by S D Simper
Ayla nodded slowly, skin brushing against Flowridia’s palm.
Flowridia left her, though it wounded her to do so. Ayla’s disorientation was understandable, given she’d literally been reborn of blood less than half an hour ago.
Her bag waited by the door. When she peered into the cottage, she caught sight of an ethereal figure watching her expectantly. Odessa smiled, victory in her visage. Her bargain remained.
Beyond, Flowridia saw through the doorframe a bloodstained hand and arm idly hanging above the barest hint of a cauldron.
And her heart . . . ached.
She shoved the pain aside. When she returned with the gown, she saw Ayla staring at her hands.
She said nothing as she accepted the black fabric. Within seconds, Ayla’s body filled the slim dress, the plunge of her neckline leaving little to the imagination, even with her minimal cleavage. The ribs of her chest cast deep shadows in the moonlight. Curiosity laced Ayla’s words. “Solviraes blood?”
Flowridia thought of the corpse in her mother’s home, maimed and gored by hooks and streaked with blood. Dead, silver eyes waited in every shadow. “Yes.”
Intrigue radiated from the predatory smile pulling on Ayla’s lip, fangs steadily growing from that ever-twisting grin. “I feel something,” she whispered, eyes nearly black as her pupils expanded, reflecting the moon’s light. “Something different. Something . . . powerful.”
She exhaled a forced breath, and Flowridia’s heart stopped at the first flickering of light. A silver aura shone from her skin, luminous in the night. At her feet, silver flame sparked, expanding to rise from the pores of her flesh. Ayla burned but did not burn, the Silver Fire dancing from her skin and escaping her mouth when she laughed. “I feel so alive.”
Was it fear or lust gripping Flowridia’s heart?
“A wedding day for you . . . and a night for me.”
The God of Order marches on, approaching victory with every stride. Frustrated with the stagnation of politics, Etolié takes matters into her own hands, resolving to find the reborn God and defeat him herself—with the help of her favorite half-demon, of course. An unexpected ally finds them in the woods, claiming to know his whereabouts, and while Etolié knows better than to trust vampires, Mereen Fireborn seems honest enough.
Meanwhile, Flowridia basks in her impossible victory, even if the haunting memory of its cost lurks in every shadow. Joy comes with compromise, however, because the woman she loves will never die, and so neither must she. Immortality holds a soul-wrenching cost. Flowridia agrees to pay it with a single addendum—that they first be wed.
Gods rise, kingdoms fall, and a monster is unleashed in the fourth installment of FALLEN GODS.
Read a sneak peek of Tear the World Apart and more at S D Simper’s website—sdsimper.com
Keep on turning pages for a bonus short story about
everyone’s favorite drunk Celestial—my gift to you!
But first, thank you for reading!
You, my dear reader, are the reason I do this. Thank you so much for your support and love. Flowridia has a story, and I’m so grateful that you took the time to read it. We’re only halfway done, and I appreciate you joining me this far on her journey.
If you enjoyed what you read, consider leaving a short review on Amazon and Goodreads. It’s the greatest gift you can give an author (and the best incentive for the next book to come out even sooner!).
If you’re impatient for more, check out my newsletter at sdsimper.com! I’m currently offering two free short stories—one about Flowridia and Aura in the time before Odessa and another about that one time Etolié got blackmailed into running a kingdom (and unknowingly ended up on a date with a certain half-demon).
If you want to reach out to me, Twitter is your best bet, but I also run a Facebook page and Instagram. I’d love to hear from you!
Much love,
-S D Simper
Etolié and the Horrible, Awful,
Messed-Up, Worst Kind of Day
By S D Simper
© 2019 Endless Night Publications
Year eight of Staelash . . .
Etolié focused on the squabbling toddler playing with blocks on the floor, fucking relieved to have something to listen to other than her own blood pounding in her ears. Her side throbbed. The healers had patched her up and made her drink something nasty to accelerate the healing, but punctured kidneys weren’t exactly a walk in the fucking park. It would be a few more hours of agony.
