Bel wrinkled their nose with a laugh. “I need to bathe.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything but yes.”
Their laugh grew louder and Octavia thrilled to hear it. Their voice was a bell of clarity in the middle of burgeoning chaos.
The questions could wait. Octavia was happy to draw out this quiet moment for as long as possible.
***
Bel sighed and let Octavia undo their braids with slow, careful ease, nimble fingers dancing over their scalp. Every movement was just as they’d remembered, perfect and precise. It loosened the tension in their spine and at the same time felt so right. There was so much they wanted to tell Octavia - about those early days of frustration and confusion; then meeting the court refugees who had fled their life of finery to live in the wilds, all to get away from the Queen; to making inroads with the same Courts.
And then the hounds. Hellish beasts with red eyes and mangled, gnarled teeth. They could still hear the braying, could feel the fear.
“Bel.” Octavia’s voice was soft in their ear. “Where did you go?”
They let their hand drift in the hot water, disturbing pools of oil on the surface. They’d never been shy about their body, seeing it mainly as a tool to accomplish a goal. But Octavia had shown them something different - how it could be used for pleasure, and how it could return gentle caresses and languorous kisses that built into something thrumming and heady. But now it felt like they had to start all over again, learning to turn that tool into something more.
“I’m not sure,” they murmured, leaning back even further into Octavia’s gentle touch. “My arrival was not lacking for excitement.”
Octavia hummed in agreement, digging her fingernails into Bel’s scalp. Bel hissed in response but didn’t pull away. “A story I look forward to hearing, if only to hear it from your lips.” She brushed her cheek against Bel’s. “And if only to fill in the details from what Tomas told Gregory.”
Bel wanted to groan in exasperation but reeled it back in. Tomas had seen them at their worst, bedraggled and frightened. But Tomas wasn’t the most perceptive of Gregory’s clan, though he was a sweetheart. They wanted to argue, to fight against any supposition that might make them look the way they’d felt just a day before….but Octavia wouldn’t care.
Octavia had only ever seen them. As they were. As they wished to be known.
A need spiraled in them as they let Octavia massage their scalp and run slick, oiled palms over their neck and shoulders. Bel shifted in the water, knees rising above the surface. “I….please.” It’s all they could manage under the sudden intensity of desire that coursed through them.
Octavia stilled her ministrations, making Bel want to moan their displeasure. “Are you sure?”
They nodded quickly, looking back over their shoulder at those deep russet eyes. “Yes. Please.”
Octavia hung her head, sucking in several unneeded breaths. A tactic Bel knew well, only ever done when their lover had to weigh their own desires against another’s. Theirs was a feedback loop; one that fed on slick, fervent kisses and the touch of skin and an understanding. One that rattled every bone, stretched every sinew, turned every breath into a gasp.
“Darling.” Octavia’s voice was low in their ear, a soft, easy rumble of affection and adoration. Their heart constricted, the pain sparking into pleasure. One hand slid into the water, daring to skate over aching breasts, following their sternum. Bel gripped the sides of the tub, damn near panting with need at the touch of those long fingers. Octavia’s lips were at the hinge of their jaw, mouthing delicately. Not pressing, not pushing.
Bel wanted her touch between their legs, but they knew it might be too soon, too fast. They let themself float on the promise of Octavia’s lips on their neck, her fingers seeking the suppleness of their flesh. They could feel their magic pulse, flickering to life in time with the beat of their heart. It drove away the fear and reminded them that this was home. This was safety.
Bel’s eyes flew open as something flared in their chest, a sharp, hot ache. Octavia stilled behind them, her head craned up. “Bel? What is this?”
Bel shook their head, scalp still tingling from Octavia’s touch combined with the white-hot fuse of their own magic. “I don’t know.”
Motes of light softly wavered into existence, yellow at the center with coronas of blue and green. Every candle in the room was extinguished and while the fire popped in the hearth, vampire and Ranger watched, fascinated, as magic spiraled around them.
Eight
The vampire sat in the tree and waited. Dark had long fallen but this was no barrier to one such as he. The werewolf and human had come and gone, but their scents still lingered in the air. Luther sniffed again, tasting the mush of wet logs, the spike of metal arrow tips, and hot, eager blood.
They would have put up a fight, and that was not worth Luther’s time. The Ranger sought vengeance, which he knew he owed the human. But now was not the time. His end would come. But the mission was of highest importance, and he could not fail his Queen.
The bloodstains of the hunters still lingered on the ground, and in the dark, he saw the first sprouts of blood moss and deathtwig. And so he waited.
Swift as a silent strike, Bemora landed in the tree beside him, her claws digging into the old bark. He idly wondered if she could hear the tree scream, from the way she cocked her head, listening. The clink of metal on the tree branch made his eyes narrow. She’d taken a pocket watch from one of the hunters and it now adorned her wrist; some garish death token. More metal glinted on her gnarled claws, wedding bands she’d ripped from fingers before severing hands and heads.
