That night with Samael over dinner, I look into his indigo eyes as we are eating duck confit with scallions and mixed greens and search for some semblance of myself reflected in their oceans. Instead there is the void, and swimming creatures like Leviathan and Rahab stirring primordial seas. Nothing I would mark mine.
"What is it, peach princess?" Samael asks, bemused, as he takes a vicious bite of duck leg and scallions. He chews contemplatively. Lambent jellyfish fire lights in his aquifer eyes.
I set down my fork and knife, nervous to broach the subject: "How long did you wait with the other tithes before marriage vows and the troth fire?"
Samael's face darkens. "Sometimes a day, sometimes centuries. It all depended on the girl."
A cloud of thunderheads and lightning, pregnant with rain, draws across my very soul. "How many have there been before me?"
