Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  To feel Ayla move, to be buried inside her—Flowridia wondered if she had ever felt so complete. All the months of sorrow and loneliness lay forgotten, the atrocities and tragedies so muted. Ayla’s pleasured cries echoed in every corner of her mind, stifled until she finally pulled her mouth away. Ayla’s eyes opened, silver and blue and glistening with tears.

  From those thin lips came desperate words. “You brought me back,” Ayla whispered. And again, this time louder, managed between cries of pleasure. “You brought me back.”

  “Ayla, I love you.” Powerful words, and Flowridia let them gently flutter from her tongue. Let there be no question. When she was tried for her crimes, let that single statement stand as her defense. Hell itself might swallow her whole, but the pathway would be paved by devotion.

  Let no one forget that simple truth. No one. Especially not Ayla.

  The hand in her hair pulled her down, and Flowridia’s lips met Ayla’s once more. Their bodies touched; still she moved within Ayla. Teeth scraped her lip. She wondered if the blood she tasted was her own or one of Ayla’s victims.

  Ayla’s body tensed beneath her, her cries a higher pitch. Balanced on her knees, Flowridia let her other hand slide down, stroking gently while the other increased in pace.

  Ayla shuddered, squeezing around her fingers. Gasping breaths blew against her lips. Flowridia planted a tender kiss at the corner of her mouth, letting Ayla ride out the wave of her orgasm.

  She stilled. Tears streamed down Ayla’s face in silence; she had no need to breathe. Moonlight cast deep shadows, and Flowridia carefully pulled her fingers out.

  “I love you, Flowra,” Ayla whispered. Her eyes remained shut as she pulled Flowridia into her arms, turning them both over onto their sides. Flowridia held her, relishing the feeling of that cold form curling into her arms. Her face lay muffled between Flowridia’s small breasts. Ayla trembled; Flowridia realized she still sobbed.

  Gentle fingers wove themselves into Ayla’s hair. Flowridia embraced the naked, raw figure, arms wrapping tight around the taut skin and muscles of Ayla’s back.

  Amidst the carnage, Flowridia clung to tentative peace.

  “It was a damn foolish tip you gave us.”

  Behind the worm named Shem, Mereen saw evidence of chaos, of a envoy of men repairing cages and cleaning up bodies. Their camp was nearly ruined, perhaps half their prisoners having escaped in the confusion, and she studied every piece of damage with her keen eyes.

  That human girl had quite the spine. Mereen smiled to know her victory had come about—even if she had needed a little help.

  “Shem, I told you the truth—the Empress of Solvira would be accompanied by an impressive envoy, including Staelash’s little necromancer. Not my fault you didn’t properly prepare.”

  At the far side of camp, Mereen saw the girl’s familiar curled up asleep.

  “Either way, you aren’t getting your necromancer.”

  Mereen idly nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Shem sputtered like a man denied a fight. The fool had been all too easy to coerce. “T-Then perhaps you should still be paying that bounty. I’ve lost thousands worth of gold—more, from the empress. But if you helped us get her back—”

  His words stopped for the knife at his throat. No witnesses—they met in a collection of trees, his men still detained searching for escaped slaves in the woods. “It would be a mercy to kill you now,” she whispered, “but you disgust me. You aren’t even fit for worms to eat, but I’ll grant you one boon—run.”

  A single droplet of blood streaked down the blade. Mereen stiffened, refusing to give consideration to that intoxicating bit of blood. She saw the shift in his stare, smelled fear course through his veins.

  “Something is coming. Something more terrifying than even your black heart can fathom.” Mereen removed the knife, the siren call of his blood forcing her breath the still. “She’ll come for you first, and once she’s satisfied herself with your blood, the whole world will tremble at her freedom. Only one person holds the monster’s leash—and you threatened to rape her and return her to her homeland in chains.”

  “What daft fairytale are you spouting, woman?”

  “I’m a woman who’s seen nightmares.” She stepped back, knowing she could vanish in an instant—but oh, she reveled in this man’s fear. “I’m a woman who’s fought nightmares, but never quite succeeded in slaying the most feared of them all. Now, I have a chance. I thank you for the role you played.”

