by S D Simper
“Casvir told me it was impressive she retained any personality at all,” Flowridia said, reaching over to pet Ana on her skull. “She obeys commands perfectly, but I’m content to mostly let her be.”
“Did you wield this power over your vampire as well?”
Flowridia frowned, but with some humor. “Certainly not.”
“A few choice herbs and magic words, and we could change that,” Odessa said, looking at the cauldron with intrigue. “You’d have a vampire at your beck and call.”
Flowridia shook her head. “Ayla isn’t one to be controlled.”
“But who better to control her than you, the one who loves her most?” Kindness shone in Odessa’s gaze. “The legacy of Ayla Darkleaf is met with terror to those who remember her. You could prevent history from repeating itself.”
A bit of coldness seeped into Flowridia’s blood at those words. Ayla, even under Casvir’s thumb, had returned to her old game of torture and experimentation, but if Odessa spoke true, wouldn’t this prevent Flowridia’s darkest fears from manifesting?
Yet, the thought unsettled her. “Love isn’t about control. I’m saying no.”
“You have a gentle heart, sweet Flower Child. But consider the greater good.”
The greater good said she ought to not bring Ayla back at all.
“You do not have to decide now,” Odessa continued. “Consider it, once Lara is slain. It would be trivial to slip an herb or two into your ritual. Then, when your vampire seeks to murder, it would be for you and only you.”
And Flowridia, despite her years living in fear of the woman who birthed her, despite her bitter longing for acceptance, felt her blood suddenly boil. “Look at me,” she said, eyes steeled as Odessa did so, bafflement on her lovely features, “because I will only say this one more time—no. If I were stupid enough to listen to that gods-awful plan, it would ruin everything I’d worked for. I wouldn’t have a lover to hold; I’d have a slave who resented me, and if you don’t understand how truly monstrous that is, I don’t know that I have anything more to say to you.”
The tension lingered. Odessa held her stare, a flicker of her true, wicked character showing in the slight twitch of her eye. “Night will be here soon,” Odessa said, forcibly polite. “Have you eaten at all?”
Flowridia shook her head. “Not since coming to the swamp.” She left through the front door again, ignoring the ghosts and their reminders of hell. This time, she returned with Casvir’s trunk of food. Demitri would be starving as well.
“If I could make you a hot meal, I would,” Odessa said with a sigh. “But there’re still dried ingredients in the pantry you might find a use for.”
Standing at those words proved to be a mistake; Flowridia felt faint. She leaned against the wall and managed to shake her head. “No, I have food.”
“If you’re certain,” Odessa replied, pouting slightly. “Oh, once I’m returned to a body I promise to care for you again. You know I pride myself on cooking.”
Flowridia left the room without a reply, stepping past Demitri who had been watching from the doorway. He followed her as she set the trunk beside the small table in the kitchen. You’re looking awfully pale.
“I’m just hungry,” Flowridia said softly, withdrawing an apple from within. Demitri stuck his face in and withdrew an enormous piece of meat. It dropped on the ground with a sickening squish, and Flowridia shut her eyes. Revulsion brewed within her, brought to a peak at what memories the noise incited. She set down the apple and placed her hands in her lap.
“Flower Child, won’t you help me clean this up? Human blood is so difficult to remove, once dried.”
When she didn’t hear the brutal ripping of raw meat, she opened her eyes. Demitri stared at her, ignoring his dinner. You have some bad memories here.
Flowridia simply shrugged, aware that Odessa lurked somewhere nearby.
This place is toxic to you. That, or it’s just her. I don’t trust her. I don’t like that you’re making deals with her. It’s not too late to leave.
Lips pursed, Flowridia glanced toward the walls and doorframe before whispering, “This is the only place Ayla’s body will be safe. My wards are good, but mother’s are unbreakable.”
You don’t need her.
“What other choice do we have, Demitri?”
You’ll accept her help but not Casvir’s?
“I couldn’t accept his deal.”
But you’ll accept hers?
“Is something wrong?” Odessa’s voice rang from the doorway.
