Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  After an hour, she set the paper down and laid upon the bench once more. “Sora, may I be honest?”

  “You’ve been disgustingly honest for the past three days, and you’re asking permission now?”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  Sora, nosey gossip that she was, begrudgingly shook her head.

  Etolié set the paper aside. She thought of Khastra, of the night they’d shared, of those rough hands on her and in her and then their embrace—Khastra’s kisses on her hair and lips as she held Etolié in her arms and coaxed her soul back into her body.

  The world had never been so quiet or so peaceful. She longed, so dearly, to feel that again.

  “I don’t exactly have a brilliant track record when it comes to sex,” Etolié continued softly. “It’s a weapon; men are never more vulnerable than when they’re grunting inside you, so I used it even though I hated it. I never saw it as love, probably because my momma—”

  “Camdral, please, leave her alone,” Staella pled, shielding Etolié with her own frail body. “She didn’t mean any harm—”

  Etolié watched as he ripped them apart and bent Staella over the table.

  “Close your eyes, Starshine—”

  In the carriage, Etolié simply stared at the ceiling, feeling nothing at all. “. . . it’s manipulation. It’s control. Sometimes it’s a way to protect yourself.” Etolié shut her eyes, a wash of dread stealing her resolve. “Perhaps it was monumental for Khastra to touch me and for me to trust her enough to want it.”

  She felt lightheaded, having hacked up enough weight to unbalance her for years.

  “Tell her that.”

  Etolié turned to look at Sora.

  “That’s the most authentic thing you’ve said in days.”

  The words highlighted a precious and inalienable truth—that Khastra knew and carried secrets for her when Etolié hadn’t been able to move another shaking step.

  With some trepidation, Etolié sat up and picked up the paper again. She shut her eyes, recalling countless embraces, countless perfect nights drinking and laughing and craved them with all her heart and soul.

  Khastra,

  I need to say a few things . . .

  * * *

  Sunset cast an ominous shadow. They reached a clearing, a floral-dotted meadow Flowridia longed to nap in. She felt her eyes begin drooping, finally having accepted that, perhaps, Soliel could be trusted with her physical form, before realizing she wasn’t the only one struggling. Soliel and his steed had no trouble, but Demitri had been running for days.

  As she suspected, Demitri stumbled, stubborn but exhausted. She dared to look up. “Soliel, we have to stop. Demitri needs to rest.”

  “Then he is dragged behind. Or left. I need you, not him.”

  Anger surged at the statement. Flowridia glanced down at Demitri, watching the way his muscles quivered beneath his fur. She looked to Soliel himself, whose stance had softened in the hours they had traveled. With his focus set to the forest, he gave no reaction when she suddenly tipped over.

  Flowridia fell from the camel.

  Her back hit the forest floor with a thud. Flowridia groaned at the impact. Demitri immediately raced to her side. With her hands still tied, she sat up, just as Soliel’s feet crunched upon the pinecones and leaves beside her. “You foolish—”

  “Soliel, do you wish for me to be a thorn in your side? Because I will.” When he didn’t immediately strike her for the insolence, Flowridia dared continue. She stared up, matching his pointed glare. “I can’t defeat you. I can’t run away. But you won’t kill me, and I swear on whatever gods dare to listen that I will make your life hell until we arrive.”

  Soliel stood tall. “I could also chop the head off your familiar and let you be dragged behind my horse.”

  “You could.”

  She held his gaze, willing her courage to hold. Soliel looked over at the enormous wolf standing beside her and matched his gaze. “We will stop for a time,” he said, and he tied the rope attached to Demitri’s neck to a thick tree trunk.

  Demitri lay beside Flowridia, his voice heard only in her mind. Pretty stupid.

  Flowridia kissed his nose.

  She watched Soliel stand before his horse—camel, she corrected herself—and remove his glove before he ran his bare hand over the creature’s nose. There was a heart in there somewhere, and it made her wonder more concerning Valeuron.

  Had it bled at all to slay him?

  She slipped her hand inside her bag, daring to touch the orb, to feel that it remained. Her hand brushed against that and more, including a mirror.

  Surreptitiously, she slipped her hand out. She willed her heart to steady, then stood up as she said, “Soliel, I need to take care of a personal affair. A . . . womanly affair.”

  With the words came an impromptu stare-down as Soliel visibly contemplated her request. Flowridia knew her request was entirely reasonable. She also suspected that Soliel, with his unexpected chivalry, would never in a thousand years insist on supervising her. So she held his gaze, innocence in her fluttering lashes. Finally, his said, “You have two minutes before I hunt you down. Your familiar stays.”

  She ignored Demitri when he spoke. What’s your plan?

