Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  Roses, of course, but what color? Bushes and bushes of the thorned flower met her gaze, and she soon settled on yellow. Yellow for friendship. Yellow for young, new love.

  The pastel arrangement would make a pretty gift as is, but as she left, a bush of hydrangea pulled her view. They were an odd flower, rarely seen in gift giving. She plucked a few, the brilliant purple adding some vibrancy to her bouquet. Hydrangea for mischief. Purple for heartlessness.

  Perhaps most meaningful of all, a single, white daffodil. Rebirth, eternal life . . . and unrequited love. In groups, the flower could mean a new beginning. Alone, it meant misfortune.

  Let it all be a warning.

  Sunrise reflected off the gorgeous bouquet, and Flowridia paused as a thought occurred to her—she sucked the lingering life from the flowers and let the energy settle inside her. She breathed in, intoxicated by their potent energies, then gripped the dried husk and exhaled, filling the bouquet with necromantic energy.

  Purple tendrils caressed the dead flowers. Death flowed through it, causing it to twitch and grow, rejuvenated by those unholy energies. What rested in her hand bloomed brilliant and bright, better than before though utterly dead. Large and vivacious, they would make a splendid gift; a gift that would never fade.

  Flowridia returned to the entrance of her garden, surprised to see a figure waiting.

  Murishani looked downright perturbed, his foot impatiently tapping the stone path. He glanced up at her approach, then smirked and stepped forward—

  Only to be visibly repelled. His charmed expression flickered, revealing fury beneath as he stumbled back. “Impressive wards. Are you truly so desperate for alone time that you detour anyone who comes your way?”

  “Something like that.” The apparent ‘reveal’ of Murishani’s ill intent toward her was hardly surprising. She supposed it was good to have it reaffirmed. She stopped just before the barrier, a literal wall of magic between them. “What do you want?”

  “That’s a stunning bouquet. For your conquest?”

  Flowridia glared, hoping it might cause at least a dent in the viceroy’s pleasant airs. If so, it didn’t show. “You’re awfully proud of yourself.”

  “I really am.”

  “It’s a gift, to twist people’s minds with your silver tongue.” Flowridia felt Demitri bristling behind her. “Are you sincere in anything? I’m truly curious.”

  “I’m sincere in my absolute hatred of you,” he said, fondness in his charming smile. “Did my plan work? Will you be crawling back to your whorehouse now?”

  The insult meant nothing. It was his tone, the implication of his victory, and Flowridia felt her resolve only harden. “Murishani, to be entirely transparent, the thought of sleeping with Casvir sickens me down to my core, but it would nearly be worth it just to imagine you sulking in the dirt like the worm you are. That’s my spite. Fuck off.”

  Flowridia returned to the garden, ignoring whatever snide remark he made about rib-cracking. He could not follow her here, and she stepped all the way down the path, flowers still in hand. “Demitri, I think I might kill him someday.”

  It would make Casvir mad, so I like that plan.

  “Knowing him, he’d forgive me if I agreed to take Murishani’s job.” Flowridia shook her head, the thought unpleasant at worst, but ‘viceroy’ was not a title she wanted.

  Just pretend Lara is Murishani when you have to slit her throat.

  To hear him say it sickened her. “Not the worst plan, but I still hate it.”

  Flowridia crept through the underbrush to escape her garden sanctuary, then returned to the manor.

  She went to Lara’s bedroom, Demitri waiting beside her. When she knocked, a quiet voice told her to enter.

  Lara paced, having donned a new dress, her guest room sparse and void of her personal effects. The smile she gave Flowridia held hope. “Good morning! I was hoping you’d come back. I was worried I’d have to leave before I saw you again.”

  Flowridia stepped fully inside, sheepishly holding the bouquet. “You’re leaving?”

  “Solvira is large, and its affairs never end. And, with respect to his station, I’d prefer to avoid saying goodbye to Murishani, so we’re leaving before his afterparty. Etolié already knows.”

  For a moment, Flowridia forgot her subterfuge, instead daring to smile and say, “I don’t like Murishani either.”

  “I never said that,” Lara replied, offering a teasing wink. “It would be improper if I did.”

