Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

to take their relationship to the next stage, playing further into Ashe's trap.
    Now, standing in the middle of that trap and mindful of his ultimate goal, Ashe again had to quash his anger at Atherton's insensitivity. With not insignificant guilt, he also quashed his pity for Melizander's humiliation. His feelings for Melizander could carry no weight against his father's approbation.
    ****
    Excitement thrilled through Melizander. He had finally broken the riddle of the codex!
    The necklace— called a treminae — seemed to thrum powerfully, recognizing its name. The silver piece was a potent talisman, hidden for centuries, which would protect him from daemonic influences. As well, he had learned that the treminae could be used to call daemons, as well as to bind and command them. The codex was a compendium of complex rituals to utilize the various properties of the charm.
    Now that he had concrete results, he could be completely honest with Asher and tell him the full truth. The months of having to obfuscate and dodge Ashe's interest in parts of his life had been tiring to Melizander's conscience and trying to his sense of honor. Ashe's attentions had garnered his trust, something he held close and dear. He had already disclosed his embarrassing association with the Phoenix Club, which Ashe had taken easily in stride. But as far as the book was concerned he had needed to be able to say, "Here is my proof!"
    Melizander smiled. Never had he imagined he would gain two great gifts at the same time— a man who loved him and success in his dearest dream— yet he had them both; and Asher deLancey was to thank. Since meeting Ashe, he had made great strides in deciphering the book; it was as if Ashe's presence in his life had unlocked something within him, some source of inspiration and insight. Ashe had also unlocked pleasure in Melizander's life, given back to him, clean and clear, something that had been sullied and dark. Anticipation filled him as he thought of the bright future that lay ahead for him and Ashe.
    Calling for Philips, he sent a note to Ashe, accepting his invitation to dinner that night.
    ****
    Sending the young boy away with a ha'penny, Ashe quickly tore open the envelope and scanned its contents. Xander— in the small quiet place in his heart, he still thought of him by that name— had accepted his invitation to dinner, ostensibly to meet his parents. Ironically, Ashe had invited his father, not to dinner, but to make peace between them by offering him a full-fledged daemon-hunter.
    Ambivalence tore at his conscience, torturing him with a pain no rack could match. As cruel as Ashe had ever been, this trap seemed ever so much more daemonic. He laughed a bitter chuckle. Father will be so proud . But at what price? Tristekedes was a daemonolator, his life forfeit simply due to what he was. A small part of him screamed, but Xander was so much more! Honorable, caring and trustworthy! Qualities that Ashe had apparently left at the door.
    No matter how honorable Melizander was, he was mortal, doomed to die. Nox' anger and contempt would endure for millennia. Crumpling the stationery, Ashtariel went to dress for dinner.
    ****
    Melizander stood nervously on the stoop, watching the sun set the horizon alight as he awaited Ashe's doorman.
    "Good evening, Mister Tristekedes. Please come in." The door had been answered by Ashe's butler.
    "Good evening, Dobbs," Melizander answered. "How are you?"
    "Well, sir, thank you for asking." The aging servant escorted Ashe into the library. "Lord deLancey asked that you await him here. May I offer you a brandy?"
    "No, thank you." Melizander stood in the middle of the room, shifting his weight from left to right.
    "Very good, sir. Lord deLancey will be down shortly." Dobbs silently closed the pocket doors, isolating Melizander with his nerves.
    The artificer paced about the room, glancing at book titles and studying the artwork. As usual, Ashe had demonstrated impeccable taste, in both the décor and the furnishings. His hand strayed to the treminae, where it lay beneath his starched white shirt. He had tried not wearing the piece but he would soon be overcome with concern for its safety; the jewelry had become more and more his personal touchstone. He often found himself, as now, unconsciously fingering the silver beads. Tonight the necklace itched madly, scratching at his nerves. Annoyed, he clasped his hands behind his back.
    A soft shoosh announced the opening of the