  Ayla’s return would damn the world, but not for much longer. A sacrifice for the greater good.

  Mereen slipped off into the night, leaving the flea-bitten swine behind. She stared into the distance, recalling her quarry.

  Only a few miles to Ilunnes and the swamp. An innocent woman’s body had been used for a ritual as wicked as Mereen’s own kind. What a damning sort of accident it would be, if someone were to discover it.

  From the pouch at her hip, she withdrew a green, luminous orb, one they said held the power of all the earth. Mereen felt nothing more than mild heat, but the nuances of magic were a mystery even to her. She couldn’t wield this.

  But she needn’t. Someone else would. The God of Order sought this, and so she slipped it back into her pouch, beside a stolen bracelet of maldectine.

  The world turned, and Mereen reveled in imminent victory.

  * * *

  General Khastra of the Deathless Army tucked a letter of infinite worth back into her armor, careful to stain only the edges in blood and dirt.

  Khastra,

  I need to say a few things.

  I hope, after everything that’s happened between us both last week and these past twenty-something years, that it isn’t too much for me to say thank you.

  “I love you,” the gifter had said, and Khastra had kissed her, though she no longer deserved her. Once, in a time she desperately missed, she had died by Etolié’s side and embraced a glorious end.

  Now, hell had come to claim her.

  My life was pretty fucked up, you know? And I could’ve been just as fucked up, but you saved me. If you take nothing else from this letter, know that much. You were the first person who told me I was worth something, that maybe I had hope to be whole someday. You held my hand while I healed, and sometimes you carried me when I couldn’t go on.

  It’s a debt I can never repay. But you never expected anything back; you just liked me for some reason.

  Khastra stood as the victor upon a kingdom of ruin.

  She had left Murishani alone to scavenge the remains of the imperator. The threat of death needn’t be said, should he harm those who still lived. Her brain remained addled from the Bringer of War’s manic influence, her blood pulsing, stomach screaming for sustenance—but she did not have the blessed release of sleep. Not anymore.

  Training in the castle of Nox’Kartha held little consequence. Here, for the first time in nearly ten thousand years of life, Khastra was lucid for the aftermath of her own carnage.

  I also wanted to say that I’m sorry.

  I’m realizing that I used you as a crutch, sometimes. So when you were suddenly gone and I lost that . . . It turns out I hadn’t taken root like I should’ve. I mourned you, and then I resented you when you turned up in Nox’Kartha—but it was selfish. You weren’t there for me. Me, me, me . . . It took me too long to think about how you must be feeling. New life, new boss, new heart—it’d be a lot for anyone to take.

  I resented you and it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.

  Undead parted for her passing. Their soulless eyes watched her with hunger; others feasted on dismembered corpses too ruined to join the Deathless Army. Khastra stepped into a narrow alley, baring her teeth to a ghoul who stared at her a moment too long.

  Undead only knew the fear of their masters. Khastra was no necromancer, but she had been granted the boon of their obedience, all the same. With Casvir gone, the Deathless Army was hers to wield as she would.

  For now.

 
You said it yourself, that you aren’t around to take care of me anymore. I have to be a big girl and move forward on my own.

  But I think that’s how it should be. When I think about it, we weren’t a relationship of equals. To have what I think I want, I have to grow.

  Upon the wall was smeared the remains of a small girl, a mass of emulsified flesh within a bloodied, torn dress. Pieces of her remained splattered against a broken wall bearing the perfect symmetry of a hammer as ancient as the New Gods.

  There was glory in besieging a city that had stood for thousands of years. There was glory in victory, to have toppled a kingdom in a single, bloodstained night.

  There was no glory in the cost. Khastra dipped her finger in the girl’s drying blood and wrote Sol Kareena’s symbol upon the wall, trembling all the while.

  What happened that night was fucking monumental. I trusted you. I trusted you enough to let you kiss me and touch me, and I felt safe for every moment of it. I loved it.

