by S D Simper
Flowridia shook her head. “This is precisely where I need to be.”
The door itself was as rounded as the building, bearing circular seals and the sigil of The Shadow God. When the man touched the center, the seals began rotating, the flourished designs each spinning off in their own direction, leaving only blank stone—a stone that rolled away.
Flowridia saw nothing—merely darkness.
“Be careful, my lady,” the De’Sindai said.
She entered the dark building.
* * *
When the door shut, Flowridia had never experienced such stifling darkness. Not even her hand before her face could be seen.
Something cold touched her back. She stiffened as a voice said, “And who are you, young one, to enter our temple?”
The sultry, feminine voice chuckled. A light came on before Flowridia’s face, illuminating the pale, breathtaking features of the human woman standing before her. Not quite human—her red lips parted into a predator’s smile, her white skin unnatural. Her hair was auburn, and her dress matched, split at the collar to reveal ample cleavage.
Flickering at the outskirts of light cast by the woman’s lantern, which bore an odd and almost silver light, Flowridia saw other vampires come to watch.
“My name is Flowridia, and I’m the ward of Imperator Casvir,” she said, praying her voice didn’t waver. “My reasons to commune with your god are my own.”
“Izthuni will eat you alive,” the woman said, tongue flicking across her lips. “But only if I do not eat you first.”
Perhaps it was meant to scare her, but Mother had spoken far too often of chopping her into stew. It seemed the threat had lost its potency. “Be that as it may,” Flowridia said, perturbed at words, “I wish to see him.”
“Imperator Casvir holds no sway over a god’s domain.” The woman leered closer, uncomfortably so, her nose sniffing Flowridia’s ear as she paced. “Oh, you smell absolutely decadent.”
By every god—she nearly rolled her eyes. Impatience filled her. “Do I?” Flowridia asked, exasperation in the words. “The Endless Night always said the same thing.”
At the name, the woman stopped, the flickering lamp revealing a wary expression. “Ayla Darkleaf?”
“Yes, Ayla Darkleaf, my beloved,” Flowridia said, smiling curtly. “How about we let your god decide if he’ll see me?”
The figures surrounding them moved closer, until Flowridia could finally see features on the men and women standing behind her auburn interrogator. All were pale; even those with skin of a darker descent looked sickly, washed out. Yet their beauty was unparalleled, true predators capable of luring in any unwitting prey.
Upon their faces was fear, and in some, respect.
Except for one. “Beloved of Ayla Darkleaf? Truly?” the auburn-haired woman asked, and when Flowridia nodded, she laughed. “A bold claim, for mortal swine. But, please, lay yourself before Izthuni.” She stepped aside, revealing a path guarded by more beautiful vampires. She offered the lamp. “Our god will gift us with your blood.”
Flowridia gave a polite nod and accepted the gift, refusing to take a bite at her baited words. “Thank you,” she said, and she stepped through the line of undead predators, purposefully staring at no one.
The shadows grew dense, and though the lamp kept Flowridia on her feet, the darkness seemed to slowly consume the light. She must have walked twice the length of the building, or more, yet there were no walls, no sign of an ending.
Alone, Flowridia stepped, her feet the only noise on the cold stone.
When the light had all but snuffed out, she heard a voice emanate from all around her. Child of Odessa. You are beloved of Ayla, and that is why we will speak.
Guttural and deep, the voice rumbled across invisible walls, shaking her to her core. The lamp extinguished.
Flowridia remembered from long ago the symbol of The Endless Night Ayla wrote in her own blood upon the wall of the Skalmite cave. She remembered the nightmarish creature who came and tore her to shreds. This demon knew her and remembered. Yet The Endless Night had still held some bastardized semblance of a humanoid form.
Skittering steps sounded before her. Despite the darkness, Flowridia could see, and she nearly dropped the lamp at what met her eyes. A spindly monster, one who towered at least four times her height on impossibly thin joints. Nothing human in that physique, or that stare—two spindly appendages supported his thin body, and the creature’s balled joints rotated in impossible directions, his core spinning slowly, four arms spread wide from the center.
