Immortal Divorce Court Volume 2: A Sirius Education

by Kirk Zurosky

  “No, my dear Wizzie,” I said, sucking gently on her upper lip. “If it’s motion you want, it is motion I will give you.” I swept her up in my arms and rolled to my feet in one smooth motion.

  “What now?” she said, her wings flared out once more, beads of sweat glistening like nectar upon her brow.

  “More motion,” I said, cupping her firm ebony buttocks in each hand as I rhythmically raised her up and down on me, again and again, her wings countering my movements perfectly, driving me ever deeper, ever harder, inside this onyx angel. Her fingernails raked into my back for a moment, then her hands clutched me tight as she felt my own pleasure begin to grow. Down on the blanket we went. I pressed my body onto hers, giving her all the motion she could handle and more. I exploded inside her as she reached the pinnacle of her own pleasure, and we fell into a deep sleep, consumed by the efforts of our passion.

  I awoke to Garlic licking my face, and realized that Maria would be up in a moment. Wisdom and I hurriedly dressed in front of the snorting disapproval of the vampire Maltese, and made it to the kitchen right as Maria found us. “Did you two manage to get your lesson plans done last night?” she said, her big blue eyes so innocent and pure.

  I was all about not lying to your children, but age appropriate editing was okay by me. “No, Maria,” I said. “We were really tired and fell asleep in the cabana.”

  “Well, that must have been fun,” Maria said. “A sleepover! Sorry if Daddy snores, Wizzie.” We all laughed and broke our fast, during which Maria kept commenting about how ravenous I was, and Wisdom and Garlic could only barely contain their snickers. Then I kissed my gifted little one good-bye for a few weeks and set off to find her sisters. I realized that I would have to come up with a legitimate reason as to why I had not actually done the lesson plans I had promised myself I would do for the girls. But as I met them in the great common room, wondering how I was going to explain my tardiness and lack of lesson plans, inspiration struck me. “Mary Grace, how good to see you my daughter,” I said. “I missed you last night.”

  “I know, Father,” she said, not sounding remotely contrite. “I was helping Lovely with a lesson plan.”

  I sure hoped Lovely had not received the same help on his lesson plan that I had from Wisdom. “Uh, right,” I murmured.

  “I saw them kissing,” Contessa said. “Kind of hard to work on a lesson plan with your eyes closed! You are so irresponsible!”

  “And you are such a bitch, Contessa!” Mary Grace shrieked, scooping up a small vase and hurling it at Contessa’s head.

  I snatched it out of midair with a flourish and set it down next to me. It appeared they were both right. I stared sternly at Contessa and Mary Grace. “Ladies,” I said, “we do not have public displays of dissention in the family.”

  “We will discuss this later, Contessa,” Mary Grace howled.

  Contessa cracked her knuckles slowly. “I am looking forward to it,” she said coolly. She turned to me, looking as sweet and innocent as she could. “Now then, Father, what are our lesson plans?”

  I smiled, happy that what had just transpired was feeding right into my plans. “Ladies,” I said, “I was thinking back to what an impressive team you four made on the beach in Sardinia. Your fighting skills were unparalleled for your age and experience back then. But lately, I am seeing too much sniping and not enough, well, sisterly love.” I could see Adelaide and Beatrice trying to get my attention. I turned my eyes on them. “You two could do well to not rely on each other so much. You do have two other sisters you know.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Contessa asked.

  “It is time to bring back the four warriors from the beach,” I said. “You will all work together to come up with the lesson plans and teach in teams.” I could see Adelaide and Beatrice nodding at each other. “Nope, not the two of you together,” I said. “And then present to the class.”

  “Sounds like we are just doing your work for you,” Mary Grace grumbled. “That is anything but fair.”

  “Maybe, but life isn’t fair, and if you learn anything from me, learn this—life owes you nothing,” I said. “You have to work at life, and that includes relationships too. So, when you and that honorable, and all too handsome, mertroll of yours get properly married and have children someday, then you can pass it down the line, fair enough?”