  Instead, she skipped through the trees, the fading sunlight still more than enough to illuminate her path. When she couldn’t see him, she withdrew the mirror, quickly tapping the magic device.

  It glowed; with her tied wrists, she faced it away from the temporary camp. When the Celestial’s face appeared, Flowridia nearly cried from relief. “Etolié—”

  “This’d better be about that fucking orb you stole, Flowers!”

  The words sounded like shrill thunder in the quiet evening. She hadn’t accounted for Etolié’s temper. “No, listen—”

  “I swear upon Morathma’s Whore Mother if you think this is a fucking joke I’ll—”

  She shushed the irate Celestial, but to no avail. “Etolié, Soliel is—”

  “. . . just because you got the fucking artifact in the first place doesn’t mean I won’t wring your neck if you don’t return it this . . .”

  “Etolié—!”

  A sudden earthquake stole her footing—Flowridia fell into a crevice in the ground, the mirror flying from her grip. Buried in earth from her waist down, thoroughly trapped, when she looked to the camp, she saw Soliel approaching, an unimpressed frown on his face as he held a green and purple orb in his hand.

  Flowridia frantically clawed at the mirror, face down and just out of reach. Apparently losing sight hadn’t detoured Etolié’s tirade—she spewed obscenities until Soliel lifted it, keeping it facedown until his finger tapped the glowing glass. The Celestial’s words disappeared.

  “I was expecting something like that,” he said, and then he crushed the magical device in his gloved hand. Shattered glass fell to the forest floor. He brushed it against his armor then offered his hand to Flowridia, but she hesitated to grab it. Despite her tied wrists, she tried to lift herself from the crevice with her elbows, but the earth inexplicably drew tighter around her. With a glare to Soliel, she accepted his aid; he helped her as the earth parted for her escape.

  Nothing in his stance suggested anger. She held her bag tight to her body, feeling the shape of the orb through the thick material and followed as he led her back to their camp. “I didn’t realize I had a reputation for being a nuisance.”

  Soliel shook his head. “No, but my mistake with you in the past was expecting you to ever be predictable.

  “So now I’m predictably unpredictable?”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. Discomfort welled in her stomach—forming a human connection with the worlds’ impending doom hadn’t been how she wanted to spend the evening, yet . . .

  He had once been a man, and she was a fool to forget that. He was once a little boy born in Celestière. A lesson she was remiss to recall, despite its value, looped in her head: “Sex, money, and power . . .”

  “Tho
ugh I suppose you have experience dealing with unpredictable,” Flowridia continued. She saw Demitri, yet resisted the urge to run to him. Instead she continued calmly at Soliel’s side—a man who sought power, though only as the means to an end, and to whom money meant nothing. Yet, what was love but the greatest weakness of all? “What was her name, anyway?”

  Soliel held a weakness, illustrated by the hesitation on his tongue. “Her true name is not for your ears.”

  “My apologies. I hold no disrespect toward the Goddess of Chaos. Merely curiosity. You seemed reflective earlier.” When he said nothing, she sat beside Demitri and ran her hand along Demitri’s fur. The wolf tensed, likely fighting the urge to sleep. “You were reborn with your birth. Will Chaos come the same way?”

  Soliel sat apart from them, near his camel. “Perhaps.” He frowned, painful reminiscence on his features. “But I hope to have this business done with before then.”

  “And then present her with a destroyed world?” Flowridia studied his contrite visage. “I don’t know if she was known for wisdom, but perhaps she knew something we didn’t. You could ask her yourself, once she’s reborn—”

  “Do not speak of what you cannot understand,” he said, the rumbling of distant thunder in his voice.

  But Flowridia had no more fear of storms. “She was unpredictable, yes, but she wasn’t evil. We cannot know her mind, but—”

  “Do not speak of her!”

  Flowridia’s words withered in her throat; Soliel looked nearly prepared to tear her head from her body, so vicious was his glare.

  He said nothing else, merely slowly turned aside. Silence settled onto the clearing, the purple sky nearly dark.

  Flowridia cursed her errant tongue, realizing she had acted too soon. She settled into silence and listened to the first hints of night creatures among the trees. Beside her, Demitri stirred, perhaps prepared to tear Soliel’s face off—as he would phrase it.

  “I never did ask where you were going.”

  Soliel’s words startled her. Flowridia matched his gaze. “I don’t see why I’d possibly answer that.”

  “You were heading north—to Neolan, perhaps? Or farther on, to Staelash?”

  Flowridia shook her head, content to glare.

  “I simply wonder why you left the orb behind, when you alone claim to have the capacity to reach it.”

  The sun set. Darkness settled upon them. Flowridia said nothing, lest she speak and condemn herself.