  Flowridia pushed the bouquet into Lara’s hands. “I grew these. They’re for you.”

  Lara glanced between the flowers and Flowridia’s face before blushing. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry for falling asleep in your bed. I don’t normally drink . . . ever.”

  “But it took two glasses of wine for you to have the courage to kiss me?” Lara’s grin held laughter, her silver eyes sparkling. “I’m flattered. And I didn’t mind.”

  “My contract with Imperator Casvir is fulfilled—however, there are a few final things I have to get settled. Our time together will be over soon. When it’s done, I’d like to visit. And talk. About this.”

  Without entirely thinking, Flowridia leaned forward and captured Lara’s lips in a kiss.

  Lara’s lips were full and warm. Kissing Lara held comfort, like walking through a summer rain or reading by a fireplace. Flowridia moved her hand to cup Lara’s cheek, stroking the soft skin and reflecting on the smile she felt tug at Lara’s lips.

  When she pulled back, Lara stared, wide-eyed but smiling. “I-I’m sorry. I’m normally more articulate than this.”

  “So am I,” Flowridia said, the sudden rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm her resolve. “But I’ll visit soon. We can . . . practice articulating . . .” She grimaced, but Lara’s giggle held a familiar infatuation, her mind recalling a little girl of six months prior.

  “I think I’d be happy to articulate with you.” Lara’s blush betrayed her innuendo, and while Flowridia had certainly considered it, it felt too damning amidst Lara’s innocent laughter.

  “Goodbye, Lara.”

  Lara barely had time to give her own farewell before Flowridia bolted, Demitri at her heels.

  Lara’s lips were full and warm. Peaceful, like a serene lake glittering with silver moonlight. A taste of something beautiful, a future that Flowridia, forever discontent, could never accept.

  For what use was warm rain when Flowridia had been drowned in a storm?

  * * *

  Flowridia was almost surprised to find Casvir seated at his desk. “Are we leaving soon?”

  He looked up from his endless paperwork. “Assuming you were planning to come with me, yes.”

  “For a short time.” She thought of the bag in her room, already packed. Impressive, how little truly tied her here. “I don’t think I can stand to say goodbye. I—”

  But there was something she did need to do first. Demitri, wise and belligerent beyond his years, had spoken a fundamental truth.

  “As soon as I return, we will need to leave immediately.”

  Intrigue crossed Casvir’s face. “All right.”

  “Can you wait in my old bedroom?”

  He nodded as he packed up his papers.

  Flowridia left, guilt swamping her gut. “Demitri, wait with Casvir.”

  She ran to the stairs, heading down to the library.

  Etolié was often sleepless, but Flowridia didn’t hear the typical bustling of her drunken friend or the skittering of her Skalmite bookkeeper. Flowridia tip-toed on her boot-clad feet, regretting not removing them once she’d returned indoors.

  She peered past the bookshelves, only to meet Khastra’s eye.

  The half-demon lay in the nest of scarves with Etolié fast asleep in the crook of her shoulder. She held a book in her hand, her other idly stroking the Celestial’s hair. With care to not jostle the scarves or the Celestial buried within them, she placed the book aside and put a finger to her lips.

&nb
sp; Flowridia saw tenderness in Khastra’s touch, a longing in her demeanor that she knew and emphatically understood. “How is she?” Flowridia whispered.

  “Finally sleeping. I would not move if Izthuni himself demanded a challenge.”

  Flowridia knew Khastra wasn’t bluffing. Though it was stupid, she came closer, approaching the shelves where Etolié kept her prized trinkets—including one hiding an object of depthless power.

  She kept perfect eye contact as she plucked the case from its shelf and moved to walk away.

  “Tiny one.”

  Flowridia kept walking.

  “I ask only that you keep the box here.”

  That was . . . not what she had expected. Curious, Flowridia opened the crafted box, the encrusted maldectine stones glittering in the sunlight cast down from the skylight. Blue light illuminated Flowridia’s face, power surging through her veins as she held the orb in her hands.

  She placed the box back onto the shelf, leaving nothing suspicious to see. “Will you tell her?”

  “If she asks.”

