” I grab one, holding it up at eye-level for a better look. It’s silver and square, though something round is inside of it.
Griffin is beside me in an instant. “Come to think of it, I don’t think those will be needed here. I doubt gargoyles can procreate.” He steals the bowl from me, popping it out of existence. I don’t have to say anything. My thoughts must be written all over my face because Griffin groans. “Must I explain everything? They’re condoms. They keep you from creating little yous when you have sex. See? This is exactly what I meant.” He mouths the wordprudeand twirls away.
“We just have magic,” I say with a shrug. “Every woman and man drinks a potion when they come of age and until you gothrough marriage nuptials, it makes it impossible. At least that’s how it is for highborn elves. I’m not sure about the rest.”
“Must be nice,” Griffin says, attitude lacing every word. Though, when I turn around, I find him seated on a gargoyle’s shoulders, trying to secure a corner of the banner he couldn’t reach from the table he’d been standing on a moment ago.
"Griffin," I snap, watching him teeter precariously on the gargoyle's broad shoulders. "Get down before you end up in a coma, too."