  “Do you approve of Lovely, Father?” Mary Grace said. And on her face was a look I had not expected—concern.

  I sighed deeply, since I had vowed to always be honest with my girls. I had not been in their lives for so long, and there was that part of me that did not want to share them. I wanted to be the only man in their lives for at least a little while longer. At the College of Immortals time passed slowly compared to the outside world, but at the moment it felt like it was racing at breakneck speed. “It would be hard not to, Mary Grace,” I said. “I consider his father among my closest friends, and Lovely has shown me remarkable character, and, well, grace.”

  She ran to me and hugged me tight. “Thank you,” she said, a tear in her eye.

  I could not believe my opinion even mattered to her. “But do me a favor, take it slowly,” I said. “Rushing into things doesn’t work out too well for our family.”

  “Maybe that just applies to you, Father.” Mary Grace grinned. I did not see her making a face at Contessa from around my shoulder, nor Contessa returning the look twice over. “I think we are beginning to have an understanding,” she said triumphantly. I could not help but wonder if Mary Grace was now the one playing on my emotions to get what she wanted. Parenthood was just lovely. I walked away, grimacing at my bad choice of words, hoping that I had not foretold of Mary Grace and Lovely getting where she wanted them to go before they—okay, I—was ready!

  A few hours later, Breeze, the Professor, and I set out with a large contingent of scholars, lords, and ladies journeying from Oxford to London. The coronation would be taking place at Westminster Abbey, presided over by Thomas Tenison, the archbishop of Canterbury. From Oxford to London was about a distance of fifty miles, and I could have covered that in a day, or two tops. But with the procession of nobility and academics, we made slow progress, what with all the pomp and circumstance associated with the coronation of George I. One day in the wee hours of the early morning, I had to not so casually break up a fight between the coachmen of two rival earls, who each deemed they were superior to the other, and thus, wanted their coach to proceed first. I rationalized that this was a fight that would never end and delay our passage further, so they both ended up taking an extended nap, holding each other ever so closely, sans breeches, in the stables of the inn where we stayed. Ironically, the earls came to an agreement on something that day—the need for new coachmen.

  I was peeved that the Oxford contingent I was reluctantly a part of was stopping for the night at an inn aptly named the Three-Legged Turtle. Even that poor creature would get to London faster than we would. During our trip, Breeze became more and more brazen in her flirtation. Oddly, I had found her as of yet pretty easy to resist, even after her demonstration at dinner that night as to how efficiently she could eat a rather large carrot. Maria had said to avoid those that eat their vegetables, but I just kept thinking of Breeze doing that act with Templeton Braddock, and nearly lost my dinner. I excused myself and stepped outside the inn, into a cool autumn rain. I gathered my cloak about me and set off for a walk. Tomorrow, we would be in London, and the following day was the coronation. I heard a great argument coming from an alley and peeked down it to see a window open to a dimly lit basement meeting room where a large gathering of angry men milled about.

  It seemed not all of England was happy that George I was ascending the throne. The Act of Settlement of 1701 had prohibited Catholics from inheriting the throne of Britain. The men in the basement favored James Stuart, Queen Anne’s half brother, to sit on the throne, not a wily member of the House of Hanove
r who, according to the most outspoken of the men in the basement, had manipulated a regency council so he could take power. I backed away after hearing talk of riot and rebellion, which was not my concern. Mine was to protect the entire world from those I imagined had an unparalleled ability to manipulate and deceive, and who made George I look like a child trying to pilfer a favorite toy. Of course, in this case the toy was the throne of one of the most powerful countries in the world, but that was a mere detail compared to potential world domination for eternity at the hands of the drinker of the Blood of the One.