  Flowridia merely stared at the half-demon, noting the exhaustion in her face. She slowly backed out, keeping watch until Khastra disappeared behind the shelves.

  Paranoia fueled her. She ran, orb stashed in her dress. She passed servants and guards, but none tried to stop her. She raced up the stairs, and when she threw open her bedroom door, there stood Demitri, his golden gaze suspicious, and Casvir, Flowridia’s own bag in his hand. Ana sat on her bed, the cord of the ear threaded between her ribs as she wagged her tail. “We should go now,” she said.

  Casvir asked no questions; he ripped his claw through the air, and Flowridia’s gut churned as a portal opened.

  Despite the urgency, she hesitated, instead detouring to grab the vase of roses on the windowsill.

  She muted the maldectine and stepped through the portal.

  * * *

  Etolié awoke to a gentle hand stroking her hair. “You’re getting sentimental on me, ya big lug,” she mumbled, and Khastra merely smiled.

  Yet, there was something sorrowful in it. “Simply savoring our time, Etolié. I will stop if you ask.”

  Etolié shook her head as she pressed closer to the half-demon’s chest, content to quiet the world.

  She remembered the time before, where they would sometimes drink to spite their livers and awaken tangled in the others’ arms. Etolié had loved it so.

  “Do you remember,” Etolié muttered, her voice muffled by Khastra’s cloth shirt, “in our first year here, when you took me out for my birthday?”

  Khastra’s chuckle reverberated across Etolié’s entire body. “Well enough. Why?”

  “It was the first time we both passed out from being drunk as hell. I woke up in your tent, and you were holding me like this.”

  “You had spent half the night . . .” Etolié looked up, wondering at Khastra’s hesitation, but realized her multi-lingual companion apparently just forgot a word. “. . . how do you say . . . gushing?”

  Etolié laughed. “Gushing?”

  “Yes. Gushing. You spent the night telling me how lonely you were in Celestière. That there were no children for you to befriend because there were simply no children. You gushed to me about how wonderful it was to have a friend. And I was very amused.”

  Heat bloomed across Etolié’s cheeks. “All right. That’s a little pathetic.”

  “Perhaps, but you have always been honest, at least to me. I appreciate that.”

  “I just can’t believe that’s what you remember.”

  Khastra’s arms had never been a cage—more like a fortress, wherein Etolié felt safe and quiet.

  “And you don’t miss Staelash? Even with memories like that?”

  “No.” But right as Etolié’s heart sank, Khastra’s lips settled into her silver hair, in a gesture that both warmed her heart and stopped it all at once.

  Again. That horrible choking closed her throat.

  “But I do miss you, Etolié.” Khastra never whispered, never hesitated. But even Etolié felt the humming of something unspoken, words Khastra swallowed back.

  Silence settled. Etolié wondered, somewhere in the depths of her self-preservation, if this were a normal thing best friends did, which was alarming only because it wasn’t a question she’d ever felt the need to ask before.

  “Perhaps . . . you could visit?”

  Khastra said nothing, but she felt her shrug.

  Etolié stammered, “I-I could visit.”

  The fortress grew smaller as Khastra’s arms drew tighter around her. “I . . .”

  Etolié didn’t dare to move in the weighted silence, lest she stumble and fall into the great chasm dividing them.

  “Perhaps, Etolié.”

  “I could.” Etolié struggled against her bonds, suddenly suffocating in Khastra’s arms. Khastra released her, and Etolié nervously clutched the half-demon’s hands. “It wouldn’t have to be an official visit from Staelash. You can ask Imperator First and Last for a night off. I’ll rent us a room at an inn—we’ll drink until the sun rises, and just . . . be together.”

  Khastra remained stoic, and Etolié wondered what the hell she had done to ruin what should have been a perfectly nice cuddling session. “I have a gift for you,” Khastra whispered, but it wasn’t like before with the ring Etolié still spun around her finger—she . . . wasn’t happy. “It is difficult to transport, but I want it to be a surprise. Can I ask you to meet me?”

  “Of course.”