“Must we both wait?” Bemora’s voice was a mere rasp, like talons on flesh.
“Yes,” he said bluntly, turning yellow eyes to her. “The Queen demands we wait, and so we do it. You would learn much if you had an ounce of patience.”
The woman growled at him but stayed, perched on the thick branch like a bird of prey. Luther gave her form the once over. Like many weres who had been touched by the Queen’s influence, she stayed half transformed - split between what she’d once been and what she was slowly morphing into. Once the transformation was complete, she would be a war raven for the Queen.
Her left shoulder bore the queen’s mark on dark grey flesh, a deep scar that glowed with volcanic orange and putrid gold. The mark pulsed gently, a beacon to those who obeyed the Queen’s command. And a warning.
Beware. Here lies a Mistress of Death and Feathers.
Her right hand, permanently formed into thick, serrated claws, was wrapped around the branch. Feathers and bone fragments jutted out from her neck and wrist. Her armor was of smoke and shadow; another gift from the Queen.
Together they watched the forest floor change. It was akin to watching grass grow at the moment, but by morning the entire clearing would be covered in plants of crimson and plum. A carpet for their Queen’s arrival.
“We stay,” he said, watching as Bemora snarled at him. “And we wait. This is what she demands of us.”
“And when the Dark Watchers arrive?”
His grin was a promise of blood and carnage. “We point them to town.”
“Fine.” Bemora’s growl made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. “I’m hungry.”
“Three hunters weren’t enough? I thought you were a warrior, not a glutton.” He couldn’t keep a haughty note out of his voice.
“I’m hunting. Come with me or don’t.” Her unnatural eyes raked over him. “You won’t be of any use to her half-starved. You’re already weaker than -“
Luther’s hand shot out, his fingers curled around her throat in a punishing grip. Bemora snarled and scratched at him, but he held firm. “Her gifts were generous. Don’t tempt me.”
With a cough, she yanked free but only by the grace of his thinly held temper. She spat something at him in Faetyn, that old language of the trees and vines from her chosen home. Luther didn’t need to understand her words to hear t
he sheer hatred in her voice. “I’m hunting. Come or don’t.”
Bemora took off through the trees, leaping from branch to branch with grace and he followed on foot. He was hungry and there had been a little farmer’s hut not far from here. An older man and two teenaged youths. Bemora liked her meals older, said it gave the meat flavor.
The teenagers would do just fine.
True to her nature, Bemora didn’t wait for him to catch up as she landed on the hut’s roof. The place wasn’t rundown but small, and surely the inhabitants noticed something above their heads. He took up post behind the wood pile on the home’s west side and waited.
She was garish, hanging there by her clawed feet, upside down off the roof and in front of the window near the door. Bemora’s arms were long and spindly, and Luther was always struck by her resemblance to stories about spring-heeled and winding limbed creatures that supposedly stalked the rooftops of the big cities. Maybe that was where the tales came from after all.
When the front door flung open, the old man didn’t even have a moment to contort his face in surprise. Bemora lashed out, serrated claws digging into his shoulders so she could lift him into the air. His feet dangled, his scream was cut off, and blood splashed onto the muddy ground. Luther had to admire her dedication to consuming her prey in mid-air, balancing the weight of two while sucking bone marrow through her teeth.
The teenaged youths darted out, sleep mussed and baffled. Luther liked his prey slower, stumbling, and these children were perfect. He had his hand through the boy’s ribcage while he tore the girl’s throat out and listened to their gurgles and wet rasps of breath while his mind was consumed with bloodlust.
***
Octavia stood outside the large steel door, Roderick on her left and Eislen on her right. “Messy business,” she said softly as she pulled a key from her pocket. “I suppose once we embark on this endeavor, there’s no going back.”
“And yet, there’s something more to this,” Roderick replied, a furl of nervousness lodged in his gut. “Too much coincidence. And the hunters were ripped apart by something other than a feral. There was far too much blood.”
Eislen gave him a short nod. “Plenty of things that can rip apart flesh with ease in the Faelands.”
“I was worried you’d say that,” Octavia muttered, drawing a derisive snort from Eislen.
Roderick watched them carefully. He saw how their shoulders brushed, how Eislen turned into Octavia like a flower in the sun. His heart constricted in that quiet, far too short moment before Octavia was unlocking the door and they were hit with a blast of frost.
The manor’s basement had a cold storage room, enchanted to keep frost on the walls year-round. It had been an experiment of her ancestor’s and the magic had yet to wane; it was one of a few installments of such charms around Wilderwood, including the tavern. And now served as a makeshift morgue.
The three bodies had been carefully, respectfully laid out on old worktables but no attempts had been made to make the pieces match. Roderick was grateful for that, since it would be easier for him to match wound to wound.
