by Jamie Magee
This wasn’t the beginning of time, it was the end. Consequently, all the rules were murky when it came to most things. Usually not when it came to ancient rules. There was a clause for everything, however. There was always a risk of a First perishing—it was their job. Defend the King! Had it happened in the past? Hell, if Windsome knew for sure, there were rumors, of course, there are always rumors! What Windsome did know was at the very least a trifecta of Gods must agree on the new First should they be replaced. Therefore, the Sovereign shopping for a sidekick slash shield had to find at the very least, two other fellow rulers to agree with his choice.
In this climate? Impossible. Who in their right mind would gamble with having a new loyal First much less put themselves in a position that forced them to barter with fools who were all addicts trying to stay alive?
In awe, Windsome glared at King as she watched him stare at her daughter. This insane plan she saw blossoming in King’s eyes was exactly such. No one had officially considered King a Sovereign. Most were playing catch up in general; even more assumed Jamison’s child, Raven, and her ghostly hunk Cashton were the rising Sovereigns of Exaltation. They would be almost right, more so wrong. If prophecy had its say, Raven and Cashton would rule Bliss, the innocent kind of happiness. King and Reveca would rule the rock and roll kind, get me off please, exaltation. That is, providing no one fucked up the almighty plan.
Cashton was wasting far too much time with the dead, and Reveca doing her fair share of pissing them off had put a fun little wild card on the table. In truth, no one knew what was what which is exactly why King was just King, a rebel—rumored to be dead.
Thinking like the others had landed Windsome where she was now, caught off guard and absolutely zero strength to put her two cents in. Oh, what a bargaining chip this would’ve been! But no, King snatched her little girl from her safe keeping between life and death and led her here without an ounce of explanation.
All this time Windsome thought it was a Hail Mary, him thinking Monroe’s unexplained and untested power could fix all the hell Reveca and her high horse had stirred up. Nope. This asshat thought Vade and Glory would agree with him! He was betting all he was on it, matter of fact.
Windsome watched as Monroe sliced Sven’s hand, then King’s, finally hers. This was the moment that would make this all seem like a bloody mess or a driven ceremony sent down from the heavens.
Hell, if she knew how to place her bets. Rumors had it Glory was free from her prison, better yet she was back with her man Vade and aware they had created the impossible, a being who harnessed both her and Vade’s almighty essence. Even wilder rumors had said Glory and Vade had been a guiding light, mostly unseen, to those who were rising.
All rumors.
Then it happened. A light so bright that it washed the world away burst from Monroe’s hands. The power slammed into the room and shook Windsome’s very being, landing a sick reminder of how fragile her power was compared to the Gods.
An agreement, as it would seem.
Windsome glowered at the unseen force all around her. The only way for her to deal with the idea someone else had a claim on her daughter of flesh was by focusing on the absolution she was after, by promising herself that though those beings may strum through Monroe’s soul, but it was her arms the child slept in, her Monroe called out to.
When the haze of the light was gone, Windsome glanced out to the masses all around the kingdom, each had taken a knee. Her grin was weak and full of envy. King was a sly fucker, in one action he proved to himself and all those who followed him he was a supreme ruler and glorified Sven at once.
All fun and games as it would seem to those who had forgotten for one to rise another must fall. Somewhere Dagen was being sucked into a nothing, a death without honor.
The excitement was still brimming in the air moments later when Sven returned from acknowledging his role to the masses. King was a step behind looking as unaffected as ever.
It was then the real fun began. When fate played one of its famous twists. Sven stopped short, gasped for breath then stumbled to the bedside they had all been lingering around. There Reveca’s body lay. It had been in a deep dream state since moments after King clipped her wings forbidding her to travel out of the dimension she was in.
It had been a bit of a snore since then, Windsome would’ve rather been anywhere else. More so close to the rising Throng, she wasn’t so sure how they were going to pull it off, at least pull it off cleanly.