  I snuck back to the Three-Legged Turtle and made my way past the assorted foot soldiers and servants milling about in front of the inn. The rain had stopped, so they amused themselves with throwing dice and accosting any passing maid that caught their fancy. They would have brought a smile to my face years ago, but now I just wanted to permanently wipe off the lecherous grins plastered to their unshaven mugs. The tavern’s great room was full to the bursting point with harlots, pickpockets, and assorted hangers-on trying to take advantage of the Oxford party’s gold and celebratory mood. A rather stocky courtesan spotted me the moment I poked my head into the tavern, and set out in my direction so quickly her pendulous, unrestrained bosoms bounced around under her blouse, resembling two piglets fighting one another in a gunnysack. I was not in the mood for making bacon this night. So up the stairs to my room I sprinted, skidding to a halt when I spied Breeze waiting outside my door.

  I peered over the railing, and up came the courtesan, her cheeks rosy with the effort. I saw Breeze’s sharp ears perk up as she heard the harlot’s ham hocks hopping up the steps, and the horny elf started walking down the hall toward me. I could see they were going to meet right where I stood, and I was fairly certain they would work out a satisfactory arrangement for sharing vampire this night. So out a window I went, sliding down the gable at breakneck speed, my boots getting no purchase on the slick rain-soaked wood. I was fully two stories in the air, and though I knew I could somersault to a safe landing, I could see it would be smack dab in the middle of the Oxford contingent of soldiers and servants. And the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself on the first mission out.

  Luckily, the owner of the Three-Legged Turtle was so obsessed with turtles that, at the base of the gable, there was a large wooden platform with a huge wooden turtle, which was only visible from the rooftop. So instead of taking my chances by hurtling myself down below, I skidded to a stop, buttressed by the turtle. I took a moment to examine the intricate wood carving and noted it had four legs, and wondered why the inn was inappropriately named. Then I looked again, and realized one of the legs was not actually a leg. “Oh,” I said to the rain falling once more. “That explains it.”

  I followed a walkway leading from the turtle to the back of the inn, and passed several darkened windows. I considered entering the inn that way, but did not want to find myself on the wrong end of an earl’s revolver, then have to explain away my miraculous recovery at the coronation. I saw some light coming from a window at the very back of the building, and slowly made my way to what I hoped would be a safe entrance. I heard what sounded like a very large squirrel scurry away, its claws scratching upon the wood as it vacated the walkway at my approach. From the stable below, I heard a horse whinny as it scented me, and the other horses got spooked for a moment before settling down. As I approached the window, I realized the light was not coming from a window at all but a small open door with a screen over it, rather like one I imagined would be found in a confessional.

  I tapped at it and realized that I could see in, but from the inside of the inn it merely resembled a vent of some kind. My ear caught the sound of splashing water, and I peered in to see that the door opened over a large porcelain bathtub. Facing away from where I stood and rising from the tub, her bath apparently finished, was a shapely woman with long, straight, black hair reaching to the top of a pert, perfectly round bottom. She bent over at the waist to dry her toes, and I leaned in for a better look, putting my hand right into a sticky gob of white milky fluid that I instantly realized was not from a large squirrel’s nuts.

  “Uh, nasty,” I hissed, recoiling and stepping into another gonad gob, then another one so large that my boot became stuck to a board. I was disgusted and impressed all at the same time. How long had it been since this fellow had rubbed one out? The Ice Age? I yanked my boot so hard to free myself that the load-bearing board, which ironically wasn’t load-bearing at all, came up from the roof as my boot came free, and I lost my balance, instinctively backflipping toward the stable and crashing through the thin roof and into the hayloft. I lay there for a moment and heard nothing but the horses settling back down. It was the first time I had ever been ambushed by a peephole. I preferred to get myself in trouble the way nature intended. Straw was stuck to my hands and boots, and I resolved to come back after the coronation, find the squirrelly owner of the Three-Legged Turtle, and leave him with a permanent limp.