He suddenly fell forward, two of the arms catching him. Yet he moved with grace and perfect control, this Demon God of Shadow.
Now balanced on four legs, the face meeting hers held fangs jutting both above and below his rounded jaw. Within the depthless maw were rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.
He held no eyes yet clearly saw. Flowridia dared to bow, falling to one knee as she kept her eyes on the fangs. “You are Izthuni,” she said, staring into the gaping maw of its mouth. She understood, now, the cultural names he had been granted.
A dangerous name to speak uninvited. Tell me your purpose.
Dark and all-consuming, his accent was reminiscent of the De’Sindai, though far more akin to Kah’Sheen who hailed from his realm. Flowridia straightened her stance, though she still cowered, faced by the God of Shadows. “I wish to bring back Ayla Darkleaf.”
Laughter emanated, shaking Flowridia to the bone. The monster stood back up on his two spindly back legs, then arched the socket of what Flowridia could only guess was his back. In slow motions, he return to all fours, but upside down, if this deity were capable of being such, then lifted his front, all in purposeful, controlled motions. Leering now, his top half dangling like a hung corpse, Flowridia could recognize macabre beauty in his fluid motions—a dancer displaying acrobatics.
But Izthuni spoke, the depth of his tone rattling Flowridia’s bones. You do not know the price.
“That’s why I’ve come. Ayla is dead. And if anyone knows how to bring her back, it’s you.”
Bold of you, to make demands of me. Again, the god laughed, his gaping mouth dangling eerily from its slowly spinning core. Ayla spoke of you with the delight of a smitten child, reserved and shy but with a joy to outshine all else. She waxed poetic of your kindness. Your gentle heart. She loved you with every fiber of her being, adored every piece of you.
Despite her fear, Flowridia realized she was blushing, her smile beaming and demure. For she did not question Ayla’s love, but to hear it spoken so beautifully by someone Ayla had respected—
Look at you, he said, almost affectionate in his tone. As sweet as springtime, your heart and soul both. The head leering above suddenly darted down. Flowridia gasped, those razor teeth and fangs mere inches away. Tell me, Child of Odessa—would you destroy all of that to bring about her return?
She stared into the abyss of his mouth, jaw trembling as she said, “I don’t understand.”
You have killed, but can you murder? Can you slay in cold blood? Izthuni’s head slowly reeled back, returned to dangling high above her. You lack conviction.
“I can do it,” she whispered, though in her heart, she knew she wasn’t sure.
Izthuni laughed, and the sound chilled every nerve in her body. If you insist. Prove yourself.
One of those elongated claws reached into the shadowed terrain; from the air, he plucked a panicked figure—
Whom he promptly slammed into the ground. A woman coughed, and Flowridia realized she knew her auburn hair. This was the woman who had stopped her at the door. This woman insulted you, Beloved of Ayla Darkleaf. Questioned your position. Spat upon your pride. With those spindly claws, he lifted the dazed vampire up, dangling her not a foot away. Kill her.
“What?”
Kill her. Show me your devotion.
Horrified, Flowridia’s stomach lurched as she met the woman’s gaze, watched as her confusion vanished, replaced with fear. “Sh
e’s helpless.”
She is. Her name is Palace, and she kills mortals when she must, but never children. She has a lover named Lo, gone on an excursion to the Theocracy of Sol Kareena—and would he not be heartbroken, to find her dead upon his return?
The woman—Palace—struggled in Izthuni’s grasp, though she hadn’t a hope to escape. Flowridia’s lip trembled. “Why would you—”
Humanize her? He laughed, and, oh, it rattled her very bones. Palace’s eyes watered, meeting Flowridia’s gaze with a silent plea for mercy. Izthuni said nothing more, merely held her closer to Flowridia.
She would be a fool to forget that Ayla was only one half of The Endless Night, for Izthuni, too, had slaughtered the Sun Elven populace, gleefully destroying entire cities in a night.
He and Ayla, together. Both monsters in their own right.
Flowridia looked down at her hands, letting a spark of blessed, healing light illuminate the scene. So simple, to hold the magic in her hand, easier to grasp than necromancy, even now.
She recalled Ayla’s burned face, her scream when Flowridia had touched her.
