The Sinner

I release you, Lucy Dennings. May my eternal sleep sever the chains that bind you to my damnation. You are free.

All my love is yours,

Casziel

Twenty-Three

I soar over the city in my anicorpus, riding the currents of air. The rain beats at my wings—little weighted drops that want to drive me to the ground. The wind gusts against my face, pushing me back toward Lucy.

But there’s nowhere else for me to go. Part of me wondered if I’d wake up to a new life that morning, having been granted a second chance. But everything is the same. All doors closed to me except for one. So I left Lucy with what she asked for—the rest of our too-brief story.

And then I kissed her goodbye.

The old anger and rage flares in me as I land and transform into my demonic form in front of Idle Hands.

What did you expect? Redemption? You haven’t repented. You awakened Lucy’s memory, fucked her, and then left her.

I snarl at the unwanted thoughts and shove past the bouncer at the door.

The tavern is nearly empty, only a half-dozen tables occupied. Eistibus is in his usual spot behind the bar. Ba-Maguje, too, is at his post—head resting in a pool of his own fluids, inciting his humans to drink.

But I stop short to see Ambri sitting at the bar looking unlike himself—unsettled and anxious, like a peacock with its feathers ruffled. Indeed, his wings look less than immaculate. A faint smile—an echo of his usual cockiness—touches his lips.

“Casziel, my lord and friend, please join me.”

“I have business here,” I warn in a low voice. “You know this.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says, flapping a hand. “Bu

t the old man isn’t going anywhere. We have time for a drink.”

“Ambri…”

“Oh, come now. Let’s have a round of shots and pretend like we can get drunk.” Ambri signals to Eistibus. “Tequila, my good man. Ha! Has the absurdity occurred to anyone else that our meeting place on This Side is a pub? How peculiar. All of us sitting around, drinking like twits, nary a buzz to be had.”

Ambri’s stalling, but I give in and sit with him. He can’t deter me, but his efforts touch me more than I want to admit.

I’m going to miss him too.

The djinn lines up two shot glasses and pours the liquor.

“Tip one for yourself, Eistibus,” Ambri says, and we all lift our glasses. “To Lord Casziel. A bloody fine fellow.”

“Hear, hear,” Eistibus says, and the finality of it all weighs heavier.

We start to drink, but Ambri’s jovial demeanor slips off like a mask, his voice taking a sharp edge. He holds his glass higher, his black eyes hard on mine.

“To my friend Casziel, the fool. A right bloody wanker.” Ambri crosses himself with is free hand. “Forgive the daft arsehole, for he knows not what he does.”

Eistibus holds his glass uncertainly. “Cheers?”

“That’s enough, Ambri,” I say and down my shot. The tequila burns a path down my gullet, and then it’s gone.

Ambri tosses back his drink then slams the glass on the bar hard enough to shatter it. “Apologies, Eistibus,” he mutters. “Hand slipped.”

“Not at all, mate,” the djinn says, still glancing between us. But he knows better than to meddle in the affairs of archdukes. When he goes to retrieve something to clean up the mess, I shoot Ambri a glance.

“Something on your mind?”