Saving the Immortal

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Father

I had been soaking in the bath, enjoying the rare quiet of an evening with no summons or duties pressing upon either of us, when the door burst open without warning.

I shrieked, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as I instinctively covered myself, and found Ruselon standing in the doorway, still dressed, an expression of poorly disguised mischief already forming on his face.

"Ruselon," I gasped. "Have you no manners at all?"

"Forgive me," he said, though his laughter suggested no genuine remorse whatsoever, "I merely wished to see whether you required company."

"Out," I said, splashing water in his general direction.

He retreated, still laughing, though he closed the door properly behind him this time, and I finished my bath in what remaining privacy I could manage, my heart still racing from the surprise of it, though a smile lingered on my own lips regardless.

When I emerged, dressed for the evening, I found him seated on the edge of our bed, and something in his posture struck me immediately as different from the playful mood he had shown me only minutes earlier.

His shoulders sat rigid, his jaw set in the particular tension I had come to recognize whenever some deeper trouble weighed upon him, though he offered no explanation, and I decided, tired myself and unwilling to press him toward a conversation he clearly did not wish to have that moment, to let the matter rest for now.

I settled onto the bed beside him.

And felt, immediately, the air shift.

A presence entered the room — I could not properly describe it any other way, some weight settling over the chamber that had nothing to do with sound or movement, only a sudden certainty that we were no longer alone.

I turned.

A man stood near the window, tall — taller even than Ruselon, which I had not believed possible — his hair a stark, pure white, combed back with an immaculate precision that seemed almost unnatural in its perfection. His skin held a paleness that caught the candlelight strangely, his lips a shade of pink too vivid against such coloring, and his features, sharp and beautiful in a manner I could not properly find words to describe, held an expression of calm, patient amusement that chilled me considerably more than any obvious cruelty might have.

I did not scream, though every instinct within me urged it.

I simply stared, uncertain, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

"Satan," Ruselon said, rising immediately, his voice carrying a coldness I had not yet heard from him, the tension I had noticed only moments earlier now finding its explanation entirely. "You were not invited here."

"I require no invitation, my son," the man said, his voice smooth and terribly patient, the specific quality of something that had existed since before invitation and permission held any meaning at all. "I came to see my daughter-in-law properly. It seemed only fitting, given how thoroughly you have kept her from me."

He turned his gaze toward me, and I felt it settle over me like something physical, an assessment considerably more penetrating than any mortal glance could manage.

"So this is Ivy," he said. "The princess who has caused my son to abandon so much of his careful restraint."

"Leave her out of this," Ruselon said, crossing to stand between us, his voice carrying a fierceness I had rarely heard directed at anyone before.

"I mean her no harm," the man said, though something in his patient smile suggested the assurance carried considerably less comfort than intended. "I am merely curious, Ruselon. You have spent your entire existence proving to this world that you are not what I made you. And yet here you stand, protecting a mortal woman with a fervor I have not witnessed from you since your mother drew her last breath."

Something flickered across Ruselon's expression at the mention of his mother — grief, quickly buried, replaced by the same controlled fury he had shown in that courtyard weeks earlier.

"You will not speak of her," he said quietly. "Not in this room. Not to me."

The man — Satan, Lucifer, whatever name properly belonged to him — regarded his son a long moment, something unreadable behind his own dark, ancient eyes.

"I merely wished to see her," he said finally. "The woman who has managed what four thousand years of my own influence never could — softening you, Ruselon, into something considerably closer to human than infernal."

"That is not weakness," Ruselon said.

"I did not say it was," the man said, something almost thoughtful crossing his features now. "I said it was interesting."

He turned toward me once more, and I forced myself to meet his gaze, whatever fear still trembled through me, refusing to let him see me look away.

"Princess," he said, inclining his head slightly, the gesture carrying more mockery than genuine courtesy. "I look forward to seeing precisely what becomes of my son, now that he has found something worth protecting so fiercely."

And then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone — the presence lifting from the room entirely, the candlelight settling back into its ordinary steadiness, leaving only silence and the sound of my own racing heartbeat in his absence.

Ruselon turned to me immediately, his earlier fury giving way to concern.

"Are you unharmed," he said, crossing to take my hands in his.

"I am unharmed," I said, though my voice shook slightly. "Ruselon, that was—"

"My father," he said quietly. "Yes."

"He knew about the tension I felt from you before he appeared," I said slowly, understanding dawning. "That is why you seemed so troubled when you sat down. You felt him coming."

"I did," he admitted. "I am sorry, Ivy. I did not wish for you to encounter him so soon, if ever at all. He rarely visits without some purpose, and I do not yet know what purpose brought him here tonight."

I looked at the space where the ancient figure had stood, a chill still lingering in my chest despite his departure.

"Whatever his purpose," I said quietly, "I do not believe it was simple curiosity."

Ruselon said nothing, though the grim set of his jaw suggested he shared precisely the same fear.