Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  When he left, she said to Demitri, “Do you want to join me in the tub?”

  Wolves don’t bathe in prissy tubs.

  “Rude boy. Watch Ana instead.” She looked down at the skeletal fox. “Follow Demitri wherever he goes.”

  You must hate me.

  “I love you with all my heart.”

  Demitri left. Flowridia went to bathe.

  Alone, Flowridia’s tears mingled with the bathwater. Valeuron’s death had cleaved her heart in two.

  First Ayla, and now Valeuron—both had given their lives for her, and the added weight brought guilt unparalleled. Ayla had loved her; Valeuron had barely known her yet died for her to live, had seen a glimpse of her life as she had seen his.

  She wished so dearly to know what he had seen for her to be worthy of such kindness. Perhaps it might have alleviated her guilt, to understand why.

  And so she mourned him, fearing she was alone to do so. Valeuron had been the last of his kind, no brothers and sisters to feel his loss. Soliel’s betrayal toward a creature to whom he had been a father wounded her tender heart.

  Though she knew Valeuron had once had a mother, for she’d felt that warmth herself, there was no Goddess of Chaos to mourn her son. She nearly hoped there would never be, if only to spare her the knowledge that all her beloved children were gone.

  Cleaned of smoke and fire and dirt, Flowridia felt she might properly rest.

  But when she was clean, she noticed the barest hints of a foreign smell wafting through the moist washroom—floral and sickeningly sanguine. Odd, but she paid it no mind as she wrapped herself in a fluffy towel. By the array of towels was a single robe; surely meant for Ayla, but with a train that must have dragged well behind her melodramatic, vampiric love.

  The soft cloth served its purpose of protecting her modesty and keeping her warm. She sniffed her sleeves, disappointed to find it smelled merely of soap instead of memories. As she tied the fluffy robe around her waist, she spared a glance for the far wall.

  Pressure suddenly clenched her chest when she saw what lay on the floor—Ayla’s ear. She rushed to it and cupped it in her hands, the placement too meticulous to be accidental.

  With the ear in the pocket of her robe, she drew a line across the wall and descended the stairs. What of her beloved’s body?

  There was no rhyme or reason to the maze. Perhaps from Sha’Demoni it held some semblance of pattern, but Flowridia simply prayed she found her destination. There was only one.

  When the scent of death grew unbearable, she ran. Panicked breaths threatened to steal her consciousness, but she sprinted nonetheless, uncaring of the horror of the cathedral mockery or the putrid smell.

  In the backroom, her worst fear lay manifest. Ayla’s coffin was open, the makeshift funeral shroud strewn about the floor. Flowridia wailed as she fell to her knees before it. “No, no, no!” she cried and she clutched the cloth in her hands, desperately looking for something, some sign, some clue.

  “There you are being.”

  Flowridia’s blood boiled. She stood up slowly and turned around, unsurprised to see The Coming Dawn standing in the doorway, arachnid and deathly thin and far taller than Flowridia. “Breaking into castle is taking time, but so very worth it.”

  Flowridia glanced at the desiccated, rotted remains on the slab and stole a scalpel from beside it. She held it before her, level to the demon’s chest. “Where is she?!”

  The Coming Dawn stepped forward, uncaring of Flowridia’s pitiful weapon, it seemed. “Where is who?”

  Furious, Flowridia stole the ear from her pocket. “You left this for me to find, you sadistic bitch! Where is she?!”

  “I am not knowing what you mean. But if you would kindly drop the weapon, I am stealing you now.”

  Flowridia shook her head. Fast as lightning, the demon slapped her hand; the scalpel clattered to the floor. The Coming Dawn grasped her with four arms—then shrieked when Flowridia suddenly crackled with undead energy. The demon cried, “Why are you always doing that?!”

  Flowridia ran for the opposite wall; it parted at her touch. She ran up the stairs, keeping her pace even when the demon shifted out of the shadow at the top. “Small one, you are a nuisance—”

  Maintaining her shield of dark matter, Flowridia barreled into The Coming Dawn, sending them both sprawling. The demon screamed and flung Flowridia toward the far wall.