  I rolled out of the loft and landed softly on my feet, trying without success to shake the straw from my hands, and doing a little jig to do the same with my boots. “Well, if it isn’t my old friend Mr. Scarecrow,” said a familiar voice. “I would have thought to have found you in here, rolling in the hay with some young girl, and perhaps with your small dog in a basket, or something.”

  Strolling in from out of the darkness was Oliver von Cliffingham pulling a reluctant horse behind him. “Would you believe I was actually trying to avoid a woman?” I said.

  “Nope,” Oliver quipped. “May I remind you that I do not have straw for a brain?”

  “Didn’t think you would believe that,” I said, plunging my hands into the trough to the dismay of the horses. A whole lot of lye soap later, my hands and boots were clean of the remnants of someone’s past glory. “So I take it Lovely got my message to you.”

  “Indeed, he did,” Oliver said. “Not a lot of details, but when it concerns you, my friend, there is usually adventure galore. So what gives?”

  I lowered my voice and filled him in on the Relics and the Blood of the One. He began pacing back and forth, nodding. “I knew there was more to it than what Hedley and Justice were saying,” he said, smacking his meaty fist into his open palm and making the horses jump once again as it sounded like a small peal of thunder. “But what is the threat to the Relics here at the coronation?”

  “Turns out dear Cornelia and the Moon of Madrid will be there, representing her family since her dear old dad, Angus, has temporarily departed this world,” I said. “After the attempt on the Dagger of Dorje and then the Font of the Oracle, Hedley thinks the Moon will be ripe for the picking with all of the chaos of the coronation.”

  “But the soldiers . . .” Oliver said. “That’s a pretty big risk even for a faerie thief.”

  “Not really,” I said. “The soldiers will be concerned with the safety of good King George and the crown jewels. The distinguished guests will be left to their own devices. Oh, and guess who will be guarding Cornelia?”

  “Jova?”

  “Nope, home with the children.”

  Oliver smiled as he realized who I was talking about. “That old bitch of yours?”

  “The one and the same.”

  “Tell me it is not true.”

  “I wish I could,” I said, leaning against the wall of the stable. “But the bitch is back.”

  “As a matter of fact I am, and to think I would find my least favorite troll and a vampire rat conversing in a stable on my way to London,” said the Howler sauntering in from the night. “By the way, dearest Sirius, that is no way to talk about me. I am the mother of your children you know, and you should treat me with respect.”

  “One of the mothers of my children,” I snapped, my voice growing louder. “It is not like you are special.”

  “So I hear,” the Howler snapped back at me. “You are ever one to ply your loins—even on your
wedding day.”

  Well, she had me there, but I was certainly not going to give her the satisfaction. Actually, I had given her the satisfaction repeatedly. “Like you ever loved me,” I said. “You used me, and you know it. And by the way, respect is earned, not given freely. Even a werewolf pup knows that.”

  Oliver looked like a deer startled into inaction by an oncoming coach bearing down on it. “People,” he said. “Some decorum, please. People will hear you.”

  The Howler was dressed in black leather from head to toe, still fancying garb that was more pirate than English country werewolf. She fingered the handle of her sword, and glared at me with a practiced mix of disgust, disdain, and outright hate. Yes, indeed, the Howler had not changed. Oddly, I was not sure why she disliked me so, since she was the one that had known the likely result of our coupling on Saona Island, guilted me into marrying her, and then had me chained to a wall in Peel Castle. What was her deal? Oh right, she was just a bitch.

  “I don’t care who hears me, Oliver,” the Howler said. “I have but one job to do, and you two best not get in my way when I am doing it.”

  “Now that is the funny part,” I said. “I was about to say the same thing to you!”

  “Please, people,” Oliver said. “Can we not let bygones be bygones? I think some certain goblin denizens of Port Royal would remember you two as a rather formidable team. You are on the same side here, right?”

  “I certainly never thought I would ever hear someone say that about my parents,” Contessa said from the doorway. “Where is a playwright? Perhaps we can get one to put pen to paper and scribe this dark comedy. Greetings, Mother. Greetings, Father.”