“Marielle, stop eating that!” Queen Lyra said, snatching a pointy, star-shaped block from the little girl’s mouth. “Do you want syphilis?”
Marielle shook her head, and Etolié legitimately didn’t know if Lyra was failing at humor or simply an idiot and decided not to comment.
From beyond, she heard footsteps, some heavy and some merely frantic. “General, I promise she’s fine—”
The door slammed open, cracking the wall with the doorknob, but Khastra was known for only having so many fucks to give. The half-demon towered over them all, her aura as daunting as her visible ire. Etolié should have expected this; what she didn’t expect was for Clarence to be trailing behind her, apparently trying to calm her.
Say what you would about that aggressively ginger-haired man—he was fearless in the face of eight-foot tall half-demons. “See, she’s patched up. No longer bleeding. And the half-giants pummeled the attackers into meat, saving you the trouble.”
But Khastra ignored him, instead kneeling before Etolié, her eyes furious yet glistening as she inspected her bandaged torso. “Etolié, you should not be sitting.”
“I’m fine, Beefcake. My kidney’s just a little skewered.” Her joke fell flat, apparently, because Khastra’s worry visibly escalated. She sat beside her, hunching to come closer to her face, her rough hands stroking aside her hair.
“Please, I cannot bear with jests,” Khastra said softly, and from the corner of Etolié’s eye, she saw Lyra give a silent wave as she took Marielle out. “What happened?”
“I was stabbed in the street by a couple of Celestials. Clarence was there. He screamed through the whole thing like a little girl—” Right. No jokes. “Well, he was understandably panicked, I mean.”
Khastra’s severe gaze turned to Clarence, who held his hands up defensively. “You should have taken the wound for her.”
“I?” Clarence’s incredulous jaw-drop pulled a giggle from Etolié, which she grossly regretted because it likely ripped something new open. “The king? The human and incredibly squishy king should have taken what would have been a fatal blow for the girl whose lineage says she’ll likely live forever?”
“He didn’t have time, Beefcake,” Etolié said, hoping to draw Khastra’s palpable fury away from her favorite ginger boy. “I barely matched eyes with the man before he stuck a knife in me, much less the rest of them.”
At which point Etolié, beloved Magister of Staelash and Savior of Slaves, had found herself lying in the middle of the public street, moaning. Somehow, her populace hadn’t been fine with that. The perpetrators—had there been eight? That felt right—had been, as Clarence intellectually put it, pummeled into meat by a legion of angry half-giants.
You know, the same half-giants Etolié had saved from captivity and given a new life. She was a popular girl around here.
“Do you know who did this?”
Clarence also watched her after that little damning question. Etolié forced a smile, having been confronted with faces she hadn’t seen since she was a child. “It’s possible.”
Well, that wasn’t a suspicious answer or anything. Gods-damn it.
“Who?” Khastra asked, any kindness in her gaze having vanished.
Etolié knew the severity wasn’t meant for her. She knew it in her heart yet she withered, the disdain absolutely crippling. “Khastra, it doesn’t matter. They’re dead.”
“But you do know?”
She nodded, even if she aggressively wanted to vomit.
&nb
sp; “Will there be others?”
Words were becoming increasingly difficult. Etolié settled on a shrug, knowing full well that Khastra could likely hear her heartbeat. Literally.
“Etolié, if you want us to protect you, you have to tell us everything you know—”
“Not gonna happen, Beefy, because it’s not a big deal and I don’t want to talk about it.”
Khastra’s anger dissolved into confusion, which was a much easier emotion for Etolié to try and process. Behind her, Clarence took a step back. “I can let you two speak alone.”
“No, stay. She’ll have to pummel it out of me, so there might as well be a witness.”
Oh shit, she regretted that. Etolié bit her lip at Khastra’s visible hurt, her elegant face suddenly deep with lines. “Etolié—”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” Etolié shut her eyes, but in the dark she saw hateful Celestial faces, among which mingled the most hated of all. “I think I need to be alone.”
