Free Ashes of the Day by P.G. Forte

a concerted attempt to replicate everything he’d walked away from, as though to make sure he never felt any lack. Or had any reason to leave them and return to Conrad’s nest.
    A huge fireplace surround—one with pillars and mirrors and intricately carved wood—had been dragged home from somewhere and secured against one wall. A fake electric fireplace with flames that flickered and moved had been shoved inside the opening in the face of the surround—giving the illusion that it was a working fireplace. Mismatched leather armchairs and a worn leather couch had been positioned in front of the faux hearth, while a massive armoire and four-poster canopy bed dominated the bedroom. Scattered on the floor in both rooms were several crimson-toned oriental carpets—threadbare, but still serviceable. It was eclectic, impressive, a little bit goth—and Marc was almost shocked by how much he liked it. “It’s freaking perfect.” Worried expressions dissolved into satisfied grins. His new family smiled back at him. Marc suspected he was grinning himself. “Good job, everyone. Thank you.”
    “All right.” Nighthawk clapped his hands to get their attention. “C’mon, everybody, time to clear out. Let’s give the man some space so he can enjoy his new home. Let’s go,” he urged again, when no one seemed disposed to move. “We’ve got a party to get set up for, don’t we? I mean, unless y’all are content to starve for another night.”
    That got everyone motivated at last. All but Heather, who turned her back on Nighthawk and the departing crowd and wandered away to examine a tapestry that had been nailed into place on one of the walls.
    “You all get started,” Nighthawk called after the crowd. “I’ll be down to help out in a minute. Heather, that means you too, you know. C’mon, get outta here.”
    Heather shrugged. “I’ll go when I’m ready. You’re not the boss of me.”
    Marc hid a smile. “Something on your mind, Hawk?”
    Nighthawk cast a meaningful glance in Heather’s direction. When it became obvious Marc had no intention of telling her to go, he nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, actually, there is.”
    “Come on then.” Marc waved them both over to his new seating area. He seated himself on the couch, not at all surprised when Heather hurried over to cuddle beside him, slipping quickly past the larger feral to ensure he didn’t get there first. “Sit,” Marc urged, waving Nighthawk toward the armchair facing him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
    “I just wanted to ask if you’d thought at all about choosing lictors yet,” Nighthawk said.
    Marc’s eyebrows rose. “Lictors?”
    “Yeah. You know, like what they had back in Roman times? They’re kinda like—”
    “I know what they are,” Marc assured him. Whatever arguments he might have with Conrad and Damian, he could certainly never accuse them of neglecting his education.
    “I don’t,” Heather protested. “What are they?”
    “‘Lictors were a class of…of bodyguards, I guess you’d say,” Marc explained. “Sort of like aides or personal assistants, only more prestigious. They attended high-ranking public officials and other people of importance, ran interference for them, carried out their orders, things like that.”
    “Oh. Cool.”
    “Yeah. Exactly.” Nighthawk gazed expectantly at him. “So, have you thought about it?”
    Marc frowned. “What exactly am I supposed to be thinking about?”
    “Who’re you gonna pick, of course.”
    “You want me to pick…lictors? What, you mean like people to follow me around and stuff?”
    Nighthawk nodded. “Yeah, like what you just said, to carry out orders and do things for you. Make sure you have what you need. Back you up in a fight. Whatever.”
    Heather had perked up. “I want to be a lictor,” she said.
    Marc sighed. Bodyguards, attendants, more people to trip over—yeah, that was just what he needed. And who the hell had said anything about fighting? “Look,