by S D Simper
“Clever girl,” he purred, and when he rolled into sitting, sensuality in every motion, Flowridia heard Demitri growl. “I see why he likes you. There’s fire beneath that naïve little flower princess persona of yours.”
Flowridia frowned. “Casvir and I—”
“Aren’t fucking, I know.” He waved off the words, shutting his eyes as he hummed. “And somehow that makes this all so much worse. It blows the mind, how dearly he cares for you.”
Her bruised arm spoke of otherwise. “I don’t think—”
“He adores you, and it’s revolting. I have done all in my power to coerce Casvir with all manner of temptations for years, Flowridia. Flesh, wine, money—any indulgence you can think of, I have dangled before him. He craves power, yes, but not for any true purpose; only because he can. Sex, money, and power—those are the vices that drive this world. Every person falls prey to one of those. Even you, and your desperate need for Ayla Darkleaf’s cunt.”
Flowridia’s hand moved from the doorknob to Demitri’s fur, silently willing him to stop growling. To provoke the viceroy during his monologuing would not do well for her.
“Casvir’s need for power has yet to cripple him, that patient bastard. In all my years knowing him, he has been aloof and unobtainable, utterly indomitable. He is indifferent to me at best, and I have devoted my life to his cause.” His gaze narrowed, but instead of malice, Flowridia saw wonder. “But a few months in the woods together, and he garners the most innocent and precious of affections for you. You could ask for a corner of his kingdom, and he would grant it. You could ask for my job, and I’d be hung in the square to seal the deal.”
“Viceroy—”
“Murishani, please,” he said, ‘tsk tsk-ing’ her slight.
“Murishani, I’m sorry I disrupted your world. It wasn’t my intention. It was kind of you to try and make nice at first—”
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re an absolute idiot.”
Flowridia pursed her lips, biting back her tongue at the insult.
“I despise you, Flowridia.” He said it so pleasantly, as though complimenting a decorated cake. “From your pouty lips to your dainty little ass, I hope you get burned at the stake and then eaten alive by sharks.”
Juvenile, yet threatening all at once. “Give me the body, then,” Flowridia said. “I’ll be on my way as soon as I have the last orb. You’ll never see me again.”
“Flowridia, the body was never part of any agreement. You never signed Casvir’s contract, and thank the gods for that. It means the body belongs to no one. I owe you nothing.”
“Unless I tell Casvir,” Flowridia replied, praying the threat held weight. Somehow, though her hair stood on end, she wasn’t afraid. She had too much to lose. “He adores me, as you said. He’d force you to give it back.”
Murishani quirked an eyebrow, and for the first time, she felt threatened. “Do you know what I do in this kingdom?”
“You’re the viceroy. You make nice with foreign politicians and refuse to sign paperwork.”
“I’m also the keeper of soul contracts.” Murishani spared a glance to one of the beautiful orbs floating around them. When he beckoned, it slowly descended into his hand. “Should you have crossed Casvir in his contract, I would have intervened. My talents are utterly unparalleled, unheard of, save for those of the Solviraes bloodline. And even then, there’s no finesse to them. They only destroy. Flowridia, I can touch souls.”
Flowridia frowned, unsure of what to make of that.
Murishani cupped the orb and stroked it with his long, manicured fingers. “I can grasp them, stuff them into their bodies like a necromancer, or pull them out. I can even destroy them . . .” All at once, the orb in his hand glowed brighter than the sun, then dissipated. Murishani shone from within, silver smoke seeping from his nostrils as he breathed out. “And there are fewer threats as daunting as that. Utter oblivion. No afterlife. Nothing.”
Murishani leaned over to the table and daintily removed the wine and glasses from atop it. “I can even touch the belligerent ones, ghosts cursed to linger on this plane. I can force invisible ones to manifest and grasp the ones with no anchor, who phase in and out of worlds. The only true safety for a soul is death, assuming a necromancer doesn’t come to pluck you from the afterlife.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Flowridia said, gripping the doorknob again. Of course, it still didn’t turn, but it gave her comfort, as irrational as it was. “Let me go. There is nothing to—”
Murishani lifted the top of the table, and there lay the body, eternally screaming as it met her gaze.