Khastra stood up, but her touch lingered, her hand trembling as she finally pulled it from Etolié’s arm. Her gaze hardened as she gave a curt nod, and to Etolié’s surprise, she left without another word.
It wouldn’t be the last she heard of it, she knew.
Clarence hadn’t budged. “Well, that was uncharacteristically rude of you.”
“She asked too many questions.”
“They’re important questions. If your life is in danger, we have to act accordingly.”
“Listen, Gingerbread. I’m not in danger. I suppose I don’t know if anyone else might come to stab the shit out of me, but believe me when I say I’ll be fucked whether we take precautions or not.”
“Etolié, you’re being stubborn.”
Etolié bit back her standard ‘go to hell’ response, instead releasing a steadying breath. “Look. I have some things to think about. Will you please go interrogate someone else?”
Clarence offered a slow nod. “You can trust us, Etolié,” he said, but she wasn’t sure if that was true, even if he thought he meant it.
Etolié knew there were a few secrets she’d prefer to keep to herself.
* * *
After an alarmingly irate argument with the healers about the need to be supervised overnight, Etolié was given permission to sleep underground, and so she laid beneath the skylight, the clouded sky revealing no celestial bodies.
It was best. Best to not think of mom, which she definitely refused to do.
Perhaps she’d been a fool to think she could hide from the past. No matter how fast she ran, it seemed it had found her nonetheless.
Though, to be fair, she wasn’t exactly hiding in recent years.
Etolié blinked, releasing a rather unlady-like, “Damn it,” when her vision misted. Perhaps that was her problem. She wasn’t hiding. Fugitives couldn’t exactly be free to run in the sun.
Perhaps Staelash was a mistake.
The door beyond opened. Etolié quickly wiped away her tears, because signature clopping could only mean one person. “I’m not exactly keen on company, Beefcake,” she said as the familiar half-demon peeked around the bookcase. Khastra came forward nonetheless, a plate of cookies in her hands. “Leave the pastries, though.”
Khastra knelt beside the pile of scarves, the concern on her face hollowing Etolié’s stomach. “Etolié,” she said softly, placing the plate upon the ground, “I went to the Temple of Eionei.”
The hollow was replaced with nausea. “Oh?”
“I spoke to Eionei.”
Etolié grinned, even though she desperately wanted to spontaneously immolate. “I’m sure that went well.”
“He is a bastard, but he loves you very much. I told him what happened.”
Betrayer. Etolié kept her mouth shut, however, her blood suddenly loud in her ears.
“And he thinks he knows who is responsible. He told me something very strange.”
Oh, fuck—there was that familiar dread. Etolié’s smile faltered, her tears threatening to return.
“I did not know you were a fugitive of Celestière.”
No, but all of Celestière did. Etolié’s hands tensed around the bundles of scarves around her, still prone within her cave.
“But he would not say why.”
And to Etolié’s horror, a sob escaped her own throat. She pressed her hands to her eyes, praying she could pass it off as an unattractive cough, but every breath was pain, both in her stomach and with each heaving sob. The very air stifled her; she couldn’t breathe; her skin went cold—
The blankets shifted. She cringed at the contact, at Khastra’s mere presence, her body revolting when Khastra tried to remove her hands. “No!” she cried, immediately freed of the touch, and wished she’d been murdered in the street instead of spared to face her recompense.
Because nothing—nothing in all the worlds, she realized—would hurt like Khastra’s rejection. Her breathing grew ragged, desperate, each influx of air pure pain as panic stole her senses.
“Etolié, please breathe.”
Oh, the world grew small, smaller still when a shadow moved across her. Cornered, how she longed to flee. Etolié brought a bundled scarf to her face and screamed, hiding from her shame, crying louder still when something tried to tug it away.
She slapped away the touch, too panicked to consider any action but running, but impossibly strong hands grabbed her wrist, hard enough to bruise. The scarf was tossed away, and Khastra stole her other wrist and held them both by Etolié’s head. Straddled by the great half-demon, she held no hope for escape.
