Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

part of the daily comings and goings of the neighborhood, the nannies parading their prams up and down the street, the children playing games in the small park in the center of the square.
    Materializing in the parlor, Ashe reclaimed his human appearance as he did so. He had dismissed the staff prior to departing for the club, so the house sat quietly around him, welcoming in its normalcy after the all too hellish environment of Dis. A niggling doubt crawled around inside him. Maybe there was something to what Father said. Maybe he had become too attached to humans, too distanced from what he ought to be. No! He was not going to succumb to his father's view of the world and he was certainly not going to roll over and kowtow to his demands. He was his own master and would make his own way in the world.
    The young daemon reflected on Lord Nox' words. It was not an unreasonable thing that the general should want him to be successful, although his father's definition of success would perhaps differ from his own. Perhaps there was a middle ground… some way to be himsel … and still show his father that he was worthy of his legacy. He would have to think on that. Perhaps planning for the future was not such a bad thing.
    Finally casting off the last unpleasantness of visiting his father, Ashe headed upstairs. If he hurried, he could still attend the Prince of Wales' ball tonight.
    CHAPTER II – Lammas Night
    Melizander slammed his notebook shut and pushed away the pile of papers. Triple bloody damnation! Three months had passed as he translated the French monk's Latin scribbling and in spite of everything he had nothing to show but garbled rubbish! Fourier's babbling was worse than reading Nostradamus!
    He fingered the silver around his neck. The only promising result so far concerned the odd necklace: it indeed was meant to accompany the book. It acted as some sort of talisman for dealing with daemons. What it could do and how to use it remained mysteries, but its presence felt right to Melizander.
    The artificer shoved his chair away from the desk and, standing, paced about his study only to stop and stare out the window. He felt trapped. Now that he had found the book there was no going back— no way to unring the bell, to put the genie back in the bottle— but he was making no headway. He covered the distance from window to hearth. He was snared, stuck in a limbo of Latin riddles.
    His gaze fell on a small bronze box on the mantelpiece.
    No! He had sworn that off.
    Yet, seemingly of its own accord, his hand flipped up the lid.
    Of course, it was there, resting on its bed of black velvet. When Grandfather had died, Uncle James received the title and Melizander had gotten this . Somehow Grandfather had recognized a kindred spirit— they had never talked about anything even remotely related to it— yet Grandfather had known. It glowed in the study's lamplight. Melizander softly traced the head of the bird that rose from the stylized flames that formed the bow. The shank of the key was engraved in a woven design, resembling the handle of a whip. He shivered.
    Melizander had frequented the Club, availing himself of its… services, to escape the tyranny of his own thoughts. At first it had been exciting in its newness, thrilling, forbidden. Then the visits had become riskier and even more taboo, spiraling into a moral darkness, an abyss of inhumanity. He had grown to crave the pain for the pain itself— it had become an addiction— a remedy for the pain over which he had no control. When Milos had died, that hurt— and his accumulated shame— had kept his compulsion at bay. Until now.
    He raised his face to the mirror above the mantle, and his eyes met the dark eyes of his pale reflection. Shadowy circles of fatigue smudged his complexion, made to look even paler by his black goatee. He needed to shave and bathe before he betrayed himself.
    ****
    Ashe's carriage chugged and sputtered as his driver braked beneath the Club's porte-cochere while a liveried footman, outfitted in the characteristic red and gold, trotted forward to open his door. Thin insipid tendrils of fog clung to the lamps that bordered the main entry. Hunched inside his greatcoat, Ashe avoided the oily puddles of leftover rainwater.
    Beyond the entrance a small number of members milled about a late supper buffet, while others lounged or conversed in small groups. Retrieving a snifter of Armagnac from the bar, Ashe mingled, shaking hands and