Soul Fire (Darkling Mage 8)

Herald sighed, giving me a weak smile. “Then we lived happily ever after.”

“You were kinda cute, actually, sleeping like that. Like a serial killer. Handsome one.”

Herald scowled, turning back to the counter. I just noticed the apron he was wearing, with its little cartoon cow printed on the front – a souvenir from the Happy, Inc. tour.

“Flattery isn’t getting you anywhere,” he huffed. “What’s up? I thought we agreed that you’d call before dropping in on me like this. I don’t want to go to jail for accidentally killing someone in self-defense, least of all my boyfriend.”

“Hey. Can’t a guy visit his partner every now and then? Maybe I missed you.”

Or maybe, I thought, maybe I’m feeling guilty about being with Bastion, about not telling you about it beforehand, and about not telling you about it now.

“Hmm. I’m not so sure about that.” Herald fiddled with something on the counter, humming to himself absently. “Is this about Agatha Black? I texted you. We’ll be fine, I said. We’ll work things out.”

“It’s not about that. I told you, I just wanted to see you.” I stepped closer, risking entering his personal space, hooking my fingers through one of his belt loops. “I didn’t get a good look at that apron. Does it say ‘kiss the chef?’ Lemme see.”

Herald turned in place, laughing. “It doesn’t and you damn well know that.” He gestured at the words printed under the cow’s face.

“Licensed to grill,” I read out loud. “Dang. That’s not as exciting.”

“And a little inappropriate for what I’m doing, to be honest.”

I peered over his shoulder, finding, of all things, a couple of pie tins, already filled and ready to pop in the oven. Herald was pricking some holes into the crust, arranged, as expected, in a pathologically flawless series of geometric patterns.

“That explains the smell,” I said.

He wrinkled his nose, holding his hand out and pushing me lightly in the chest. “But it doesn’t explain yours. Holy hell, Dust, you stink. And you’re covered in sweat. What have you been doing?”

“N-nothing,” I stammered. “Been a long day.” I flexed my arms, even though Herald couldn’t see anything through the sleeves of my jacket. “Been getting ripped. Workin’ out.”

Herald rolled his eyes. “You’re usually so good at lying, too. No sugar from me until you take a shower, stinky.”

I stared pointedly at the pies, my stomach grumbling despite them being totally unbaked and unfit for consumption. “What about those? Do I get some sugar from those guys? I’m starving.” My stomach rumbled in convenient agreement.

“Same deal. You smell terrible. No pie until you’re clean. Besides, these aren’t for eating. Not right now, at least. I was going to take them over to the Boneyard when they were done.”

I nodded eagerly, grinning. “Right, right. That’s

so sweet, you baking me two whole pies.”

“Greedy. No. Those are for everyone to share.”

“I’ll cut you a deal. One pie for me, the other one for all those other losers. I’m cuter than all of them combined.”

Herald narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Graves.”

I liked this, that we could talk to each other like that, just shoot the shit. It was so mundane, so domestic, an ordinary, pastry-based distraction from the realities of Agatha Black. No words needed to even explain that. It was implicit, the understanding that we were allowed to live normal lives, even if it was just in the cracks in between regular instances of preventing the apocalypse and almost dying.

Herald scratched his chin. “I mean, I guess since you’re here, you may as well wait for these to bake and take them home. Can you even carry a pie through the Dark Room? Would it still be edible?”

I shrugged. “I go through it all the time and I’m still totally edible. Delicious, even.”

“You’re being extra cheeky tonight,” Herald said, cocking an eyebrow, his smirk matching the curve of it.

I stepped closer, putting a little swagger in my step. “Like I said. Missed you.”

“If you say so,” Herald said, backing away and waving a hand under his nose. “But you definitely need a shower. You smell like a trash can.”

“What?” I sniffed myself. He wasn’t wrong, but still. Kind of a mean thing to say, right? “Nah, that’s just the handsomeness leaking.”