Etolié’s eyes seeped tears, breathing still ragged, but Khastra’s gaze held kindness unparalleled and a maternal concern that would be Etolié’s downfall. Her grip loosened, then fell away. With infinite gentleness, she whispered, “Breathe, Etolié . . . Breathe with me.”
Callused hands cupped her face, catching her tears. Etolié managed shaky breaths, following the cadence of Khastra’s own.
“There is no secret you hold that would ruin my love for you. Now, start from the beginning.”
She took her touch away. Khastra sat back, removing herself from atop Etolié.
Etolié rolled over, using her shaky arms to lift herself up. All the while, Khastra’s gaze seared her skin, her unspoken question threatening to pull Etolié back into a panic.
She carefully stood up, knowing perfectly well that Khastra would likely tackle her if she tried to run. “I haven’t been to Celestière in eighteen years,” she said, her forced nonchalance kinda losing its luster given her continued tears. She wiped them away, her smile unflappable, lest she be damned. “I committed a crime, I was found guilty, and Sol Kareena took pity on me and said I had a choice between eternal house-arrest or running away.”
“Eighteen years ago, you were fourteen,” Khastra said, as though Etolié couldn’t do basic fucking math. “You were only a child.”
“Yes, but they don’t have many children in Celestière, so they don’t exactly have laws for children who murder people, all right?” Etolié paced. She rambled and twitched. “So, yes. Now, you know. I killed a man. His name was Camdral, and the worlds are better without him. Happy?”
She couldn’t meet Khastra’s eye, the stare too familiar, too much of many things, and so she merely looked at the ceiling when the half-demon said, “Who was he?”
“He was the asshole who bent my momma approximately nine months before my birth. And a few times before that. Likely during. Certainly after. And that’s the end of his contribution to anything of my benefit. They weren’t in love. Momma was sad. Camdral had drugs to make her forget for a few fucking moments that she was sad. All he generally asked for in return was a few pumps on his crusty dick.”
Whatever Khastra had expected, Etolié felt a cold suspicion that this wasn’t exactly it, her subdued horror apparent as she watched her every motion.
“He ignored me, mostly. He was a beast to mom, but I was an irrelevant annoyance on his radar. The only tim
e he touched me was when I initiated it.”
Khastra’s eyes followed her as she paced, concern coloring her features. “I beg your pardon?”
“Listen, sometimes you fuck your dad so you can kill him. He stabs you and you stab back. It’s only fair—”
“Etolié, please stop joking.”
The silence held a few moments, tension building between them as Etolié finally met Khastra’s eye. She swallowed, the words forced and pained. “. . . I-I’m not.”
Khastra slowly covered her mouth with her hand, something condemning in her gaze; Etolié saw it as clear as day. “It’s kind of a conversation ender, I know,” she continued, swallowing the fresh rise of panic. “But, good ol’ Camdral came over drunk as fuck one night looking for someone to beat the shit out of, and I cracked because there’s only so many times you can hear your momma cry. Got him alone. Got him naked. Stabbed him forty-seven times. If I have no other talents, it’s illusioning knives to be invisible.”
Oh, by Alystra’s Smooth Ass, she was saying a lot of words. Khastra had said nothing.
“I mean, it was likely a bit much. He died on the twentieth stab, but I was having a bad day.”
Khastra stared. Her glowing eyes held horror, and Etolié wished she’d never had the misfortune to be born.
“What?” she asked, arms spreading in challenge. “Nothing to say? You asked. You fucking asked!”
Khastra lowered her hand in tandem with her standing. “Etolié . . .” She stepped forward, but Etolié flinched and stumbled back. She barely whispered, “There is little to say.”
She searched Khastra’s face, seeing only condemnation, the same derision shared by all of her people. Her feet stumbled as she backed away. “Aw, see—that’s judgement! I see you fucking judging me, but it’s fine, though I might be seeing myself out of Staelash for the foreseeable forever.”
She was stopped when Khastra looped her arm around Etolié’s torso, stopping her in her tracks with her superior strength.