Little did Windsome or anyone know that their sleeping beauty was not with them but far away living up to her rep. At least Windsome assumed as much when she saw the blood begin to spring from wounds that opened on their own.
“Ah,” she said to the room. “That is the way...to die in a dream state. Quite horrid, actually.”
Four
Like the wraiths of death, gravity crawled over Zosime anchoring her to a life she had serious reservations about keeping. She squinted her eyes closed trying to hold on to what she had witnessed before what she was feeling now drowned her in its sentiments.
A sneer touched her lips as she remembered the first blade going into the gray witch. At first, it had frightened Zosime and brought her back to her death. She could feel the pain, the life slipping out of her young, powerful body; she remembered the disbelieving thoughts being worse than any agony. Betrayal. Betrayed by her beliefs, by her fate.
The woman looked past the man to Zosime...Toril...that was her name. Zosime could hear her within the same way she had once heard Draxous. “Their hesitation is yours...your forgiveness is hers. What gift did she give you, what will you return?”
Zosime’s stare drifted to the couple back to back in the center of the wraiths of death. Her eyes focused on the male. He was misplaced, Zosime was sure of it. She could feel the resolution as deep as her bones. She hungered for the look she saw in his eyes, for the fierce protectiveness he had for this gray witch who left agony in her path.
As Zosime studied the pair, the wraiths simply watched and waited. The hesitation they had was far worse than their imminent attacks. What gifts did this witch give? What an odd question given at an even odder time. Zosime felt as if she were being schooled once more, being taught to see a resolution that only the minds who rested with their higher selves could understand. It was a game she once admired, it taught her to flex her sense of emotion and toy with all the reasons those before her had come to where they are.
Staring past her hatred of the gray witch Zosime saw more in her, there was a sickness. It was raw and enforced by time. The gray witch had been ill for so long that she had forgotten what being well and calm was.
What gift did this witch give me?
She saved Zosime from becoming like the gray witch. Was that the correct answer? Zosime didn’t know, but the moment she assumed as much the wraiths moved forward, the blows no longer hurt as she watched them slice into the flesh of the gray witch.
The death had no honor, but it carried the mark of time, the mark of a great ruler’s fall from grace.
So be it.
Zosime was so intensely focused on the fall of the witch that she vaguely felt the others with her fighting an unseen force. The power felt like a wave of mass proportions crashing into each of them. The pain was welcome to Zosime, she was glad to feel something beyond heartache and sickness. Then it was all gone. Her soul soared to where it lay now, and another grim reality overcame her.
She rather enjoyed the silence she was lingering in. Not so much the silence around her but within. From where she lay under the dome of magic, those with her and their emotions were distant. The unrest of Toril and the male with her, Scorpio, seemed closer. The wretched sorrow of the man she had seen in the field and another she could not quite grasp was easier to sit with.
Anxieties and grief had the hope of ending, finding a resolution. Betrayal had no such hope. The deed was done. The threat of it occurring again would never die. The pain would always lurk preparing to remind
the world of his existence at any moment.
Nearly everyone in this place with her felt such a betrayal, none as rich as her own. When Zosime’s eyes lifted just enough for her to survey the room, like the curse he was, her stare was drawn to Dagen. She decided there was no repairing any miscommunication between them. How could there be when he sleeps as she fights to conquer the world? It was the witch’s grief as she worked frantically on Dagen that gave Zosime’s thoughts a new direction.
Instinct had Zosime on her feet, and far from the dome of magic, she had been immersed in a second before. The ‘ah fuck’ and ‘what—what the fuck just happened’ followed by a slew of other phrases just like them all muffled into the background of her mind as Zosime took the final steps to where Dagen was lying across a long, plush settee.
His flesh was pale, nearly blue, his eyes lay still behind his lids, and his chest only vaguely lifted to take a breath.
“Help him,” Zosime heard only because Gwinn had rested her hand on her arm and squeezed.
In a blank daze Zosime drifted her mindless gaze to Gwinn.
