He Who Flew Too Close

Chapter 2

The shadows immersing Larious's features feel as though they are increasing tenfold all of a sudden. His cold, calculating gaze seems to weld my skin like a branding iron; so many people are watching and whispering that I feel heat cling to my face. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God! Why am I doing this again?!

"Lorelei." His eyebrows raise and his lips tighten. He looks as though he can't believe what he's seeing. In fact, I can hardly believe it myself. "Leave."

I fidget. The last thing I want is to be sitting here, but I don't think this is the time to be leaving people alone with one another. Especially young women with weird old men. I remind myself of this and grip onto the seat like a vice, nearly having to chain myself to the damn thing so I don't leave her alone in her time of need. 

Time seems to be passing very slowly all of a sudden. I find my pulse racing even from a simple act of defiance like this.

"Fine,' Larious says sharply. "I've been wanting to speak to you anyway."

I sink into my seat and slouch my shoulders. Oh dear God, what does he want?

Larious seems to have had enough of me. I'm not the biggest problem here. 

Miranda folds her arms. I wish I had the spine that she has to glare at him so venomously; she retains her posture, head held high as she shoots daggers into his skin.

"How about the pair of you step into my office?" Larious asks as though it is a question, not an order.

Me and Miranda glance at each other. I'm relieved about this development; a chorus of murrmurrs resonates all around me. I don't want to be subjected to these stares a moment longer. I can only imagine the gossip that is going to be circulating about us.

I get up and we walk in silence to Larious' office. I tuck my head into my neck, feeling very small all of a sudden.

He does not hold the door open for us. 

I note that, for a room in a building in worship to a god of arts, his office is exceptionally plain. The claustrophobic walls are plastered with a monotonous grey as dull as Larious' sermons themselves. There is not a lick of creativity nor anything but the bare necessities to brighten up the place. Not a single trinket or piece of paper slips out of line. My imperfect self feels out of place here -- this office is as prim and proper as he.

Larious takes a seat and the two of us follow. My leg absentmindedly vibrates and I rub my sweating palms across my trousers. Larious' punishments are notoriously brutal. What's going to happen to us?

Much to my surprise and immense relief, the hardened glare on his features softens. Larious touches his chest and speaks in a gentle tone. 

"Miss Miranda Salem," he says. "I am simply trying to save your soul."

Miranda slouches in her seat. Those brown eyes of hers – the hue of tree bark kissed in golden sunshine – burn with defiance. 

"My soul does not need saving," she says sharply. 

Larious sighs. "Miranda, I will tell you a story," he says, spreading his palms in an open-armed gesture. "My mother. She was a prostitute." His brow furrows and he licks his lips; it takes a moment for him to collect his mind.  "She got pregnant with me. She could have aborted me unethically like others in her line of work would, but she decided to keep me. And so, she worked tirelessly to feed me. Despite being caught up in such a deplorable scene, she had a good, kind heart. Things were tough though -- she was a single parent, after all. So she started sleeping with Lupine. Male Lupine love human women and will pay good money to sleep with them." Genuine sadness clouds his eyes. I genuinely did not realise he had a heart. "She was…” Larious pauses and his mouth twitches to the side. “...eaten.”