ledger in his hand. It’s bound in what I would guess is black dragonhide, but I don’t know if that’s my imagination running away with me or if that’s an actual possibility.
“Could you knock before you come barging in?” I scold.
“No. This is my house. How old?” he asks again.
“Twenty-eight,” I repeat on a sigh, and his brows dip in concentration as he flips through the pages of whatever book is in his hands.
He’s mumbling to himself, like he’s doing conversions in his head, like I’m a dog and he’s trying to see how old that would make me in—I listen closer—Marakas, Zael, and Goblin years.
I cringe. “You fucked a goblin?” I ask, my tone bleeding with judgment.
His eyes briefly swing up to me. “They are actually very attentive and gentle lovers. They do amazing things with one’s taint,” he tells me matter-of-factly, like it makes a difference.
“Ugh. I don’t want to hear about your taint,” I snap, suddenly wondering if I jump off this balcony, how quickly could I fly away from this dude.
But just the thought of having to use my bird parts gets me feeling all anxious and squeamish, so I decide against that plan of action.
“I need another book,” he declares, and suddenly, he’s just not there anymore.
Getting up, I head inside, locking the balcony door after me. Not because I think it will actually keep him out, but it feels like a small act of rebellion I can get away with to irritate him.
I make my way over to the second door in the room and pull it open, finding a walk-in closet just like I guessed. Everything hanging up is mostly made of leather, fur, and chains.
Swiping through the clothes, I finally manage to find a semi-normal looking pair of pants, and although they’re made of leather, they’re not stiff, shiny, or squeaky like the pair from the graveyard uniform. Instead, they’re supple and soft.
I find an array of underwear and stare at the pile for a moment, debating what to do. I’m not sure who this stuff belongs to, and I’m trying to decide which is worse: wearing someone else’s underwear, or wearing someone else’s pants without underwear. I snag a pair of panties and sniff a corner just to be sure they’re clean. I side-eye myself as I do it, irritated that Hell has forced me to become a creepy underwear sniffer. Luckily, they’re clean, so I pull them on, huffing at the black silk thong that goes right up my ass crack.
Finding a shirt is more difficult because there are no bras in sight. I’m not exactly ready to put on the one I was wearing before, but going without isn’t an option either. Going back into the bathroom, I clean the bra in the sink absently, refusing to focus on the ash tainted water that flows from it. I wring it out as much as I can and put the wet bra back on, cringing.
What the hell? This doesn’t fit right.
I look down at my chest, and my cups runneth over. I try to grasp what the fuck is going on. Did the Hell water shrink it? I pull the bra off and squeak in surprise when my boobs don’t do the normal sag. I push one boob down and then let go and watch, shocked, when it bounces right back up, perky as a Playboy Bunny.
Did I get a Nihil boob job to go with the rest of the changes to my body?
I twist and turn, looking at myself in the mirror. It’s undeniable, they’re bigger and higher up than they have been since I hit my late twenties. I put my wet bra back in the pile of dirty clothes that reek of trauma and pain and go back to the closet.
Inside, I grab what I’m pretty certain is meant to be a dude’s tunic that has a hole for wings in the back. It’s really difficult to put the damn thing on and line it up with the wing holes. When I finally manage to get it on, I’m sweating and out of breath. The hem hits right below my ass, and it’s really loose in the front, but it’s better than the half-naked women’s shirts hanging up. I don’t even think I could manage to get dressed in those without help.
As soon as I walk out of the closet, I see Tazreel appear outside on the balcony again. His face is buried in another black book.