Could she destroy her own soul?
She shut her eyes and grasped the image of Ayla in her mind, saw her sobbing at her feet at her apology, for Ayla had been willing to break her own heart rather than live a lie. She had admitted her vile intentions and begged Flowridia to cast her aside for guilt.
And what a remarkable thing it was; something so contrary to her nature, as Casvir had said. Ayla had loved her. Ayla had changed.
Flowridia would change as well. Damned she would be.
Flowridia opened her eyes and thrust forward her glowing hands—not to the woman’s face, but to her chest. Palace screamed and writhed, but Izthuni held her. Even as Flowridia’s illuminate hands slowly burned through her skin and bone, Izthuni held her fast, and only when Flowridia grasped her heart, tore it from the gaping hole, did she cease.
She fell as a corpse upon the floor, utterly still.
Gasping, Flowridia dropped the desiccated organ, watching in horror as it splattered on the ground. She stared at her hands, no blood coating them, but vile, watery ichor.
Ayla’s existence is to spite Sol Kareena, Izthuni said, though Flowridia could not face him, whose blood and very presence is capable of tearing her apart. Ayla requires the blood of life. Of creation. The blood of the moon.
So it was as Casvir had done: bathed Ayla in the blood of the acolyte to the Moon Goddess to restore her body from stasis. “Priestesses of Neoma are all but extinct,” she replied, hands trembling. By every god—Palace’s screams still echoed in her mind. “Where can I find—”
There are none, Beloved of Ayla Darkleaf. Neoma’s influence has waned with her death. There are only her descendants.
Shock stilled her actions; Flowridia slowly looked up, swearing that repugnant hole of a mouth stretched into a smile.
Only one line bears her blood. And that is the blood Ayla must bathe in to be restored.
Flowridia didn’t dare to breathe; she feared her heart had stopped beating.
Ayla is my greatest creation. Izthuni pulled himself away, his entire body rotating back into the six-limbed being who stood on two. Restore her, and you will have my favor.
Flowridia could do little more than nod, her mind still processing the demon’s words.
The lantern suddenly snuffed back to light. Izthuni disappeared. Flowridia stood alone with a corpse.
The lantern’s light shone in an eerie silver light, reminiscent of the moon herself.
There was only one line.
And only one remained.
The lantern slipped from Flowridia’s numb limbs, shattering into a thousand pieces. The light extinguished, enveloping her in darkness.
Only one, descended of the moon and stars both, the culmination of their celestial glory, the very power of creation coursing through her blood, yet with a heart as soft as gold, who had embraced Flowridia at the funeral and offered her nothing but love.
And, oh, how beautiful were her soft, silver eyes.
Within the week, outside the throne room, Flowridia heard a voice that caused her steps to stop and Demitri to frantically sniff the air.
“. . . kind of you to meet with me, and I apologize for giving no notice . . .”
Though the door sat slightly ajar, Flowridia peeked through the crack between the hinges and the wall, breath catching when she saw a Celestial standing before the throne, luminous wings illuminate behind her, granting her a magnificent aura. Etolié spoke pretty words, her smile and stance every bit the monarch.
“. . .wanted to personally give my congratulations and thanks regarding the embassy. The trade between our kingdoms has done wonders for the economy of Staelash, and the friendships fostered between our citizens bespeaks a good future for us both.”
Flowridia saw Casvir seated on his throne, but instead of the iron chair she saw a collected mass of giant bones, carefully assembled to create a sturdy seat.
“I would also like to present a gift, a proper thanks from Staelash.” Etolié stepped forward, and Casvir stood to accept, his metallic steps echoing across the expansive room. He took what appeared to be a weapon of sorts, and when he withdrew the dagger from its scabbard, Flowridia saw that instead of metal, the blade shone a vibrant green. “The blade is carved from maldectine, utterly immune to any sort of magical barrier. Crafted by our late general before her untimely death.”
“Very impressive,” Casvir said, and judging by the intrigue in his words, and the way his clawed hand lovingly touched upon the pointed tip, Flowridia suspected he meant it. “I accept your thanks, Magister Etolié.”