  Flowridia tumbled into the hallway, unsurprised when The Coming Dawn burst from a shadow, a little worse for wear. Her blue skin bore signs of blight, her meticulous braid slowly unraveling.

  The pillars of sand shifted, surging toward the interloper. The Coming Dawn brought her hands to cover her face as she cowered.

  Flowridia screamed, “Khastra!”

  This stopped the demon in her tracks and the sand with it. “I beg pardon?”

  Flowridia bolted away and toward the stairs on the third level. “Khastra!” she cried, throat tearing at the effort.

  As Flowridia ran up the carpeted stairs, she ran right into the enormous bulk of the half-demon herself. “Tiny one, why are you—”

  A sudden cry from below pulled their attentions. The Coming Dawn held all four hands to cover her mouth. “Khastra?!”

  To Flowridia’s surprise, Khastra’s shock faded to . . . annoyance. “Hello, Kah’Sheen.”

  Flowridia suddenly hit the floor, pushed away by four spindly arms—arms now embracing Khastra. The demon, Kah’Sheen, clung to Khastra, her four eerie, glowing eyes filling with tears. She stood barely taller than Khastra, easily able to bury her face in the half-demon’s shoulder.

  Khastra gave a resigned sigh and half-heartedly wrapped her arms around the strange, naked demon. “Tiny one, this is my youngest sister, Kah’Sheen.”

  “You didn’t bother to mention that sooner?”

  Kah’Sheen suddenly looked up, fury on her tear-streaked face. “Why are you not dead?! They are telling us you are dead!”

  “I am dead.”

  “Why are you not telling us?! Mother is distraught! She is eating the elves left and right; she is getting fat, Khastra!”

  “It is not my fault Mother cannot control her appetite in times of stress.”

  Kah’Sheen clung with her bottom arms but proceeded to beat upon Khastra’s chest and collar bones with her upper fists as she cried out; Khastra didn’t budge. “You are being childish, Kah’Sheen.”

  Kah’Sheen’s dramatics slowly drew a crowd. Servants peeked their heads out from rooms, skeletal guards looked uncertain of the threat, and pillars of black sand twitched . . . but seemed to have no purpose, for the intruder was no longer dangerous.

  Metallic steps signified Casvir’s approach.

  In tandem with her smacking fists, Kah’Sheen cried, “I. Am. Not. Childish. You—” Her words went from stilted Common to rapid Demoni, a banter Khastra joined. Flowridia stepped away from the walls as shadows rose, summoned by the bickering duo, the forbidden language dangerous even uttered by squabbling sisters.

  Khastra suddenly lurched, grimacing as she slumped against her sister. “Put me down,” she said, and Flowridia’s panicked heart jumped when she realized what was happening.

  Confused, Kah’Sheen obeyed, and when Khastra fell to all fours, Flowridia dared to clutch her face in her hands. “Khastra, is it—”

  “Yes,” the half-demon snapped, then she turned to the inconsolable young demon trembling beside her, those four eyes still brimming with tears. “Kah’Sheen, it is not safe for you here.”

  Casvir ascended the stairs. Kah’Sheen disappeared into a shadow. Whether or not Casvir noticed could not be said; he looked straight to Khastra, then gestured to the servants flanking him. “Take her away.”

  “To the underground?” one said, but Casvir shook his head.

  “Her life is more expensive than it is worth. She is done. Disassemble her. Keep her head; I want her mind.”

  Flowridia understood enough, her racing heart suddenly stopping. She met Khastra’s ga
ze a moment, the half-demon’s glowing eyes filled with uncharacteristic fear.

  Flowridia released her. When servants came to grab Khastra, she cried, “Stop!”

  They did, if only from confusion. Flowridia faced Casvir, brave in the face of his growing frown. “What are you doing?”

  “Khastra is no longer an investment worth keeping.”

  “She is worth it!” When the servants moved to resume their path, Flowridia’s body burst with dark energy. A cloud of black and deep purple seeped from her pores as she sat on Khastra’s body in protest, residual fury from Ayla’s disappearance fueling her courage. It filtered from her mouth as she spoke. “Let her move on if you won’t keep her—”

  Casvir lifted his arm, prepared to backhand her with his vicious claw. Flowridia flinched, bringing her arms up to protect her face. “You forget to whom you speak, Lady Flowridia. I will not be disrespected.”