“All is well, mother. Demitri is simply nervous about leaving Ayla’s body.”
That fit the tone of her words, right?
“Well, reassure Demitri that my home is a safe haven to you and yours. That includes Ayla, and it includes him, too.” She floated over to a cupboard. “Flower Child, would you open this? I would like to give a peace offering to your familiar.”
Flowridia stood, confused until the deep cupboard swung open and she saw an array of hanging, dried jerky.
“Perfectly preserved and full of potential,” Odessa mused. “I think you helped me prepare a few of these. They’ll give him strength.”
The cupboard slammed shut. Heart racing, Flowridia managed to smile at Odessa. “Dried meat upsets Demitri’s stomach.”
Blatantly false. She prayed Odessa accepted that.
“That’s unfortunate,” Odessa said, frowning. “Once I’m restored to life, I’ll make him something fresh. Oh, but take some for you, Flower Child. And take some on your journey.”
The cupboard swung open slowly this time. Flowridia reached inside, flinching when her fingers brushed against the jerky. To offend Odessa now could have consequences, but memories of years spent being reprimanded for her so-called ‘picky palate’ no longer filled her with panic, she realized; only a simmering anger. “With all due respect,” she said curtly, withdrawing her hand, “I no longer eat meat. Of any species.”
Odessa’s pleasantries were suddenly painted onto her ethereal face, her smile showing her teeth. “I see.”
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” Flowridia said quickly, ignoring Demitri as he chewed on the raw mess on the floor.
“My room is as you left it. Hope you remembered to make the bed,” she said, winking.
Flowridia marched past without a word, first into the workroom to grab her bag, and then into the dark bedroom. She clicked the lock shut, alone with only Ana.
She stripped from her dirty travel clothes and put on a nightgown, feeling exposed in the loose fabric. Scratching at the door stole her attention, and when Flowridia opened the door, Demitri tried to push past her, his bulky frame too much for the door.
“Demitri, you’ll hurt yourself.”
I refuse to leave you alone with her.
Flowridia reached out to stroke his soft face. “Then I’ll come out and sleep in the main room. You’re more comfortable than a bed.”
With some struggle, Demitri managed to wrench himself backwards from the doorframe, scattering slivers of wood onto the ground. The warming crystal cast comforting shadows across the room, and even with the eerie garden graveyard, Flowridia thought she might be able to muster at least a nap.
Demitri curled by the fireplace. Flowridia rested against his side, humming contentedly when he squeezed around her. There was no sign of Odessa, but her presence certainly lingered.
Demitri spoke. I would rather she not hear this. Just listen.
Flowridia nodded slightly, enough to acknowledge.
I don’t know much about her; I just knew you got quiet anytime she came up. But I think I’ve seen enough in the last hour to know she’s bad for you.
Flowridia couldn’t argue with any of that.
We shouldn’t be here. She needs your help so I don’t think she’ll betray you, but . . . Mom?
His words faded when the first of her tears fell. Flowridia quickly wiped her eyes, lest Odessa come to offer comfort. Her heart wouldn’t be able to take tha
t.
“I know,” she whispered, hardly audible. “But I . . .” She clenched her fists, knowing Odessa could likely hear all she said. “I know. Just let me sleep.”
Flowridia shut her eyes. Demitri said no more.
* * *
Etolié went to the library and saw a pile of collected, glittering glass beside her scarves. “Zoldar . . ?” she said, but it wasn’t his form she saw.
Silver wisps of light from the waning moon cast gentle beams through the broken skylight. Khastra sat in relative shadow beyond the scarves, seated at Etolié’s desk. A bright, white light illuminated her grand physique, though her slumped posture revealed no magnificence.
Within the very box Khastra had built to protect and shield the orbs lay one in pure shades of white. Khastra’s eyes met Etolié’s, and she shut the box with no aplomb, the click of wood and metal loud in the taut silence.
Darkness shrouded Khastra’s visage, the faint light of her eyes and the shadows cast from the moon all that revealed her presence.
