Chapter 9: Unholy Recognition
There are few sensations in life more delicious than waking up in silk sheets that smell like three different sins and the faintest hint of incense. My body ached in that glorious, post-carnal way that made me stretch like a pampered cat. The masquerade had been a success. Too successful, perhaps.
Roderick stormed into my room just as I was contemplating whether to masturbate or summon breakfast first. His boots thudded across the carpet like the judgment of an angry saint. He still had blood on his shirt, soot on his boots, and a grimace that could curdle cream. Clearly somebody had been losing sleep.
"You absolute swine," he growled. "Do you know what you did last night?"
"Several people," I said helpfully, brushing a few golden feathers off my shoulder. "Though I’ve lost count after the priestess."
He threw a bundle of cloth at me. It hit my chest with a damp slap.
"That," he hissed, "was her cassock."
"Oh. I thought it smelled familiar." I pulled it close and sniffed dramatically. "Mmm. Sanctified debauchery."
Roderick turned the color of overripe tomatoes. "Cecil. That was Lysaria. High priestess of the Southern Sun Cult. She has a council seat."
The Southern Sun Cult were the rivals to the current sect of the church targeting me so such a development was to be expected. Hearing that she held a seat among the council, however, was a surprising revelation. I blinked. Then blinked again. Then smirked.
"I do have excellent taste."
"You marked her didn’t you?"