  Shock stopped her words and magic both. His tension revealed his curtailed instinct to punish her for insolence. “Casvir—”

  That same clawed hand gripped her arm and forcibly pulled her up, no gentleness in the gesture. She whimpered; her arm would surely bruise. “Pray you never make me remind you again.”

  Behind the menace of his rumbling words lay betrayal, of this man who only minutes ago praised her ingenuity. In the wilds, Casvir was a friend; here in Nox’Kartha, he was the brutal tyrant.

  And she was a fool to forget that.

  The servants all stared, but at Casvir’s word they resumed helping Khastra to stand.

  Casvir released her; Flowridia stumbled to keep balance, leaning against the wall for support. Her arm throbbed, and she fought to push back tears. “Then can we speak in private, please, imperator?”

  “No.”

  Flowridia looked up to meet Casvir’s severe gaze. “What if I can save her? I used the black orb to heal you—”

  “It would only be temporary. If her heart has failed once, it will do so again.”

  “What about her original heart?”

  “Ruined beyond repair and so discarded months ago.”

  “Casvir, there must be something—”

  Casvir raised a hand; Flowridia cowered. “This is not a discussion.”

  He lowered it.

  As he accompanied the party to lead Khastra away, Flowridia’s mind frantically jumped to every little thing she knew of biology, of mother’s teachings in her cottage, to Flowridia’s own understanding, Ayla’s notes down below, Etolié’s library—

  And in Casvir’s library, where a certain elf had an understanding of how to build mechanical lungs—

  “Casvir!” She raced to him, noting his fury as he faced her. “Elven technology. Elven technology can save her!”

  Casvir’s gaze narrowed, but to her relief he said, “Explain.”

  “Elves have technology to create artificial body parts. There’s an elf in your library who—”

  “Find him. I will delay the procedure for ten minutes.”

  Flowridia ran.

  Her own feet stumbled beneath her, and when she might’ve slipped down the staircase, lithe arms captured her and steadied her fall. “Small one,” Kah’Sheen said, still carrying her as she ran, “I am seeing you save my sister. Let me help you.”

  Flowridia made no move to escape as Kah’Sheen slipped into Sha’Demoni. The world shifted into clouded shades of grey, fog-like in its density. Kah’Sheen danced down the halls with ease, apparently familiar with the castle as she wound her way through the corridors.

  They reappeared outside the library. “Cannot phase through extra-dimensional realm,” she said, and they ran through together, pushing past book golems and winding down complicated hallways.

  But she knew the way, having come here more than once for lessons on elven syntax. Tazel looked genuinely shocked to see Flowridia and a half-demon suddenly barrel towards him. “Tazel, no time to explain, but the imperator needs you.”

  “I beg your—”

  “My friend’s afterlife will turn to hell. Bring every book you have on elven engineering and biological mechanics. You’ll be paid. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Tazel, however, looked near fainting at the sight of Kah’Sheen, who watched, in turn, with intrigue. “You’re The Coming Dawn.”

  “And you are Fireborn. You are friend. You will come, yes?”

  Tazel glanced between them. “I don’t exactly have a choice, do I.”

  “You can fight, but you will lose,” Kah’Sheen said.

  Tazel gathered his books, handing a stack to Kah’Sheen and her many arms.

  They ran.

  Once they’d left the library, Kah’Sheen said, “Best I am not seen,” and vanished. Tazel and Flowridia ran alone. They rounded the staircase leading up from the library—

  And ran right into Murishani. The books scattered all about, some sliding down the staircase. The viceroy clutched her arms to steady her. “Lady Flowridia, exactly who I wanted to see.”

  “No time,” Flowridia replied, tearing her arms away. She and Tazel knelt to pick up her dropped books.

  “Come and find me later, won’t you?” he said, crossing his arms over his lengthy, silk robe. “I overheard you have a bit of a conundrum.”

  “Later.”

  “An eerie problem, you might say.”

  Flowridia spared him a glance, catching his knowing eye, and for a moment considered dropping the entire quest and following the viceroy underground.

  “Flowridia?”