  Khastra’s hand cupped her cheek, and again she felt that suffocating agony in her chest. The rough calluses of Khastra’s large hands were familiar and comforting, welcomed as her thumb stroked gentle lines along Etolié’s face. “Make nice with the party guests,” Khastra whispered. “Murishani is throwing a goodbye party before Nox’Kartha leaves tonight.”

  And so there was a definitive end to Khastra’s presence in Staelash.

  “But come here, to the library, at noon. Alone.”

  Etolié reached up to touch Khastra’s hand—to keep her there a moment longer. “I will.”

  Something was different, and Etolié thought, for a moment, that it wasn’t only with her. Khastra’s smile was so . . . so sad as she pulled her hand away. The half-demon sat up, her tussled hair falling from its braid.

  “Why does this feel like goodbye?”

  Khastra’s smile returned to what Etolié knew. “You are imagining things.”

  “No, I’m not.” Fuck, there it was—the suffocation rising in her throat. Perhaps it would finally just choke her and let her rest. Etolié sat up, struggling with the blankets wrapped around her form. “Something’s different. Why are you different?”

  Hurt settled onto Khastra’s face, but Etolié couldn’t back down now. To her horror, she was given an answer. “I work for different people, Etolié. I am adapting. I worked for Solvira and played a part very different to what I played in Staelash, and now in Nox’Kartha, I must again be something new. But I am trying to hold onto what I was to you, for a little longer, because . . .” Again, she hesitated, and Etolié wanted to scream. When Khastra brought a hand up to touch her shoulder, it burned. “Because I have always been what you needed me to be, and I would have been content to perish with that as my final duty. Fate said otherwise.”

  The words brought panic to Etolié’s stomach. As she stared at Khastra, the half-demon shook her head to dissuade her fears. “I do not mean we cannot be friends. I only mean that our relationship can only be as friendly as our kingdoms, else we fall into scandal. We live in different worlds and must adapt.”

  The little cuts in Etolié’s heart were like a small child struggling with shears, causing mayhem but never making a clean cut—just a thousand tiny lacerations. She’d bleed to death nonetheless.

  But she was right. Things were different, and it was tearing Etolié apart.

  “Funny,” Etolié spat, “because everything you’re saying hinges on the idea that there would ever be fr
iction between our kingdoms.” Her eyes studied Khastra, desperately sought for a lie, for an explanation. “Which is odd, because here we are at the end of a wedding promising to seal us in symbolic matrimony. So what would be the issue, Beefcake? What’s there to be caught in bed with?”

  Khastra said nothing at all. Etolié pulled away, tearing Khastra’s touch from her shoulder. It stung like she’d ripped the skin with it.

  “Khastra, stop fucking with me. Is there a threat?”

  Khastra looked at the ceiling. “No.”

  “You’re a shit liar.”

  “Perhaps,” came the reply, but Etolié couldn’t stand to look at her. “A shit liar who would be flayed alive if she spoke the truth.”

  “Or dead since, you know . . .” Etolié swallowed her wry comment. Steeling her jaw, she stood up before looking back to Khastra, taller by far with the half-demon still buried in blankets.

  A voice inside her screamed to stop, especially when Khastra looked near tears. Whatever would come to pass was not the half-demon’s fault. She was a slave to the imperator; Etolié knew this like an errant grain of sand in her lung.

  But, like a properly stubborn idiot, she didn’t. “You always did hate Staelash. Will it vindicate you to watch it fall?”

  “Staelash’s soul was paid for.”

  Again, she searched Khastra’s grit jaw for truth, desperately stared at her glowing eyes—yet she only saw a stranger. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Beside her, Khastra slowly began to stand.

  Etolié pushed harder, her wounded heart spitting vitriol. “Nox’Kartha’s up to something. You’re up to something.”

  Khastra said nothing, merely straightened her stance.

  “You were always a shit politician! Can’t hide anything.”

  Khastra brushed past her.

  Etolié’s fury rose. She gathered her illusionary skirts and stalked forward, content to bring hell even though every word tore at her skin, leaving her raw and bleeding. She stood before Khastra, daring the half-demon to cross her, but when Khastra merely stopped and would not match her gaze, Etolié’s wings spread aloft, visible at her will, and she floated up, their faces level.