“It is the least you can do,” Gwinn said in a chilled tone she was forcing to sound respectful.
Zosime narrowed her stare on the small witch. Her sorrow was not as rich and profound as those she sensed close, but it was in the same state of shock and disbelief. “The least I could do, as if I am in debt to this household?”
Her gaze moved down to Dagen and his poor color.
“It is not his fault,” Gwinn said through gritted teeth. “He is bound to his Faction, to the power in it. He will feel their fall. It could kill him.”
Zosime’s gaze wandered to the wide gazes of Shade and Thrash, such complicated men she found them to be. Refusing to believe what they felt, yet honoring the idea of the unthinkable with rage.
“We all have a day to die,” Zosime said as jealousy morphed into her expression as it fell to Dagen once more. How could he honor the gray witch that took him from her? Was none of it real?
“We all have a day to rise, too,” The young male witch, Bastion, said from his tense stance near the dome of magic Zosime had abandoned.
“Do we?” Zosime asked blankly as she felt the emotion of sorrow explode inside of Dagen.
No, no she would not let him slip into some abyss with his grief. He would be awake as his death rapped on the door and took him to the eternity he begged for with all his sins.
Her hand hovered over his body and would’ve fallen fully on his chest if Shade had not appeared out of nowhere and gripped her wrist. When Zosime looked into his lavender eyes swirling with mystery, a spike of fear clamored in her chest. This man had drugged her long ago. As a result, she had the sweetest night of her life with Draxous. Was it all worth it? Do we live and feel pain only for one night of glory? Life is about the rise and the fall, not the moments that give either to occur— or is it the opposite? Zosime didn’t know but what she did know was there was an evil hunting them all as they stood there fighting amongst themselves.
***
Shade had no idea why he had stopped this female from laying hands on Dagen. Moments before, he nearly killed Bastion as he tried to free Zosime from whatever fucked up shit she was doing. Bastion’s raw intent then was to get her free from there and side by side with the fallen angel. Why did Shade give a fuck Dagen had fallen like a bag of bricks right as they all sensed Zosime’s soul leave for battle? He didn’t know.
He wanted to believe it was because Dagen was the best way out of the prison they were stuck in, but he knew it was something more. Something all of him could not agree with no matter how hard he tried. It didn’t matter that part of him honored Zosime’s quest or that part of him felt sick and trapped behind circumstances he could not control. He knew the time was wrong.
It was all wrong. It was gruesome out there, and here he was blind and hindered from making a move to do a damn thing about it.
Thrash had stopped Shade from taking out Bastion who was far more wolf than witch guarding Zosime. He did so because Bastion was his son, not for any reasoning or belief he had. At least, Shade was sure that would be the stance Thrash would take if questioned.
Even though a witch led the Sons, there was freaking shit that was not spoken of. Speaking of it made it real. Speaking of it gave way to the possibility there was something more powerful than them out there ready to strike at any given moment with little to no notice. It was not a state of mind any warrior would welcome. Doubt loses more wars than weak numbers.
Shade and Thrash, just like all the Sons, had all shared the ‘what the fuck just happened,’ stare enough times to read the intensity of the moment. They had all seen, heard, and felt shit that defied explanation, but Shade was sure the stare the two of them shared as Gwinn cried over Dagen’s fallen body and Bastion stood guard over Zosime’s was by far the deepest either of them had given or accepted.
Were they to believe this bullshit? Seventh son and some badass time traveler? Neither concept was new, only brought to light once more. Even if they did believe it what good would it do? How could they trust an instinct that was new and raw? How could they know how to use any kind of fucking influence?
Evidently, they couldn’t. For two guys who held the keys to the prison, they were in, neither of them made a move to take the fallen angel out of the entrapment he was in. Neither of them felt the urge to fight to the death and stop Zosime from whatever she was doing. It was a choice that did not match their emotions or hard-wired loyalty.