“What are you . . .”
Murishani placed a finger to his lips. He set the tabletop aside, then grasped the very air around the body—
And in his hand, he held a new orb. “Would you like to speak to her?” Murishani asked, no question to who ‘her’ referred to.
Flowridia simply stared, praying he lied for the truth was too terrifying to consider. She shook her head. “N-No. I won’t owe you anything.”
“Oh, no charge. My amusement is payoff enough. Although, I’ll do something better; I’ll place her soul back where it needs to be and seal it inside. Ayla Darkleaf would be back within seconds. A little crusty and over-baked, but you’d have the peace of her company while you wait for her body to be restored to its supple little self.”
Flowridia’s breath stopped. She swallowed the sudden rise of emotion because even the prospect, no matter how cruelly dangled, was the culmination of all her desperate dreams. “But, why?”
He smiled, tenderly stroking the luminous orb. “She cries for you, you know.”
Flowridia glared. “Stop it.”
“You were everything to her. She only maintains awareness beside her body; even now I hear her weep your name.” His lip curled, any kindness twisting into cruelty. “‘Oh, Flowra, Flowra!’” he said in mockery, “‘How I miss your flowery head and delicious cunt—’ I paraphrase, but you get the point.”
“Murishani, shut up!”
“Careful,” he cooed, bringing the light up to his face. His perfect countenance lay illuminated, wicked and lovely and all Flowridia hated. “Wouldn’t want me to slip, would you? So delicate a thing, a soul.”
Here was the true threat—not damage to her body, no, but utter dissolution of her dream, of her Ayla.
Ayla’s soul—destroyed forever.
What Gods were there to pray to save her from this? “What do you want?” Flowridia asked, bracing for a demand she knew she couldn’t give.
Murishani released the globe, letting it wander freely. It floated oh so slowly, joining the others in orbit. “Come to bed with me.”
“W-What?” she sputtered, ignoring the snarl rising from Demitri’s throat.
“Aside from you being an annoyingly pretty tartlet, what greater pleasure could I possibly have than to spoil Casvir’s precious treasure? Above all else, I’m a man of pettiness. But believe me, Flowridia, I would absolutely make it worth your while.” His wink filled her stomach with dread.
There was more to it. There had to be more. “You want a quick fuck, and you’ll be appeased? You can’t possibly be so desperate.”
“I can wet my cock on anything I’d like, Flowridia. What I want is to revel in the consequences: your self-hatred, Ayla’s inevitable tantrum, Casvir’s delicious anger, etcetera, etcetera.” He waved his hands, and Flowridia suddenly understood, a blow to her gut that lingered and caused her to sicken.
“You want Casvir to need you.”
Murishani looked grossly unimpressed. “I believe we established that—”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve tried to have your way with me.” Flowridia clenched her fist, her whole body reeling at the thought. “I don’t doubt you have a thousand and one bastard children, but Casvir wouldn’t turn a blind eye if you had one with me. With our combined talents, it surely would be something special.”
“Casvir would certainly thin
k so, wouldn’t he?”
Flowridia’s fist trembled, her breath catching when she realized the danger here. She could not escape, lest he destroy Ayla’s soul. Nor could she step forward; she would not play into his hands; her entire soul revolted.
But at the cost of Ayla’s?
Flowridia’s fist relaxed. She slipped her hands into her pockets, surreptitiously gripping the blessed knife sequestered within it.
She was very confident she couldn’t be Etolié, who fucked men to kill them, nor her mother, who in every respect did the same. Instead, she took quiet steps forward, keeping her stare to the ground.
“Sweet Flowra—”
The use of Ayla’s beloved pet name nearly pulled tears from her eyes.
“I’ll be gentle and tender. It’ll be making love in every respect—”
She stabbed her knife forward, aiming for his throat.
