Page 89 of The Simurgh
The headless horseman, who was indeed utterly headless once more, wore a short cape over his shoulders and it flared just enough that it was not until he came to a halt that Lucifer realised the Dullahan not alone.
The lorebiders and guards fell into shallow genuflections, their staffs held across their bodies.
‘Your Majesty,’ they murmured in unison.
Lucifer quickly followed suit but even as he bobbed, his eyes did not leave the King of the UnSeelie Court.
The Erlking moved silkily, a few steps behind the horseman. He wore a circlet of black opal upon his head, contrasting starkly with his vermillion hair that framed a pale face and fell long, brushing at the backs of his ankles. He was not a tall creature, the Dullahan had a foot on him at least, but the eye was drawn to him. He radiated, in a way peculiar to elven royalty, with an allure that even one so disinterested as Lucifer could not deny. Lokke curled a length of his insensibly long hair around a spindly finger. With his other hand he caressed the pale yellow chiffon of his robe. A one-shouldered affair whose drape exposed one of his ebony nipples. The fine material was hopeless at providing any true concealment, his long torso evident through its fineness. Lucifer was grateful for the contrasting panel that sat just below his hips for the thicker material allowed some decency. He was in no mood for seeing all the treasures of the trickster king.
Lucifer rose first, likely doing so too soon, for Lokke’s gaze snapped to him. Eyes of piercing sapphire and slit like a cat’s. His features were both soft and sharp at once, his lips drew attention to themselves for the way they sparkled with flecks of gold, and his limbs, marginally too long to ever be mistaken for human, moved in a deliberate, measured, sensual way.
It would be very easy to forget oneself when the King of the UnSeelie was close.
Precisely why so many of humankind fell prey to the Erlking’s masquerade balls, and required the Order’s rescue before they danced their feet to the bone and fornicated themselves into oblivion.
Lucifer cleared his throat. He was no supple purebred, certainly no seeker of pleasures of the flesh.
He met the Erlking’s gaze head-on. Lokke tilted his head, still toying with his hair. His pupils flared wide and black.
‘Why are you still in my way, captain?’
‘Forgive me, your majesty.’ Lucifer stepped back.
‘Perhaps.’ The Erlking released the strand of hair. It moved in a slow drift over his shoulder, and lifted to wind itself over the circlet and fix into place with impeccable tidiness. ‘See me in my rooms when this is done, and I’ll consider your petition for forgiveness.’
The other elves shifted, in discomfort or perhaps jealousy, for the suggestion of vulgarity was blatant. Repulsive.
Lokke folded his arms, one finger lifting to touch at his nipple as he continued to bore his gaze into Lucifer.
‘Am I to open the door myself?’ One thin brow rose, the hint of sharp teeth between parted lips.
The Dullahan moved before Lucifer could, and he thought him intending to do the door opening himself. Instead Byleist reached up with a gloved hand and grabbed the captain’s pointed ear, twisting it.
Lucifer cried out. Gods, the creature had a decent grasp. The Dullahan threw Lucifer at the yellow doors, where he barely managed to avoid smacking his face against the glass. He braced his hands against the smooth panels.
Gabriel called out from within the conservatory. ‘I said no one is to enter.’ His voice was faint, suggesting the room was vast.
‘No one but me, your grace,’ Lokke called in return. ‘Here at your bidding. I’ll be with you momentarily, I assure you.’
‘Enter. And hurry yourself.’ Came Gabriel’s distant command.
‘Open the door, you imbecile.’ The Dullahan snarled in Lucifer’s ear, impressively so, for one without a visible mouth. ‘Have you lost your wits?’
The headless horseman crowded him, his impatience like the heaviness of coming rain. In truth, Lucifer was witless. At least so far as in opening this blasted door. There were no visible handles or bolts, and a crawl of unease came with imagining that his disguise, so supreme until now, was to be outdone by a simple doorknob.
The Dullahan suddenly shouldered Lucifer out of the way. The blow was mighty, and would have knocked him off his feet had he not collided with one of the lorebiders. Obion caught him. Lucifer brushed him off with an irritated grunt.
The Dullahan touched his hands to each panel. The doorway swung open, and the conservatory beyond was revealed.
The room was cavernous, and entirely filled with topiary bushes of all shapes and sizes, creatures large and small. Some Lucifer recognised from the human world, a simple doe and another that looked like a hairy elephant. The most ostentatious though, and so large it covered up view of the rest of the conservatory, was of Lokke himself, seated upon an elaborate throne. The back reached up so high it looked like it sought the heavens, while the base rested on a pile of treasures, that included everything from incredible necklaces and tiaras to goblets and extravagant candelabra. Lokke sat, wearing only a loincloth, with hands braced on the arms of the chair, legs crossed, and chin tilted with self-satisfaction. Upon his head lay a crown so large that it would have broken his neck to truly wear it. The artistry was breathtaking, in the gaudiest of ways.
Now, the real king swanned through the doorway, brushing his hand over the Dullahan’s shoulder.
‘Oh Byleist. I have missed watching you bully your way about. I do hope Mr Mercer tries to retrieve his daemon, just so I can watch you exact revenge upon him for stealing your whip.’
The Dullahan turned to his king with a faceless gaze.
It struck Lucifer that the creature was oddly subdued. The headless horseman he’d met in York had much to say. And more of a head. He recalled something of a face and features, but perhaps that was his own imaging.