by Jamie Magee
No matter the reasoning, Reveca had left Windsome alone for the most part. Saige and Evanthe kept up their appearances. Saige more than the others, but Windsome knew it wasn’t her mind-bending crib keeping Saige coming back for more. The witch was listening to the echo of the dead. She was listening for the signs of the end.
There was a witch with a secret or two...
Windsome didn’t care what Saige’s motives were. She had her own. She needed to know what the coven knew of her doings. When she turned up nothing, not a single hint of disapproval she felt the universe nudge her onward.
Or was that lust? Was it a male just shy of seven feet, carefully carved out of lean muscle, eyes that could stop a living heart and a voice so deep and rich that it slammed into Windsome’s gut and did a little twisting action? She’d remark about Donalt’s smile as well, but the male only smiled right after a climax when he was buried deep inside her small frame.
It had been far too long to start thinking about all those hourly bouts. She might forget she was pissed at her lover if she did.
The fucking brute.
Why did he have to be everything that was predicted? Asshat. Fucking with those children. So what if they want his throne? More time to tub, more time to travel. Windsome’s one tragic issue was that she was in love with an addict.
She was the only being he loved as much as his drug. Not even his children came close.
Addict or not, Windsome knew who Donalt was before, now, and would be. The male before and after is a brilliant father. A breathtaking lover, a selfless, confident, proud male who proved nothing lasts forever, not even an evil throne.
She was so naive! How could she believe that she could fuck and love Donalt well enough that no demon could infect him? Much less a bastard she had always seen in a brotherly way.
Fuck. Zale.
Let him show his ass near her again. The asshole that he was made it his business to slaughter all love affairs the witches had.
With Reveca, he shot Kenson. Windsome is still not positive how Zale knew to do such a thing, he was just a boy then, a horny one but still, just a boy. If someone were calling for bets on the matter, Windsome would guess it wasn’t exactly Zale who did it, at least not who he was in the present back then. No, she was sure he had the help of a Voyager, a little skip back in time that would reshuffle the deck.
With Evanthe, Zale cursed the seventh son, in more ways than one. The first was putting him in Talon’s path. The second was Reveca bringing him back under a hostile aliment. The third was the imprisonment of Evanthe during all this. Without her influence, Thrash became who he was. By the time Evanthe reached the man her family had promised her in ancient predictions, he was no longer a seventh son, but a trophy in Reveca’s arsenal.
Windsome was never sure if the act was meant to divide Reveca and Evanthe or stop the power everyone knew the seventh son had. She was betting it was the latter. Evanthe never told Reveca who Thrash was, even if she had, Reveca wasn’t in the state of mind to believe her. If by chance she did, Reveca’s response would have been closer to Zale’s, she would have bound Thrash to her forever keeping his power and influence as her own.
With Windsome, Zale was far more calculated and cruel. He was the first to reach through the Veil to contact Windsome, the first to treat her as if she was still real and not some now holy being. He’d asked for a favor, for her to summon someone for him from inside the Veil. She should’ve known she was summoning a God and not an average being to help Zale with his classic little man syndrome. How easy it was to call out to Donalt, the absolute lack of any real strain on her power had fooled her.
Their love affair was instant and would make anyone’s head spin. Too short, however. Far too short. Zale made quick work of using the meager gift of power Donalt had given him as a result of the summons. He didn’t use it as power on the side of the living, but for the power to roam among the dead. Zale became a fixture around Windsome and Donalt. Once the grand parties and dinners were over, and only those in the know of how the world of the dead truly worked lingered, Zale dropped his poisonous lines.
“It’s strange don’t you think?” he’d say. “Why do rulers as you never arrive in the mortal world? It seems to me it would do the world some good to see the power they worship now and again, otherwise, they may forget to do so with future generations.”
Or Zale would say, “I heard it is glorious, your design, I mean. How perfect is it that you feed on what harms mere mortals? Do you ever feel the rush, or has it gotten old? Boring with time?” Followed by. “If you do take a tad more, be sure to tell me if it is a rush.”
Zale knew, just like Windsome did that Donalt and his fellow rulers had taken a bit more than intended in the past, and when it was done it was more than a rush. It was the high of highs. A power so great it could give a god a buzz was not something to be toyed with. Knowing so made it easy for Donalt and others to step away from the temptation, the vile act they committed that would shame their rule and all those in their line.
There was Zale, a witch from a powerful bloodline, looking starstruck at the very idea of the action. His approval planted a seed. A seed that grew with actions and brought on the very Rapture at hand. It was easy to blame it all on one moment in time, harder to believe it wasn’t the moment, but how weak your lover was not just on one day, but several, eons worth, that slaughtered your ever after.
Windsome put up with it all. Everything from Donalt’s first slip, to the moment he tainted the other Gods and had them believing when they accidently took too much from the mortals in the past, it wasn’t an accident at all, but nature’s way of opening them up to a greater power.
