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“I used to hide in the rose garden.” As I said it, my gaze was drawn in and stuck fast. “I liked the thorns.”
The patterns they painted in blood as they raked across your skin, the design raised later in scabs, the irony even petal-soft flowers had sharp teeth.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” He grew contemplative. “There was a price for safety among them.”
The words sank in, lodged beneath my skin, and stuck. “How do you figure?”
“I know you.” He rolled his thumb over my knuckles. “You believe there’s a cost for everything.”
“There is.” I forced one foot in front of the other. “However, it’s rarely monetary.”
Long before we reached the elegant steps leading into the imposing manor, the butler opened the door. His spine popped as he hunched over to see under the arched frame. His skin was cloudy white, his hair powdery blue, and his eyes glittered with iridescence as they narrowed on me in recognition.
Bjorn, who never had liked me much, bristled as the predator in him recognized the predator in Asa. The ends of his hair clotted and hardened into icicles, and snowflakes drifted from a corona above his head that reminded me of the aurora borealis. Either that was new, or I had never seen him truly riled.
When you considered I once set his livery on fire, while he was wearing it, that was saying something.
Though, in my defense, he had ratted me out to the director for staying in the garden after dark.
“You wait here,” he ordered Asa. “You know the rules.”
“Tell the director I’m here, and inform him I’m not taking a step inside this mausoleum without Asa.”
With a grumble, Bjorn slammed the door in our faces and barred it from the other side.
“This is already going so much better than my last visit here,” I said cheerfully. “How about you?”
“The director prefers I wait in the car when Clay and I come to call.”
Prejudice or fear? With him, it was often hard to tell. His depth of emotion rivaled a teaspoon.
“He probably wants to talk to me alone.” I heard a tremor in my voice and crushed it flat. “Too bad.”
Ten minutes later, Bjorn returned and opened the door wide enough for us to enter. By this time, the ice on his skin had begun to harden into armor that would deflect physical and magical attacks.
“The daemon spawn isn’t allowed in the director’s most private chambers,” Bjorn informed us, his voice a nasal whine that clashed with his size. “The director will meet with you in the library.”
I took a step in his direction, not to follow his lead, but to break off a haircicle and stab him with it.
Asa set a hand on my shoulder, holding me back from a confrontation that wouldn’t end well.
For Bjorn.
“Thank you,” Asa said with a politeness that baffled me. “We’ll show ourselves in.”
A grunt was all the acknowledgment we got before the frost giant stomped back to his post.
“I’ve always wondered if he would turn to ash or a puddle of water if I touched him,” I mused. “What do you think?”
“That you can’t kill everyone who’s prejudiced against daemons.”
“What if I kill everyone prejudiced against my daemon?”
The emphasis on my brought a smile to his lips, and my heart couldn’t decide if it ought to shrivel in embarrassment or swell with pride that I made him happy by claiming him.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but no.”
Probably I wouldn’t kill them. Just zap them until smoke poured out of their ears. But I was trying to be a better person, and a better person wouldn’t experiment on the boiling point for brains à la cranium.
