Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  She wasn’t subtle at all, that eccentric Celestial. She had glanced behind Flowridia’s head, hesitation in her eyes. “It doesn’t feel much like home anymore.”

  “Tiny one,” Khastra continued, interrupting Flowridia’s thoughts, “I believe I told you once that there is no greater burden than a secret. My feelings for Etolié are heavy as of late. It is best I stay away. Allow me to be selfish.” Her smile held all the weight of the years she carried. “But I did not come here to burden you with my troubles. I wished to congratulate you. You shall be returning home in victory.”

  Flowridia wished it were so, but a damning truth perpetually whispered in her ear—that her quest would only just begin.

  Absently, she touched her sternum, where a secret lay secure and safe. “Thank you,” she said softly, wishing she could feel joy in her triumph.

  With nothing else to say, they bid each other farewell. Alone again, Flowridia reached into her bodice and withdrew Ayla’s ear. Water did not harm it, she had learned. It remained a shriveled, hardened shell, containing the very essence of the woman she loved.

  Flowridia slipped the orb into her pocket, wondering if Soliel would dare to stalk her here. Doubtful—even with his victory over the imperator, to attack him in his own home was another matter entirely.

  Though, with three orbs . . .

  Flowridia stepped deeper into the garden proper, Demitri at her side. “The sooner we get this orb to Staelash, the better.”

  Won’t you need it?

  She looked at him oddly. “For what?”

  To bring back Lady Ayla? You’ll need all the help you can get.

  “I don’t know that a single orb would do any good against . . .” She trailed off, for she dared not say the name. Everything had ears here.

  Fire and water. Water beats fire. Lara has the Silver Fire. You have the orb.

  “I don’t think that’s how the Silver Fire works, Demitri.”

  She’d done little study in her final few months here, frightened beyond measure of her task. The Silver Fire was a magic she did not understand, though she knew a few things—that it was the capacity to absorb pure magical energy; that it cut through the planes with the ease of a knife. She’d experienced that once, when Empress Alauriel had plucked Flowridia and her party from afar and saved their lives from Soliel.

  That same empress was the last heir of the bloodline, her father having been murdered by the God of Order. That same empress, the one who ruled her country with benevolence and wisdom, who had shown Flowridia nothing but kindness, and who held all the power in the world in the veins beneath her skin, was the one she must kill.

  The Shadow God had spoken, and Flowridia knew her quest—that to bring back Ayla Darkleaf would require the blood of the moon.

  In the dark recesses of her mind, she still heard the vampire’s screams as she’d burned from within. Flowridia touched upon a floral bush, letting a healing spell filter through her fingers, watching as it grew vibrant before her very eyes.

  By every god—she’d rather face Soliel than the silver-eyed empress.

  Discomfort welled in her gut, but she willed it away, replaced it with nothing, with a familiar void she’d come to crave. When purple smoke swirled from her fingers, she touched that same flower, the one she had healed, watched it desiccate and die in her hand. Its energy filled Flowridia, slight as it was, and when she breathed out again, counterfeit life filled the withered plant.

  It bloomed once more, vibrant and bright, more perfect than before. In death, it would remain so forever.

  Without the dark orb, fueling undeath into plants required a focus that strained even she, though with months of practice it had become simple enough, at least in small amounts. To recreate her attack on the God of Order might be years off.

  And she wondered, in her bitter heart, what Staelash would think of her new talent.

  * * *

  Whenever Etolié entered the Temple of Eionei, the room always respectfully cleared.

  It was little more than an upscale tavern, really, but that was Eionei’s way, his rejection of finery for the sake of inclusion and partying something she could respect. All taverns were considered temples to the Drinking God, but this one held an actual altar to his glory. A statue of the deity, bearing a perfect likeness—Etolié had made certain of that—stood before a dish wherein supplicants could spill a drop or a full drink as an offering. By late into the night, it always bore an abominable amalgamation of different drinks which mysteriously disappeared by morning. Some called it a miracle—Etolié called it a bribed employee paid for both secrecy and the duty of emptying it every night into the garden out back.