“Khastra,” Etolié whispered, daring to come forward. “What is that?”
The bitter truth settled in her soul like a sickness, slowly poisoning her with every loud beat of her heart. Khastra said nothing, and somehow that spoke a truth more damning than words.
Etolié swallowed and grit her teeth. “What did you do?”
“Let no one know you have it,” Khastra said simply.
“What did you do?!” Etolié’s cry echoed across the skylight and the walls, lingering like a poisoned cloud in the library.
Khastra looked away, eyes shut.
Etolié stepped toward this stranger of a De’Sindai, barely able to see her features in the faint light. “Khastra—” Etolié’s voice choked, the accusation unbearably heavy.
In the silence, Khastra shifted, the barest hints of light casting her cheeks in stone. She was beautiful, Etolié saw, in the way of legendary statues acolytes built to gods, even though she sat as a supplicant. Khastra opened her eyes and said, “I did what I had to.”
Soliel hadn’t spoken, hadn’t wielded all the weapons Etolié knew him to have. He had slain his quarry with brutality, the collateral damage heartbreaking and damning, yet when Etolié had stood in his path, he had done little more than push her away.
“How did you do it?” Etolié asked, more a plea than diplomatic words to the general of a foreign and dangerous ally. “Not alone, surely. You can’t create illusions.”
Khastra said nothing.
“I don’t understand. This isn’t you.”
Khastra kept her stare to the wooden table, the moonlight casting shadows onto the built musculature of her arms but little else, her eyes the only indicator of her face. Etolié could not guess her expression, merely fail to decipher her words. “I no longer work for Solvira, Etolié.”
“Are you suggesting that Casvir told you to assassinate the Archbishop of the Theocracy?!”
Again, the words rang across the ceiling, Khastra’s silence louder than Etolié’s cries.
“There were others,” Etolié continued, resisting the urge to scream. “You killed his entourage, you killed guards—innocent people are dead, and you have the audacity to deliver the gods-forsaken orb as a fucking penance!”
Khastra stood up with enough force to topple her chair. Etolié saw the shadows highlighting her scars, the metal protruding from her chest, the fury in her glowing eyes as she strode forward. Etolié backed away, Khastra’s great height and bulk capable of crushing her skull in her hands—
She’d seen it herself. Etolié wanted to weep.
But Khastra stopped, her fists clenching. “In the roulette of rulers,” she whispered, her voice seething. “I chose to save you.”
Etolié whimpered, “What does that mean—”
“Etolié!”
In over twenty years, Khastra had never raised her voice. Not to Etolié.
“Fools die in politics! You know what I mean!”
The cry echoed across the walls, lingering evidence of Khastra’s rage. But then, Etolié watched the half-demon’s fists relax, watched her take a stumbling step back into the shadow, watched her stand without her magnificent aura—instead as a flagellant awaiting the whip.
Etolié’s jaw trembled as she warded away her threatened tears. “It was him or me,” she whispered. “You did this to save me.”
“It was not a choice, Etolié. I would have slit my own throat before I hurt you. But it was not my life that would have saved yours.” Bitterness stained her words, each one filled with unspeakable pain. “Tell no one you have that orb. If you speak to anyone of what you have seen or what you know, it will damn all my efforts today. No one will strike against you; that is the promise I was given. I would rather have you alive and hate me than have you dead.”
For the first time in over twenty years of knowing the other, Khastra turned her back on Etolié and left.
Stunned by the gesture, the admittance, and the drowning sensation in her soul, Etolié stumbled forward. “Khastra, wait,” she pled, and when the half-demon stopped, Etolié hugged her from behind, face pressed against her back, hands touching the etched lines on her abdomen through her shirt. “I don’t want to not trust you.”