  Khastra, I think I might love you.

  Kneeling before the murdered child, Khastra contemplated the bitter truth—that she would be a pariah of the angelic gods forevermore.

  Khastra stood, her limbs numbing with each step. Were it not for the faint ticking within her chest, she might’ve thought her heart had failed once more.

  If she tore it out, would she be left to rest?

  I don’t know what feelings feel like. But based off research and perusing pornographic novels for study, I’d say what I’m feeling is something I’d never even thought to acknowledge or consider. My mother’s life was ruined because of feelings. Why would I ever want to risk that?

  I don’t know when or how it started, if it happened that night or if it’s always been there, waiting for trust to grow.

  Sudden scuffling drew her focus. As she looked behind her, she matched eyes with a condemned soul, a woman whose fearful eyes bespoke visions of terror. She held hands with a man and a boy of perhaps ten.

  She saw the woman’s mouth open, then heard a whisper on the wind: “Bringer of War.”

  The man drew a sword as he looked to Khastra, who smelled his sweat and fear, saw the trembling in his arm. He did not even know how to wield it, and Khastra simply turned away and continued her path, listening as their footsteps disappeared.

  Then, she heard screaming. A plea for mercy. Cries cut off in the night. Khastra swallowed regret and moved forward.

  But our future is bright when I think about it—you said we could only be as close as our kingdoms, but Staelash and Nox’Kartha just unified in symbolic matrimony. There could be a future for us.

  She emerged from the narrow alleyway, eyes studying the expansive scene of splendor and carnage. Khastra saw the city’s main square as it had once been, gleaming and wondrous, blessed by the Goddess it worshipped. She saw shops and patrons, glorious statues to beloved gods and goddesses, as well as a magnificent cathedral with windows that glittered in the sun.

  She blinked away all memories of peace. The world returned to carnage, save for a spot of light in the darkness—Etolié stood within a throng of children before the Goddess’ statue, told to remain lest they perish in the night by ravenous ghouls.

  I’ve never given any regard to finding anyone attractive, and to be honest, I still stand by that, but I would be the biggest liar in the realms if I said you weren’t the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Touching itches—but it’s welcomed from you.

  Etolié captivated the children with words and sparkling displays, their tear-filled faces managing to smile. She radiated light despite the dried ichor on her body, and Khastra loved her so.

  Khastra remained quiet as she passed the viceroy gathering pieces great and small of mutilated flesh, bone, and armor. His pile of carnage slowly grew, the collected pieces radiating an unmistakable energy. Shattered metal and gore and viscous black ichor lay scattered around her hammer, and peeking from beneath the gargantuan, glowing head, she saw a great hand, callused from centuries of battle.

  It twitched.

  Necromancers never died. Khastra knew this like she knew the sweet adrenaline of bloodlust and the boundless passion of endless nights. She knew it like the shame of betrayal and shattered pledges of loyalty. She knew it like the nightmares that rose from shadows.

  Necromancers never died. Casvir would not forget. There would be hell to pay.

  Khastra approached, watching as Sora glanced up from the stick she sharpened with her dagger and as Lunestra warily held one of the smaller, sleeping children. But she kept her focus on Etolié, though her mind was too loud to hear the tale she told.

  At the statue’s feet was what appeared to be a pile of ashes within a glass dome. She recalled, a lifetime ago, when Etolié had told the tale of the tiny one’s offering to the Goddess, how her flower had been accepted and had taken root in the statue’s base.

  The offering, once deemed a miracle, had been rejected now. That, or the Goddess no longer held the strength to hold to anything.

  But that aside, I have to consider your feelings too, even if I’ve been shit at it in the past. You were always what I needed you to be, and so I worry you only fucked me because I basically asked you to.

  But then I think about your smile and your kiss, and even if you don’t love me, I know you at least care.