“I would ask, with your blessing of course, to stay a night or two in your city. Five days of riding takes its toll on any creature.”
Even without sleep, Flowridia couldn’t fathom the horse that could make the journey from Staelash to Nox’Kartha in five days.
“You will stay in the castle, as my guest,” Casvir said, sliding the blade back into its scabbard. “Since Lady Flowridia has no doubt been listening this entire time, she will escort you to a guest suite on the second floor.”
Flowridia couldn’t say she was surprised. When she peeked from around the door, Casvir stared at her expectantly. Red eyes scrutinized her every move.
But though Flowridia beamed at Etolié, the Celestial kept her same half-drunken smile. “Flowers-Flowridia, wonderful to see you.”
“Etolié, I—” She stopped herself from embracing Etolié, acutely aware of Casvir’s presence. “Come with me. I’ll show you around.”
With a respectful nod to Casvir, Etolié followed, a dress of pure, molten gold swirling around her legs. Her silver hair, studded with gems, flowed mostly free, pinned enough to reveal her face. She looked stunning—and healthy, to Flowridia’s relief, and the moment they entered the hall, away from Casvir’s sight, Etolié pulled her into a tight hug.
A foreign gesture from the beloved magister, but Flowridia felt safe. Etolié’s fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. “Tell me to steal you away,” Etolié whispered, “and you’re gone before Imperator First and Last can remove his dick from his self-righteous asshole.”
Shocked at the insult, Flowridia shook her head. “I swear, Etolié, he’s been good to me.”
Etolié pulled back. The wings on her back vanished from existence, their radiant light fading. And with it, her façade of health flickered, her pristine, pointed face becoming gaunt and grey. But the illusion resumed, revealing only worry to mar her beauty. “I’m trusting you, Flowers.” Then, she looked to Demitri, who waited alone in the hallway. Smiling, she pulled him into a hug as well. “And look at you, big boy! You’re a good kid, protecting your Flowers.”
She’s so validating. I like her.
Etolié looked up at Flowridia, her fingers still in Demitri’s fur. “Truthfully, I’m not here only to see you.”
There could be only one other. “You hurt her.”
&n
bsp; “Bitch hurt me, too.” Like her illusions, the façade of her fury flickered for just a moment; Flowridia saw immutable hurt. “But I have to see her for myself.”
Khastra’s whereabouts had been a mystery, ever since the fateful mirror conversation. Flowridia had left her alone. Her attempt to aid the half-demon had burned at the seams.
“I have a few guesses to where she might be,” Flowridia said, and she gestured for Etolié to follow.
Etolié spoke of idle things, of home and of the people there. Flowridia loved to hear it, yet felt a distance between her and the tales, some ineffable chasm she knew not how to cross.
A query for another time. “I do have a question,” she gently interrupted, too curious to let it go. “How in the realms did you ride here in five days?”
“Flying horse. Borrowed it from Eionei.”
As one simply did.
Flowridia led her to the third floor and asked the skeletal guards at the door, “Is General Khastra in there?”
With a nod, one gestured for her to enter. Before Flowridia could stop her, Etolié ran inside.
Within, Flowridia saw a nightmarish scene, of the Bringer of War flexing her strength, battling an endless legion of death. They crawled up from the ground like macabre insects, moaning and screeching, but Khastra tore them apart, ignorant to their cries.
Etolié crossed the threshold, the boundary Flowridia had been warned away from. The moment her foot touched the dirt, the monster that was Khastra looked up as if struck. The undead disintegrated, crumbling to dust. A great thud cracked the shifting terrain when the hammer fell. Khastra came forward, subdued for her berserker form.
Flowridia remained in the doorway, watching as Etolié came to meet her, fearless in the face of the enormous demon. Khastra spoke a single word, and though it bore the stain of demon-tongue, Flowridia knew it well: “Etolié.”
She had seen the wrath Etolié could muster, had heard her rage and rant from behind the safety of the magical mirror, but this was neither. Etolié’s wide eyes softened, her breath hitching as she brought a hand up to cover her agape mouth. Flowridia watched her swallow her emotions, smile through her glistening eyes, and say, “It’s been a while, ya big lug.”