The statement welled tears in Etolié’s eyes, tears she couldn’t fully fathom the meaning of—only that she hurt down to her very core. “You were everything to me,” she continued, swallowing her rising emotion. “And you are. You still are—” Her voice caught; Etolié fought to not choke on her suppressed sob. “I hate that things are different. I miss you every day. When I thought you were dead, I always waited for your laughter in the hallways, or for you to bring me food and threaten to stuff it down my throat. And when you were alive again, the feeling didn’t fade.” Her embrace tightened, though Khastra’s core didn’t budge. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so awful to you. I don’t hate you at all—I love you. I don’t know that there’s anything you could do to make me not love you. Let’s forget this. Let’s pretend . . .”
She inhaled a shaking breath, addled by pain and suppressed sobs. “Let’s pretend all is well,” she whispered, and from her eyes, tears fell. “I love you more than political bullshit.”
A pause; a realization. “I love you more than anything.”
Hands, impossibly stronger than hers, clutched her arms and pulled them away. Panic rose in Etolié’s stomach. “Khastra, please don’t leave—”
But instead of leaving, instead of abandoning Etolié to her tears, Khastra turned around and lifted her up to embrace her. With one arm around her body and the other supporting her bottom, Khastra clung to Etolié like a gravitational force, the moon to the stars, and when she shuddered, Etolié realized there were tears in her eyes as well.
When her surprise settled, Etolié wrapped her arms around Khastra’s neck and rested her head beneath her chin. Khastra’s voice, when she spoke, reverberated against her core. “You are my home, Etolié. I could never leave forever.”
Somehow, a more intimate phrase had never been uttered, and Etolié realized she felt the same.
When Khastra put her down, Etolié instinctively reached forward and grabbed her hand. Every modicum of self-preservation screamed at Etolié to yield, to stop, to walk away and let all of this be a blip on an otherwise pristine record of friendship, but Etolié’s insatiably curious mind spoke louder.
The scientific method involved experimentation from every angle and of course included a control, the single factor set aside and given a different task, one that ran contrary to everything else. So, after over twenty years of friendship, with all that time spent enjoying little more than innocent affection with the half-demon, Etolié did what any proper scientist would do.
She tugged on her arm, surprised at how amiable Khastra was as she bent down, and, with thoughts of the scientific method and of how those blue cheeks seemed to blush, Etolié kissed her.
It felt like flying.
It was hardly a butterfly’
s touch, but then Khastra’s lips stole hers again, and this time Etolié sighed at the contact, letting her lips part in tandem with her demonic companion. Khastra kissed with purpose, conveying an offer with her mouth Etolié longed to accept.
It was so easy to succumb to her. No fear, no hesitation—simply falling beneath the skylight into the nest of scarves. Like some spell had overtaken her, and in her trance Etolié pled for Khastra’s touch. “Khastra, please,” she whispered, her tears having never staunched.
Khastra removed her clothing, the shadows revealing her magnificent build, the wall of muscle that was her abdomen, the curves of her breasts, the metal protrusion of her heart. She was beautiful, and Etolié wondered how she’d never noticed before, wondered when her feelings of friendship had slipped into amorous territory, or if it had always been there, silently waiting for trust to build.
When the illusion of Etolié’s clothing disappeared, Khastra touched her like some fragile, precious thing, savoring Etolié’s skin with her lips and her hands and whispering words too sacred to repeat: “Oh Etolié, you are so beautiful . . .”
Every kiss on her breasts filled Etolié with light, until she swore she’d ignite, the feelings evoked within her body unlike any sensation she’d felt before. Wherever her hands settled, light sparked, Khastra’s tattoos illuminating their passionate embrace.
Her focus shattered. Her wings appeared, and the pair of them shone like celestial lights.
“Let me make love to you,” her demon said, and Etolié begged for it, sobbed when Khastra moved within her, pained and complete. Khastra kissed her below like she kissed her lips, every motion something sacred.
In the quiet of evocative, passionate gasps, Etolié felt the chasm between them fade away.
It took only minutes. Etolié’s body screamed for pleasure, the great tremors of her orgasm held safely in Khastra’s hands. The spell faded, leaving only tangled limbs and gasping breaths.
Etolié savored the safety of Khastra’s embrace, her earthy scent mingled with sex and sweat. In the ethereal light, she might have thought it a dream.