  Tazel pulled her from her trance. Wordlessly, she shoved past the viceroy. “Come alone,” she heard, but nothing more.

  She knew not how much time had passed, but Casvir remained, though the servants and Khastra had disappeared. “Impressive,” he said simply, then looked to Tazel. “You are the engineer?”

  Tazel paled at the imperator’s stare. Frozen, he did not nod until Flowridia nudged him with her hip.

  “Come with me,” Casvir said, and he beckoned for Tazel to follow. “You alone.”

  Flowridia watched them step down the hall, though Tazel stumbled, perhaps to keep from fainting.

  She trembled, the excitement of the moment quickly wearing off. Flowridia fell to her knees, head faint as she withdrew the ear from her pocket.

  Kah’Sheen had not taken the body.

  Murishani, she was very certain, had.

  * * *

  Flowridia went to her room, explaining quickly to Demitri the excitement of the past half hour as she changed from the robe into a dress.

  You think that melodramatic ass has Ayla?

  Flowridia couldn’t even reprimand his language. “That’s what my gut says. But I can’t fathom why.”

  Khastra said to not trust him.

  Flowridia didn’t, she realized.

  Should we find someone to go with us?

  “Everyone worth asking is with Khastra.” And Kah’Sheen had yet to be seen again.

  Instead, she slipped the ear around her neck, comforted by the weight. Murishani had said to come alone, but Demitri hardly counted, nor did the mysterious haunt tied to the desiccated ear. They set off, though she bid Ana to stay put.

  But she dared to stop for a trinket; she returned to Ayla’s room, swallowing her emotions at the sight of the glowing memories, and from the vanity drawer she withdrew a jeweled knife.

  Just in case.

  Back down the staircase, past the library and farther still. When Flowridia stepped down into the familiar hall, her blood ran cold when she saw the arch and the ominous dark hallway.

  Khastra would not be present to save her this time.

  Darkness enveloped her and Demitri, punctuated with spots of light from the candles dotting the hall. Behind her, she was unsurprised to find the stairs had vanished, but when she focused and put her will behind it, she saw the illusion ripple and fade.

  Flowridia stepped down the hallway, grateful to feel Demitri beside her. Her wolf stood as tall as she, her sweet boy all grown. “Murisha
ni?” she dared to say aloud.

  Speak of the devil, and he would come. Beside her, one of the closed doors suddenly creaked open.

  No one stepped out, but a cloying, familiar perfume wafted out. Flowridia approached, the hairs on her neck standing on end as she peered within.

  There lounged Murishani, spread out like a feline on his luxurious couch. The room was as dark as the hallway, but not lit by candles, no. Odd translucent orbs floated in shades of ice blue and white. The ghostly lights illuminated the couch and Murishani, along with the table and wine before him.

  A door stood in the corner, and from beyond Flowridia heard the faintest whispers of moaning. Whether it were of pleasure or pain, she could not say, but it unsettled her resolve.

  Murishani beckoned forward. “I had hoped you would come,” he said, as sincere and friendly as she had ever heard. When Flowridia and Demitri stepped inside, the door shut behind them unbidden. “Come, have a drink. Do you drink?”

  “Not in general, no,” Flowridia admitted, and she stayed planted beside the door. The orbs slowly orbited the room, gently pulsing as though alive.

  “I apologize, you innocent little dove. I should have known.” Still, he drew a glass for himself and gave a slight sip. “Won’t you come sit?”

  “Where’s Ayla?” Flowridia said, her hand surreptitiously gripping the doorknob.

  It didn’t budge. She suspected that.

  Murishani could do many things, but outright kill her was not one of them. She hoped.

  A smile leisurely spread across Murishani’s face, one lacking any false graces or airs. Cruel mischief met her gaze, curdling her blood. “A weighty accusation. What use would I have for a corpse?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “And perhaps someone stole your perfume and spilled it in Ayla’s bathroom. Perhaps my apparent eerie problems have nothing to do with the conveniently severed ear.” Flowridia resisted the urge to touch her hand to her chest and pull comfort from the macabre trinket. “But there’s no sense in me lying. You know every secret in this castle, and sometimes you make a few up for your amusement.”