  The garden inexplicably flourished—that was the real miracle.

  Etolié spilled a portion of her flask into the chest-height dish and awaited real magic.

  The liquid in the dish sparkled and churned, frothing in ways an offering of wine simply didn’t, then began spewing like a fountain, though no mess was made. Instead, the flowing liquid formed the likeness of a man bearing the visage of the statue behind him.

  Eionei stood taller than Etolié, and his wings bore a fractal quality, shifting in and out of view as they moved, reforming translucent and wine-stained. Though he bore the texture of maroon liquid—not unlike blood, but Etolié refused to barrel down that path of thought—every feature was sharp and distinct, from his chiseled cheeks to his lithe physique and his intelligent, witty eyes.

  Grandpa smiled. “What’s the latest, Starshine?”

  This had been one of the only ways she’d communicated with Eionei in over thirty years, his true coloring slowly becoming a distant memory. “I need your help. The wedding party arrives tomorrow, and I need your promise of endless booze.”

  “Endless booze?”

  “To keep the peace. Extra strong; help them pass out sooner than later. They’ll be sleepy before any of the parties can turn into dick-waving contests.”

  Eionei’s laughter brought fond memories of childhood—some of the only ones she had. “I like your style. But will it really make a difference when half your guest list will be demons and undead? Sometimes both at once?”

  “I figure Murishani will provide the unholy shit.” One did not simply forget the poison a certain vampire bitch had offered. “De’Sindai can get wasted like any of the rest of us. So let’s keep them and the Theocracy from fighting. I figure Sol Kareena would approve.”

  “She would, so I’ll do it.”

  “Didn’t know you were her bitch.”

  Eionei laughed, and Etolié joined him, loving the grounding sound. “I’ve been her bitch for ten thousand years, Starshine.”

  “I thought that was Alystra.”

  “Half that time, and she’s my bitch.”

  Good ol’ grandpa. “You’re a dick, you know that, right?”

  Eionei nodded solemnly. “It’s served me well so far.” Etolié had a retort on her tongue, something about whether or not he had the balls to say that to the bitch’s face or if she’d tear them off, but Eionei kept talking. “Will Nox’Kartha’s Imperator be there?”

  “The fuck if I know. Likely, but he wasn’t at the coronation—the asshole knows how to deliver an insult.” Not that she blamed him, given the absolute uselessness of the event. “The viceroy will be, though. He’s heading the affair.”

  “What about their general?”

  Hm. Subtle, that one. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since I visited.” Because, you know, Khastra hadn’t contacted her at all. It’s not like she didn’t have access to the literal other half of Etolié’s mirror or anything.

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

  He said it with a pleasant, otherwise innocuous grin, and Etolié felt her own twitch. “No. You’re not.”

  They just sort of smiled at the other for a moment, both of their mouths spread a little bit too wide, but Etolié wasn’t gonna start this fight again.

  Eionei was kind enough to end the stand-off. “Boo
ze for the wedding. Got it.”

  “You’re a hero.”

  “Best of luck.”

  Eionei’s form bubbled as it collapsed back into the dish, sloshing about the edges but never spilling out. Etolié saw herself out.

  Winter had come, the chill pleasant against her skin as she made her way through town. The tavern wasn’t far from the manor, so she didn’t bother to mask her appearance; she was Magister Etolié for all the populace to see. She waved at a gaggle of half-giant children playing in the snow, constructing a snowman taller than herself. She smiled at their ensuing giggles.

  There was joy in her golden shackles. Staelash was a burden, but a rewarding one, though in the past six months it had grown heavier.

  Lara had proposed she visit home.

  Etolié stopped her footsteps and looked to the sky, knowing full well that Celestière wasn’t up there but a parallel world all around them; still, traditionally mortals sent their prayers to the beyond high above. She shut her eyes, recalling Vanir Sol and its splendid, illuminate streets, the eternal night of her mother’s home, the faded edges and fog and the corpse on the floor—

  Her stomach sickened; Etolié shoved those memories back inside the metaphorical box. Still, she rubbed her hands together, desperate to banish the sensation of blood on her skin.