Murishani snatched her wrist. When she met his eye, his gaze spelled glee. “Clever girl—”
Demitri suddenly tackled him; familiars were so often overlooked. The enormous wolf dove for his face, snarling as he tore at Murishani’s skin.
Flowridia ran for the door, banging on it with all her might. “Help!” she cried. “Casvir! Someone!”
Demitri suddenly howled, and when Murishani glowed in translucent light, he fought the grip. Flowridia recalled a time long ago, when Mother had pulled the very life from her familiar.
Her knife lay across the room. Flowridia dove for it.
Only for it to be plucked by a blue, lithe hand. Kah’Sheen emerged from a shadow. “Sorry, small one. Was too caught up in watching drama. I am rescuing you now.” She threw the knife into the fray, where it hit its mark.
Murishani cried out, the knife protruding from his eye. Demitri stumbled over to them; Kah’Sheen grabbed him first. “One at a time,” she said, and she and Demitri disappeared into the shadow.
Flowridia watched the writhing man, his hateful gaze searing when it met hers. “You won’t sign yourself away to Casvir or to me. Do you truly think you’re so special as to bring Ayla back by yourself? You don’t know how.”
“I’m willing to try,” she replied, and with all the care in the world, she picked up the corpse and cradled it to her chest.
Kah’Sheen reappeared, grabbed Flowridia’s wrist, and whisked them away.
* * *
They went straight to Casvir, the corpse still clutched in Flowridia’s hands. And they told him everything, with Kah’Sheen even filling in details Flowridia forgot: “He is saying he is hoping she is burned at stake and eaten by sharks—alive!”
Casvir said very little for the exchange, merely listened and nodded as he sat at his desk, not even commenting on the apparent comradery between Flowridia and the demon who had once tried to kidnap her. When they concluded their story, he politely excused himself.
Flowridia wasn’t sure quite what to expect next, only that she was left alone with a corpse and a half-demon with a vendetta against said corpse.
Which, of course, Kah’Sheen brought up the moment Casvir left. “If it is a consolation, viceroy is making unfounded threats.”
Flowridia looked up at the nearly eight-foot-tall spider demon and said, “What do you mean?”
“Viceroy cannot destroy her soul. If to slay Ayla Darkleaf for good means to destroy her soul, it would be easy. We are trying that, a thousand years ago. Asked Solviraes to eat her soul. Did not work. Nothing works. She is always coming back.” Kah’Sheen tilted her head curiously. “You are bringing Ayla Darkleaf back, yes?”
Flowridia took a step back, holding the corpse to her chest. “I’m very grateful you saved my life, but I’ll try to kill you if you take her.”
“Am not going to take her. Demoni law states intention is not crime. But as soon as you are succeeding, if Mother says to slay her, I will come.”
Flowridia nodded, oddly relieved despite the delayed threat. “I understand.”
“You are saving my sister’s life. I am indebted to you for that much. So, I will not be taking you to Mother.”
Flowridia frowned. “But your law says—”
“I plan to tell Mother the truth, as far as I am seeing. Khastra is alive and well in Nox’Kartha and she is faking her death to escape Staelash. And so, no crime. War is over!”
“You would lie to the Goddess of War?”
Kah’Sheen visibly cringed. “Yes,” she squeaked, and she bit her lip with her pointed teeth. “It is what Khastra would have wanted. Tell her to write to Mother.”
That precluded Khastra had lived; they had neglected to ask Casvir as much. Still, she was grateful. “I’ll deliver the message.” She managed to smile. “Thank you.”
Kah’Sheen smiled, and it oddly wasn’t terrifying—cute, even. “No, I am thanking you, small one. Khastra is dear to me.”
Kah’Sheen left her, and Flowridia went straight to Ayla’s bedroom.
She laid the corpse upon the couch. The shriveled, skeletal cheekbone sent a chill across her skin as her finger traced a line across the desiccated face, the blackened corpse’s eternal scream still wrenching to her soul. With care, she took the chain from around the body’s neck and clutched the ear in her hand.
Murishani always lied, yet there were bits of truth to be found—Ayla’s soul truly lingered, as Casvir had said.