Along the way he took control of a dimension, worse, he took the Queen into his bed. He broke treaties and plotted to destroy the end she swore to him would come. For all the hell and heartache Donalt had put her through there had been enough moments where she had seen the true being he was, the one who came to her simply and perfectly so long ago, was still inside wanting to be free from the weakness that had chained him to a war that didn’t have to begin.
A war that would divide siblings, marriages, lovers, and nations alike—a war that would test its victors beyond any expected breaking point. Rapture.
Reveca would never understand why it was Donalt and not King who deserved absolution. No one, not even his own heirs, would ever know Donalt the way Windsome did. It was her curse to be the only soul who knew what his true heart was, a badge she wore proudly over the eras as she did what had to be done when it had to be done.
This, being yanked into this world, was not something that had to be done. It was fucked up. It put King on her short list. Like he cared where it was...
Windsome’s stare flicked to her daughter, Monroe. Well, that wasn’t true, was it? There wasn’t a single doubt what male she was passionately loving when the seed of this child met her womb. Not a single question on who labored this being into life. By all outward appearances, Monroe was a girl born in death, child of a witch and a dark god who had ruled better days.
It is never what is on the outside that matters, but what is in the soul. The secrets there are never as dormant as one would think they should be. In truth, they guide every seemingly random choice of the being.
Monroe was the physical child of Windsome, the spiritual child of the God of Anger and The Goddess of Wrath. It was their essence that had collided and met Monroe’s soul long before she ever fell into the womb of Windsome.
Such curious titles they were, angry people should be angry, right? Windsome had never had the pleasure of meeting neither Vade nor Glory, but she did know Monroe was not an angry child. There was far more fear in her. A trait that had made it easy to pass Monroe as a child of Donalt, The God of Fear.
The fear was natural for its own reasons. Power has its charms but far more misgivings. Monroe had always had more than she knew what to do with. She had seen and felt more than anyone who graced her presence, but she seemed as
docile as a flower fighting a summer rain.
Windsome had yearned for more time with her, loathed the day when she had to surrender her children. They were never far from her sight, and not once out of the grip of her protection, but they were too far more than Windsome cared to admit.
Recently, not surprisingly, since Reveca learned of the ‘absolution clause,’ Reveca had been batting a thousand when it came to offering a helping hand. In one way or another Reveca had managed to put herself before several of the Rising Gods. Like a wise guardian angel with more than enough brute men to vouch for her, she showed up and provided guidance. Was it her that saved any of them from their latest conflicts. Nope.
Reveca sure as hell made it look like she had, though. It was all rather gut turning to Windsome, which was exactly why she had haunted her daughter rather closely as of late. And exactly why she saw King snatch her out of her warm bed like she was an ingredient he needed for a magic potion.
Fuck. Him.
Now here they were, back where it all began in, a dimension Windsome never cared to see again. Home.
The only real win of being on the grounds, once Windsome made it past the haunting memories, was the fact she had a nearly solid form and voice. Not that she bothered to use either. It was better to watch, to let them all think she was a source of great knowledge and understanding.
She wasn’t.
However, she was a concerned mother and a determined woman who would have her happily ever after one way or another.
The entrapment was a bit of a bore for the first bit. Windsome watched as Monroe made beads of balance and protection, and listened to the plots of the Helco Faction. The beads by far would have zero effect, much like the plans for the soon to be very tested rebel faction. But hey, people have to go through the motions to make them feel like they did all they could, right?
“This is foolish,” Windsome heard.
Fearing someone read her thoughts, a gift Donalt often displayed with her, she glanced up. Dark Angels such as these could not be fully trusted. They are not true to who they once were and have no idea who they are becoming.
It was Sven who had spoken, one of the more glorious pieces of eye candy in the room. Why is it always the one who is different who is crowned with a golden nugget of easy attraction? Could it be the underlying desire everyone has is to be different? More than likely, but now was not the time for Windsome to ponder age-old mindsets.
Sven was fair compared to the others, his hair was closer to brown than black, his eyes held a strange color, not really blue or green but some unnamed color in between, they would flicker with his power when his emotion was pointed. All angels, like their Gods, had the height that was meant to humble most and the muscle mass to back it up, Sven was no different only his was carried in a more boyish way. Another win for him, the male could blend if he wanted to, a perfect lure for the young, and dare for the older.
“Whom else deserves the honor,” King responded blankly.
“He lives,” Sven shot back.
Windsome leaned forward ready to watch the show. She’d heard King’s wrath was downright seductive, you never saw it coming until it was too late and you were screaming his name in mercy.
“Not at my side. Not now.”
Windsome halfway rolled her eyes. That was it? Geeze talk about a classic example of hype gone wrong.
Sven stepped closer to King; careful to take his voice below any octave the other angels lurking could hear. “I’m not him. This is too sudden. You need time.”
King swallowed stiffly. “The Faction respects you. In my absence, you served as Dagen’s First. I’m asking you to do the same now.”
“This is not a switch you flip, King. You can’t do that to Dagen. Whatever he has done it is not by his own will. Our honor states we protect him, not cut him loose.”