  “Breathe, Etolié . . . Breathe with me.”

  Callused hands cupped her face, catching her tears. Etolié managed shaky breaths, following the cadence of Khastra’s own.

  “There is no secret you hold that would ruin my love for you. Now, start from the beginning . . .”

  Etolié arrived at the manor, nodding politely to the guards at the gate, but strode around to the back. In the final days before Nox’Kartha would arrive, she’d spent more time than she’d admit to anyone in Flowers’ garden.

  The world was quiet there, for though the plants had slowly diminished over time without their protégé keeper, the wards woven into the earth remained strong. Etolié reached the sanctuary, idly traversing the frost-bitten path. She breathed the clean air, peace descending upon her as her mind quieted.

  The garden was still lovely. Less grand, but perhaps that was merely winter’s doing. Etolié passed familiar bushes and trees, kicking at leaves scattered along the path.

  As she walked, she came across a little tree, one she’d given no mind to before, save once.

  Nearly a year ago, when Flowers was a new face in the manor, a storm had come to her garden, wrecking the few months of growth. She’d helped Flowers clear out the damage, picked up fallen branches, even scooped out puddles of water drowning the daffodils.

  One tree, scarcely two feet high, had bent at the middle, nearly torn by the winds.

  “You might as well dig it up, Flowers. This little guy won’t grow.”

  But Flowers, silly thing, had resolved to save the plant. She staked a large slab of wood beside it, then tied it and the little fucker with twine. “It isn’t ruined. It just needs some stability.”

  The tree nearly reached Etolié’s head, now, healed by Flowers’ magic and her practicality.

  “What happens if you remove the stake?”

  “Depends on whether or not the tree has taken proper root.”

  Etolié laid on the ground in a clearing, flask in hand, the yellowed grass at her back cool on her bare skin.

  She took a long drink, quietly simmering at Eionei. He was up to the same bullshit as always, but that was nothing compared to the raging boil she felt toward a particular half-demon bitch who’d waited months to finally come clean about not, you know, being fucking dead, and only because of the coaxing of their mutual flowery friend.

  She remembered her visit to Nox’Kartha, remembered the joy and relief in Khastra’s presence . . . but it wasn’t her demon. It was a secretive bitch with Khastra’s face who smiled and waved away all her questions.

  “So tell me about that neat tick-tock heart of yours—”

  “In cohorts with the imperator now, huh? How’s that going?”

  “Show me around the castle! Do they have other undead like you?”

  Etolié felt tears and blamed them on the booze. She swallowed them, just as she swallowed from her precious flask, and hoped Khastra hated herself as much as Etolié hated her right now.

  Footsteps drew her attention. She glanced down the path, only to match eyes with a startled Zorlaeus.

  “Magister Etolié,” the De’Sindai said, straightening his stance. “M-My apologies. I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

  “Do you usually come here?” Etolié sat up, brushing frosty flecks of ice from her silver hair.

  Zorlaeus fidgeted as he always did, his fingers twitching against his pant leg. Nervous little fucker, that one. “It’s quiet here. I’m anticipating chaos and wanted to take a moment to breathe.” He offered a nervous chuckle, then stepped away. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here anyway.”

  “Listen, Lae Lae, knowing Flowers, she’s thrilled someone came here to enjoy her garden,” she said, but noticed the faltering in the man’s smile. “Sorry—not Lae Lae. I’m a pet name sort of girl, but you don’t seem to like that one much.”

  Zorlaeus shyly shook his head. “Reminds me of, uh . . . Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Pale and fanged and thankfully dead?”

  “I did hate it when Ayla used it. It’s not quite the whole story, though.”

  Zorlaeus was looking increasingly like a nervous rodent, so Etolié opted to not follow that rabbit hole. “But you’re not thrilled about this wedding business either?”