The weight of the day settled upon her. “Demitri,” she said softly, keeping her gaze on the corpse of her love, “I’m going to sleep in here tonight. I . . . I need to be alone. Take Ana with you.”
Demitri said nothing, though he did give a rather judgmental huff. With a quick command to Ana, the duo left her alone. Silence settled upon a room lit by globes and beautiful memories.
She stared at the corpse, forcing herself to gaze upon its gruesome visage. “It would be my most wicked act upon this earth, to raise someone like you from the dead.” She set her jaw, the words unearthing from deep within her. “I still can’t believe the magnitude of your atrocities—by every god, Ayla, so much of what you did was unspeakable.”
The corpse said nothing, of course. It stared in eternal horror, face twisted in pain.
“And I know, if you were to come back, nothing would stop you from returning to what you once were. I would have nothing to bargain with, save my pleading soul, but true love means to accept someone for what they are—not to seek to change them.”
She sat herself upon the bed and rested a hand against the corpse’s cold cheek. “I also know you were changing into someone new. Someone different and better . . . Someone you thought was worthy of me.” Flowridia leaned forward, ghosting her lips across the remains of where an ear once was. “The greatest injustice is that you were slain before the world could see who that someone would be.”
She had awoken countless times in a cold embrace. She settled herself beside her lover’s corpse, intention on her mind as she brought up a blanket to cover them. Though desiccated, the body was not fragile—she wrapped her arms around it and whispered, “The world will keep turning. Others will come to claim you, whether it be to control you or destroy you or use you against me.” Her fingers caressed shriveled skin; tears welled in her eyes. “You were mine in life, and so it shall be in death. I swear to protect you, whether it be in preserving you until the day you rise again . . . or until I find a way to bring you true peace so you can rest.”
She clutched Ayla tight, the words wounding her—surely they harmed Ayla as well. “But I have no direction, no idea for how to bring you back. A blood ritual, yes, but to what end? Tell me what I must do.”
In the tentative peace, Flowridia felt a shadow pass across her heart, a flicker of cold against her skin.
Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids. She fell asleep quickly.
And while resting in the arms of a loving embrace, soft and cold and full of new life, she heard a gentle whisper in her ear . . .
“Izthuni.”
The next morning, Flowridia dressed in what she personally deemed as t
he finest of Ayla’s gifted gowns. Embroidered silver stars covered a deep blue velvet sky, scattered at the bodice but thick and twinkling at the bottom. It swirled around her feet but bore enough weight to keep her warm in the winter chill.
Flowridia had only ever left the castle with Casvir, and only to traverse its beautiful streets and leave it behind. The idea of stepping out alone was daunting and exhilarating all at once.
Demitri watched her twirl in front of the vanity mirror. You always look beautiful, mom.
“Beautiful enough to say hello to a god?”
I’d say so.
So supportive, that familiar of hers.
A knock at the door disrupted her preening. Flowridia twisted the knob.
Demitri snarled. Flowridia grabbed a knife from the vanity and held it forward.
Murishani, with a few stitched cuts along his face and a bandage over his wounded eye, held his hands up in defense as he took a step back. “Oh, do relax. Casvir is right over there.”
Flowridia dared to lean forward and peek down the hallway. Not twenty feet away, Casvir watched the exchange. His lip twitched at Flowridia’s attention, revealing a flicker of amusement.
She kept her knife but relaxed her stance. “What do you want?”
“I came to apologize, Lady Flowridia of Staelash.” He bowed low, his robes sweeping dramatically around him, his hair falling in sheets. “My behavior was abhorrent, and there is no excuse for it.”
“That’s one way to put it,” she said, forcing a smile.
Murishani straightened up and grinned. “I came to tell you that, and to inform you that I am never to speak to you or acknowledge your presence ever again, nor come within ten feet of you without your express permission, extraneous circumstances notwithstanding. In addition, the body and soul of Ayla Darkleaf are never to be touched, or even thought about, and any and all, and I quote, ‘silly loopholes,’ will result in my head being removed from my body and thrown to the street sweepers.”
