Page 80 of A Haven of Brimstone and Darkness

“What do you want, Kalix?”

What do I want?

The question sparks an old memory, one I’d thought long forgotten. Of another question I’d struggled to answer.

8 years old…

“Do you love me, Kalix?”

I stare at the woman that is my mother as she lies prone on the couch in one of Azai’s many lounge rooms. Her face is slackened and her lips parted as she reclines against the furniture, one arm draped lazily over the side of the sofa and the other dangling towards the floor with a nearly empty bottle in her hand.

When I don’t offer an answer and continue stroking the snake in my lap, letting the creature curl and constrict around my forearm in practiced movements, she lifts her head.

“Kalix?” Her tone grows whiny—annoying.

I flash her a look from beneath my lashes and ignore her call.

The bottle drops to the floor and a sob fills the air in the room. “You don’t, do you?” she cries, covering her face with her hands. “No one loves me. Not Azai…not even you.” Her weeping grows louder and my hand on the scales of the snake still.

As if sensing my mood, the snake tightens too much and a respondingcrackechoes into the air. Pain flares bright for a moment, but is too soon overtaken by rage. Gripping the creature by its throat, I rip it free from my arm and slam its head into the floor—once, twice, by the third time I’ve smashed its skull. I let the dead serpent fall to the floor as I look at my now broken wrist.

All the while, my mother’s sobs continue to fill the room. If only I could punish her the same way I do my snakes—that might finally make her stop crying. But no, that wouldn’t do. Azai likes the woman and still comes around often enough to entertain her. If I take away Azai’s entertainment then there will be no one worth watching in this house.

I cradle my limp wrist against my chest and get to my feet. It will heal fast enough, so the pain won’t remain, but I should at least find the housekeeper and ensure that the bone is set properly. I’m halfway to the door, just passing where the woman is lying, still sobbing on the lounge, when her arm snaps out and grabs ahold of me.

Startled by the sudden movement, I freeze as her face—eyes swollen and red-rimmed and lips parted to reveal a pink tongue and the scent of elderberry liquor—is suddenly in front of mine.

“I ruined my body for you, you little shit!” she screams, shaking me. “I gave him a son! A fucking son! All men wantsons, even Gods.” Her eyes are an unfocused muddy green color. More tears slip down her cheeks.

I contemplate breaking her hand to get her to release me. Even with my own injured wrist, it wouldn’t be difficult. Humans are weaker than Mortal Gods, after all. Again, though, Azai would be irritated and dealing with him over her is more of a hassle.

“Tell me!” The woman shakes me again, jerking me back and forth. I can feel the severed bones of my wrist rubbing and clacking against one another, drawing another swollen bolt of pain from the area.

“Tell you what, Mother?” I force the question out in an attempt to maintain my control. Azai says that control is what separates the Divine from the mundane. I have to control my strength and only use it when I want to…though I want to use it all of the time. Why have strength if it cannot be used? What’s the point?

“Answer me,” the woman cries, her lower lip trembling as her nails sink into my arms. “Answer my question.” What had she asked me? Before I can ask, though, she’s repeating it.

“Do you love me?”

Do I love her?

I suppose…I have to. Don’t I? All of the books Azai’s tutors force me to read say that everyone feels love. The stories that I’ve read describe the sensation as one of all-encompassing affection. But those who feel affection appear to enjoy the time they spend with the objects of that affection. I have never once enjoyed my mother’s presence save for when she amuses me with her obvious obsession with Azai.

When he’s away for long stretches, when she knows he’s been with other women, she drinks herself into a stupor like this. Where she’s half crazed and delirious—she must be to ask me this question. But when Azai sends word of his return, shechanges. The rush to pretty her face, to dress herself up, to prepare for his arrival—watching her scurry around, barking orders at the house staff is like watching rats racing through a maze. The very reminder makes my lips twitch.

Rats in a maze…

In the books I’ve read, though, people don’t think of those they have affection for as rats. They don’t laugh at their attempts to seek love from those who will never give it to them. They don’t contemplate snapping their mothers' necks for annoying them.

“No,” I finally surmise, deciding on my answer.

My mother’s face is frozen in shock as she gapes at me. I wrinkle my nose and turn away. She smells sour—almost like something that has ripened too far past its prime and is about to rot.

“No?” she repeats my answer as if she’s not quite sure she heard it.

“Yes,” I say with a nod as I extract myself from her hold. Her fingers loosen, falling away. “I’ve decided that I don’t love you. That’s your answer.”

I turn to leave the room in search of the housekeeper to set my wrist—I can already feel the bone knitting back together and breaking it again will be unpleasant. Just as I reach the doorway, however, my mother says something from behind me.

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