Shade could not answer for Thrash, but he knew even with all this chaos going on the richest thought he had was ‘the time is wrong.’ How would he know if the time was right or wrong? Did he think so because Bastion made the comment someone had jumped the gun or did he truly believe that to be the case?
He didn’t fucking know. But what Shade did know was this female touching Dagen would only make all this bullshit Shade was currently dealing with worse. Saying so or explaining as much was more than a stretch for Shade. Instead, he glared at the snake due chick as he held her hand over Dagen’s body. She struggled, she might have even cussed at him, he had no idea. What he did know was, the moment he locked stares with her, and he let the possibility that he was half as powerful as the recent rumors about him said, the female stilled and slowly lowered her gaze to Dagen. In the same breath, her essence spilled from her palm and crept onto Dagen’s chest, the power slid over him searching for a way in, as more and more of Zosime’s essence was expelled.
No one needed an interpreter of magic to understand what was happening. Dagen was either too far gone or outright rejecting this female. It could not be that easy to kill him. Shade had heard enough talk, sensed enough to know only a God could take down a being like Dagen with no effort. Leaving rejection on the table.
Why would a man so love stricken when he arrived in this palace change the course of his emotion at the drop of a dime? The easiest answer was there was never any real love lost between this pair. It was an answer Shade would have taken simply if he could not taste the bond between the pair of them. It was a flavor that could not be held with words—a flavor Shade tasted day in and out as he fell deeper for his own witch.
Shade could taste anger and betrayal in the air, it had been rich for a while, at least since Zosime had arrived; now it was so thick Shade was surprised they all were not choking on the stench of the scent. Dagen had imploded the emotions...
To Shade, it was clear Dagen wanted to die, and quickly. Fuck that. On an impulse, Shade’s grip moved from Zosime’s arm to her throat. The shock stopped the flow of her essence and had her begging for breath. The gasps only helped Shade along on his quest. The vamp in him was going to suck her dry, take all the vim he could.
The room exploded into action. The only voice he heard was Gwinn’s begging him to calm down, to come back to her. Shade wanted to, but right then he was on a mission. This shit had to be taken care of. Zosime’s gasps of air became shorter and shorter, and then nearly no
n-existent as his grip lifted her from the floor.
Shade could feel the fight in her fading, drifting into an abyss that refused to call his name.
It was then that a roar broke the thick silence that his rage had put Shade behind. Dagen had not only taken every ounce of the vim Zosime had let fall on him, he had also used it to move her across the room making way for him to come face to face with Shade, a male Dagen was determined to shred.
“Fucking coward,” Shade spat.
“You laid hands on her,” Dagen said canting his head to the side as his mind ticked through all the ways he would make this male hurt. “There is no greater sin.”
“You want to make a fucking bet?” Shade asked bumping chests with Dagen. “How ‘bout leaving her behind and dying because you’re too fucking scared to man up and make a real decision?”
“You don’t know fucking shit,” Dagen said as his vim lashed out.
Before Thrash could even attempt to help his boy out, Shade had struck back, and now Dagen was flying across the room landing on, then breaking, what was Dagen’s death bed moments before.
Shade stormed forward appearing at his side. “You are one of us now, fucker. Even playing field.” Shade stood tall. “You want to meet your fucking maker?” he ticked his head toward Zosime. “Take care of your business first, and then I’ll deliver you myself, asshat.”
Before a single questioning gaze landed on Shade, he stormed out of the room. Beats later he was back in his chambers standing on the balcony staring out at the nothing around him as he lit a cigarette and let the first hit ease the tension in his shoulders just enough for him to clear his head.
He was halfway done with his smoke and had gone moments with mindless thought before he felt Gwinn appear at the threshold behind him. He didn’t bother to turn to her, not even when she closed the door behind her. She knew he didn’t like that shit. How were they to know the fucking palace would not lock them out? It was one thing to be held against your will in luxury, another to be in darkness with no way to survive.