  “I’m not looking forward to the festivities, but I’m overjoyed to be marrying Marielle,” he replied, noticeably wistful as he smiled. Etolié had always found him endearing, in the same way mortals gushed over puppies. She looked at him a second longer than normal and realized who he reminded her of, wondering how she’d never noticed before.

  “I hope this isn’t weird to say, but you are so much like Clarence. Which is a compliment—I miss him more than I generally admit.”

  She truly did. A year ago, his life had been cut short by a knife wound through the back in the middle of the night—and she’d lost one of the first true friends she’d ever had.

  “Well,” Zorlaeus said thoughtfully, “people are generally attracted to those who subconsciously remind them of their parents, so I don’t see the issue with it.”

  Etolié couldn’t suppress her scoff. “I don’t think that’s true. Between you and me, I don’t especially want to relive my parents.”

  “I’ve also heard they can veer toward the absolute opposite,” Zorlaeus added, an apology in those puppy eyes. “But, if you don’t mind me saying it, given that you’ve said before you aren’t attracted to anyone, you might simply be a statistical outlier.”

  Zorlaeus had just used the term ‘statistical outlier’ in a proper context, and Etolié decided then and there that she liked him. “True,” she replied, making sure to exaggerate her non-offense for the anxiety-ridden boy’s sake. “I don’t quite understand the appeal of sexy-times.”

  “Which isn’t to say,” Zorlaeus continued, apparently having switched into science brain—a state of mind Etolié could relate to, “that people who don’t experience sexual attraction can’t enjoy sex as a physical release or as a way to bond with someone they love, given that romantic attraction can exist in its own sphere—”

  “You sound like you recited that from a book,” Etolié said, resisting the urge to say her real feelings, which veered closer to ‘sounds fake but all right.’

  Zorlaeus’ blush on his maroon skin stained his cheeks like fine wine. “It’s entirely possible. I’ve read quite a bit about this.”

  “Well, not to piss on the scientific method, but I’m willing to call any experimentation on my end over and done. I’ve had sex, and it’s terrible. In sex’s defense, I was generally more focused on murder than pleasure, but I’m still glad those days are far behind me.”

  Zorlaeus l
ooked mighty concerned at that, and Etolié remembered then that over-sharing was generally frowned upon in polite society, honest or not. “There’s a very nice bench farther in; join me. We’ll discuss my unsavory murder days.”

  To her surprise, Zorlaeus accepted, his smile relaxed for the first time.

  The next morning, in the dark recesses of Ayla’s old bedroom, Flowridia placed what few belongings she would need into a bag, all under the judgmental gaze of her familiar.

  You’re not actually going to wear the green one.

  Flowridia picked up the lacy ensemble, remiss to admit that it revealed more cleavage than she would ever wear outside the bedroom. Staring into Demitri’s golden eyes, she folded it and placed it in the bag. “You never know,” she said, knowing full well she spoke only because of spite. “Perhaps Etolié will borrow it.”

  Etolié doesn’t wear clothes, dummy.

  Flowridia stuck her tongue out at her rude boy.

  Sequestered in a sack beside her bracelet of maldectine waited the blue orb—muted in its presence, lest it be discovered. In theory, as long as she didn’t use it, it would be safe from Soliel.

  It would be safer in Solvira, or Staelash—wherever it ended up. Yet she hesitated, unsure of what to make of the clenching in her gut.

  Demitri had said she might need it. She shook her head and placed the small sack in her bag, deeming it a problem for the future.

  At her feet, Ana sniffed her legs, or at least mimed the act, given she was a skeleton and could not actually sniff. Flowridia bent down to offer a hand, allowing the undead fox to nuzzle it. “You’ll like Staelash,” Flowridia said brightly, but then her optimism withered. “I only hope they like you.”

  She resumed her packing, pausing only when the ear slipped out from her bodice.

  She removed it from her neck, wondering what the better part would be—to leave it here and miss its comfort, or bring it at the risk of Staelash finding it on her person.