“Are you questioning me?” King’s four words lowered the temp in the room a few degrees.
Windsome lifted a brow hoping maybe the hype had some merit, though it would be a pity to see such a beautiful creature such as Sven destroyed. Better to get the temptation out of the way, though. King would be far more merciful than Donalt. Donalt did not get the term ‘we are separated, my legs are free to wrap around who I wish and when,’ nope, he liked to kill them when they were still inside Windsome. Sick fuck.
“Is that not what a First does, keeps you alive and straight and true?”
“So you accept?”
“I can not decline you. You know this.”
“Your disapproval will make you hostile when I least need you to be.”
“Speaking from experience?” Sven chided. Everyone new King was a miserable First to Revelin.
“I am.”
“What could Dagen have done to cause you to sever your grace from him,” Sven asked with his brow pinned in pain.
“He left us, Sven. I can’t explain to you why. It is not my story to tell.
Sven dropped his gaze as his thoughts overtook his expression. “If I do this, then he will be weak and defenseless wherever he is. If you are using me as a tool to destroy him I should know,” he said as his fierce stare lifted and met King’s.
“I would destroy myself a million times over before I harmed any of you. You know that.”
“I know a lot of things that are no longer true.”
Windsome was always down to pick up any skeletons dangling out of closets, so she eased forward making it seem as if she was nothing more than a restless haunt watching over Monroe as she should rightfully do.
“This is my point, to the Faction at large, I am still lost to death,” King said.
Sven glanced out to the kingdom the Faction had been slowly taking on as its new habitat. Not all had been called there, only those strong enough to hide their path and hold their silence no matter the risk.
“These men,” Sven said. “Followed Dagen easily, he ruled as if you were on hiatus. They will not follow me as easily in your absence. They can not be fooled again.”
“I don’t want them fooled. If it were my desire, I could not stop them from feeling the obvious.”
Sven squared his shoulders. “Is that it? You cut Dagen from your grace and put me in his place, an action powerful enough to cover the death of a Queen.”
Windsome tilted her head in distant agreement. King had always charmed her in his own ways. A mystery that would take eons to unfold, males like him never let you know where you stood with them, and once you thought you had his number his mood would change, and you would be right back to playing Clue all over again.
“Why hide this from them?” Sven demanded.
“I need your acceptance or your denial.”
“And if I deny you? What then, you pull in one of my captains? How will that make sense to anyone?”
“Do you deny the call to be my First?”
Sven pressed his lips firmly together. How was he to answer such a question? It was treason to lust for a role not given to you. He had felt like a traitor since he woke from his death into this world. There was always a draw to King, a desire to protect him even when he didn’t think he needed it. Then again, the bond and friendship Dagen and King had was something Sven never felt.
He’d always been closer to Dagen, Dagen was easier to deal with, he knew how to smile, crack a joke, he had a calm that never faded. With King, it was different. The pair of them stood in comfortable silence most of the time, instead of debating a topic King would simply glance Sven’s way and know where he stood.
Lately, King had been looking his way often, Sven was the resident scholar on the Rapture at hand. It was a passion born in his mortal life that only grew stronger in his immortal role. He’d spent much of his downtime tracking the players in this war. It was mind-blowing to see them all follow a predicted path, yet make it their own.
“Permission to have this ceremony before Dagen,” Sven said evenly.
“Denied. Yes or no.”
“Permission to send men to his side
during this ceremony.”
“Denied.”
“You’re an asshole,” Sven snapped.
Windsome was sure she was going to see some action now, good thing too, Sven was downright toying with her on switch as it were. Better for him to die King’s way, true.
Windsome was so caught up in her own fantasies of death and sex that she didn’t notice that Monroe had moved and put herself between the males until she was already there. Out of motherly defense, she charged forward, but King held his hand out in a gesture for her to stay, more than a gesture, it felt like he had put sandbags all around Windsome’s power. Fucker.
Monroe had her back to King and her hands firmly one Sven’s chest. King’s stare raptly took in Sven’s expression, his entire essence, the way all Gods do.
Sven had placed his hands on Monroe’s in defense but had no power to take them off. The witchling had pushed him back eons in time to his boyhood, even before then, he saw what was said of him. He saw the honor his people had as they held the infant he was. From there he saw every single marked moment of his existence leading him to the point he was at now.
“There is no question,” Monroe whispered as she pulled her hands from the now heaving chest of Sven.
Monroe stood to the side then drew a dagger from her waist; Windsome halted her press forward against King’s hold on her. Until this point, she had assumed this conversation was more about clout and soothing the egos of the males about. Now it had a grave new meaning, and she wasn’t so sure she was cool with any of it.
The natural order simply states a Sovereign, at the beginning of time, will call out to his First with his first bout of essence once the First’s mortal life has reached a prime age, the Sovereign comes in dreams with an offer, of course, it is accepted without hesitance because the First is not only scared shitless, he had also been groomed by an unseen force for the reality he was in.