Bel and Octavia kept to the sidelines, watching as he worked. No one spoke for several long minutes until Roderick finally said, “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything quite like this.” He flipped down several lenses on the intricate goggles he’d pulled from his kit. “They look like claws at first, but natural claws or teeth leave small tears in the skin you can’t see with the naked eye. These look like blade cuts.”
As Octavia was smoothing down Bel’s sleeve, she felt them freeze at Roderick’s words. “What?”
Bel cleared their throat, their face going strangely neutral. “I’ve a suspicion.”
“Care to share?” Roderick asked as he picked up a severed arm, flicked another lens down, and brought the part horrifyingly close to his face.
“It’s not...pleasant.” Bel looked even more uncomfortable, frowning and casting their gaze away from the bodies on the tables. “Please continue, I don’t wish to interrupt. The more you discover, the better informed I can be.”
He stared at them for a long moment, sat the arm down, then moved on to the next table. His nod was quick, sure, and Bel let out a silent breath of relief.
Roderick began pointing out the various wound patterns - they were oddly clean and devoid of the telltale marks of a frenzied attack. The bodies bore bruises, including some defensive marks, but the attack was brutally concise. Devoid of any soul, any morality, any remorse. “They probably didn’t even feel the first strike,” he said, gesturing to a bone-deep slash on a torso. “Whatever did this would have struck quickly at one target, downed them, then moved to the next. The others would have had a moment to react, but in defense.”
Octavia must have seen something on their face. She’d always been able to read them. “Bel?”
Bel shook their head, more a sharp jerk of a gesture than anything else. “The fae Queen was doing….heinous things to refugees from her Court if she caught them. Had them hauled back.”
Roderick slid the goggles up until they sat atop his head, all notes of curiosity gone from his expression. He now looked deadly serious. “What things?”
Octavia saw them bite the inside of their cheek and ball their fist against their thigh. “Experiments. Grafting.” They looked away. “Turning people into monsters.”
“Why?” Octavia asked. “What would be the point?”
“Besides cruelty? Power. Madness.” Bel’s words were snapped out, bitter and jaded and Octavia had never heard them speak thusly, unless it was to scoff at their family. “Malice. Heinous, vile malice. The Faelands are choked in it.” They stepped away, headed toward the door. “I need air. Please don’t wait for me.”
Octavia watched them go, her heart heavy. She stared for several long moments at the door then scrubbed at her face with the heel of a palm. Letting Bel go was the wisest course of action, but it hurt to watch them leave.
After several long moments, she turned back to Roderick. “Can we match the….parts with each other? I’d like to return the bodies to the families.”
His gaze was heavy on her as he said, “Yes, I can do that. It’s kind of you to think of the families.” He leaned in. “Are you all right? I didn’t know vampires could look quite so green.”
She grimaced, worrying her bottom lip with a fang. It shouldn’t have been enticing, not when he was standing over the remains of three mutilated bodies. The flicker of something more...primal was shoved away so he could refocus on his work.
“Such violence is not unknown to me, but it is hard to look at it.” Octavia motioned to the bodies. “Three lives cut short for what? It’s beyond disturbing.”
“I agree.” His tone was solemn. “And yet this nags at me.” He began ticking questions off on his fingers. “Could something have come through a portal? Is this connected to Luther? Why the mutilation, the violence?” Then he looked steadily at Octavia. “And why did this happen right as Eislen returned?”
Something flashed over Octavia’s expression and it raised his hackles. “Eislen didn’t cause this, Ranger,” she said slowly.
“But their arrival may have.”
Octavia closed her eyes. “They just arrived and you’re already pointing fingers, looking to place blame?”
“No, I’m trying to stop a murderer.” He gestured to the tables. “Murderers, to be exact. I don’t think Eislen is directly responsible. But I do think coincidence doesn’t exist except in very rare cases.”
She watched him work for several long minutes, piecing together the bodies with extended care. Finally, he said, “There was something. Earlier. When I was in the bath.”
There was an image she had to shake away. She didn’t know why exactly the thought of Roderick - a man she barely knew - alone in the bath was rather intriguing, but it was there all the same. “And?”
He stilled, confusion flickering over his face. “There were voices. Three of them. Three names, too. They were talk
ing about the Ranger coming to them and asking for assistance, or asking questions. One of them kept repeating they didn’t want to die.” He pinned her with a stare. “Does any of that sound familiar?”
The bottom dropped out of Octavia’s stomach. He had to be talking about the Montgomery triplets, Wilderwood’s resident witches. And while she’d made mention of them to Roderick, she’d been loath to reveal anything outside what was absolutely necessary.
But trust was vital, and Roderick had already shown both aptitude and a willingness to roll with strange occurrences. “It does,” she said slowly, watching him carefully. “The witches I mentioned to you, the ones who maintain our wards?” At his nod, she continued. “You may have heard them. Sometimes their thoughts...bleed out. Especially during times like this.”
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