  Khastra took tentative steps forward, feeling the gaze of a beloved angel whose touch remained a beautiful memory even in the midst of a bloodstained nightmare. Behind the statue, away from Sol Kareena’s gaze, she took a seat, watching as Etolié beckoned for Lunestra to take watch of the children. Etolié came to stand before her, uncaring, it seemed, of the blood on her breastplate and cuirasses as she stood at the juncture between her legs.

  In the moment they matched gazes, Khastra thought her a spot of light amidst darkness, an angel to ease her condemnation to hell.

  Khastra, I think I might love you, and that’s the scariest fucking feeling in all the realms. But I know if I were to trust my heart with anyone, I know you’d cherish it—because that’s who you are.

  “I love you,” she had said upon the bloodied battlefield—the bridge across the great divide between them; words that would have once brought an impossible, peaceful joy but now tethered their wrists together, though their kingdoms would seek to tear them apart.

  So let me know, ya big lug. This is your chance to make a clean break. Because you’re right—I have to take care of me. Maybe I’ll even be able to take care of you. But I don’t see why it means we can’t be together, if you’ll have me.

  Etolié gently brought her hands to Khastra’s head, stroking her hair and horns, and Khastra wrapped her arms around her body, gripped the dress she knew was false as her head fell upon Etolié’s breast, splattered in ichor. The Celestial stood as a sentinel upon the watchtower, surveying the battlefield as Khastra clung desperately to her own humanity.

  How much longer would it be before she became as soulless as the ghouls?

  “Khastra,” Etolié whispered, and the word meant everything.

  Khastra wept.

  Your dearest friend (by your own admission),

  Etolié

  * * *

  “Tell me what you want. Anything at all.”

  Flowridia’s body bristled against the night air, her senses peaked after the sweet pleasure of Ayla’s mouth. She reached to cup the back of Ayla’s head, shutting her eyes as she stroked her fine, black hair. She breathed deep, letting Ayla’s presence settle against her skin. “All I’ve ever desired was you. And now I have that—”

  “Not good enough,” she interrupted, ice lacing her tone. “Tell me what you would have.” Ayla pulled her face away, the intensity of her gaze sending a shiver down Flowridia’s spine. “I owe you everything.”

  “You owe me nothing. I did this for love.”

  “I was shackled to Casvir for far less.” Ayla’s arms wrapped around her body, the chill of her form bringing comfort. Senses enraptured, Flowridia gripped
Ayla’s body, her presence surreal. “It’s an odd irony, that in my new freedom, I would happily enslave myself to you.”

  The word brought pain and the memory of it. “Would you help with something, then?” she said, gently stroking her finger along the sharp edges of Ayla’s cheeks.

  “Anything.”

  Flowridia’s heart had belonged to only one for so long. When she had fallen in love with Ayla, her heart had expanded, making room for two. Now, in his absence, she still ached. “Demitri was taken from me.”

  “What?” Ayla’s demeanor switched from intrigue to rage. “By whom?”

  “Slavers in Solvira. Only hours ago.”

  “And they will be dead before the night is through.” She stood, palpably seething, then grabbed Flowridia’s hand, yanking her up. “I remember . . .” She trailed off, suddenly quiet. “I was there. You were taken, too.”

  Flowridia stooped down to grab her muddy, ruined dress, the one embroidered in flowers and leaves. She managed to slip back into it, her body chilled by the night air and the proximity of her undead lover. “So you did have awareness?”

  Ayla’s arms wrapped around Flowridia’s waist. “Somewhere, yes. But it’s hazy—terribly hazy.”

  Flowridia embraced that tiny form. “Do you want clothing first? I—” She nearly laughed, recalling her own silly sentiment. “I have one of your dresses in my bag.”

  Ayla’s eyes, silver paint flecked onto a blue palette, blinked thoughtfully. “I will accept a dress.”

  “Once we have Demitri, I’ll help you remember. I’ll tell you everything.” She reached up to cup Ayla’s jaw, still reveling in the feel of having her so close. A kiss met her palm, and heat blossomed against her cheeks. Ayla was here, Ayla was real . . . The subject of her nightmares had become a perfect reality. “It’s been six months, Ayla. So much has happened.”