  His face had never changed; it held the weight of his wicked quest. “Perhaps I’ll know for myself, once we arrive.”

  She remained silent, the darkness stifling but the sound of night creatures soothing. In the distance she heard a howling wolf; Demitri perked up. Mom.

  Flowridia looked to her familiar.

  Something’s out there.

  She glanced about the clearing, watching as mist rose to match the growing dark. Something ominous settled in the atmosphere.

  She looked to Soliel, noticing that he, too, appeared suddenly alert.

  Reflected in the shadows of trees were hundreds of glowing, golden eyes. Flowridia stood up, the hairs on her arms raising when she heard the sound of countless predators snarling.

  Wolves emerged. Starved and vicious, they stared hungrily upon Flowridia’s party. But it was no alpha who led them—or, rather, it was an alpha of a very different creed.

  A shadow emerged from the trees, walking past the pack of wolves with pure, ethereal grace. Paler than the silver moon, her long blonde hair lay braided across her shoulder, and she wielded two curved blades. Confidence radiated from her proud stance, fearless as she smiled. “So you’re the ancient Sun God,” she said, staring directly at Soliel. Flowridia saw pure white teeth glint in the bright light.

  Soliel stepped forward. The wolves rushed. They bombarded him, even as fire engulfed his form. Thunder rumbled. But against a hundred wolves, even he staggered. The earth rose to defend him. Pained howls met Flowridia’s ears, but more wolves appeared where any fell.

  In the chaos, the woman flew to her side, her swords already tucked behind her back. She smelled of leather and ice. “Come on, sweetie,” she said, facing Flowridia. With a dagger that radiated an ominous aura, she cut her bonds with ease—and then Demitri’s. “I’ll carry you. Hopefully, your wolf can keep up.”

  A quick nod, and Flowridia stooped down to pick up her bag before the taller woman cradled her in her lithe, strong arms. Wind whipped across her face as she ran, and Flowridia tucked her head into the woman’s chest.

  They ran until the howling wolves were far behind.

  The woman never faltered. When Flowridia looked up again, all she saw was fog and trees. Darkness engulfed them; she realized they had entered a cave. Winding tunnels met her obscured view. The terrain grew colder.

  When they finally stopped, the black cave utterly consuming, the woman set her down with ease; Flowridia couldn’t help but wonder what sort of unnatural strength flowed through her physique.

  Flame illuminated; the woman held a lit match. Vibrant shades of orange cast color across her alabaster face, reflecting hellfire in her eyes. She brought the match toward what Flowridia saw was a candle, then took the lit candle and touched it to another, then another . . .

  The light revealed a small campsite, comfortable but clearly temporary. A pack sat abandoned by the wall, and a scattering of potions littered the corner. Candles had been tucked into the natural rock shelves within the cave walls.

  When the woman had completed her task, she stood before Demitri, inspecting him as she ran her hands through his thick fur. “You’re in good health,” the woman said to the wolf, and Flowridia took note of her sharply pointed ears. “It appears you only need rest.” The woman looked to Flowridia directly, her stare utterly enrapturing. “And you?”

  Flowridia shook her head. “I’m not hurt.”

  That woman . . . Flowridia immediately turned back to Demitri. She smells awfully good.

  Demitri had only said that about one other person.

  Flowridia stiffened as she stared at the tall woman watching from across the cave room. “Thank you.”

  “Here’s hoping your friend has no experience tracking,” the woman said, her voice as soothing and rich as warm honey. She paced, her idle steps deliberate and precise. “We left a clumsy trail.”

  Flowridia nodded, watching her graceful movements carefully. “Do you have a solution, or are you waiting for me to act?”

  Intrigued, the woman stopped and turned with a coy grin. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Wards,” Flowridia said simply. “The magic is strong enough to keep us hidden, but not so strong as to draw his attention. I don’t know if you need rest, but it would keep us safe indefinitely.”

  “Clever girl. Show me.”

  Flowridia, with a glance toward Demitri, grabbed a candle from the wall and walked toward the mouth of the cave, noting how the woman never came close, simply stalked behind.

  When light appeared, though stifled by the darkness of night, Flowridia saw a murky forest shrouding them, full of fog and thick, green foliage. It embraced her, the fresh air damp and moist, and Flowridia saw the woman peering out from within the dark cave, watching, waiting.

  Flowridia placed her hand on the outer wall, upon a patch of thick, wet moss. So simple a life form, and so easy to manipulate. With a steadying breath, she poured life into the collection of plants and forced it to grow, to rapidly increase, to follow her finger as she traced it along the stony wall.

  And soon, written in moss, was an ancient Demoni symbol: Beware.

  Then, she sat on the floor, daring to let her back face the suspected predator behind her. She shut her eyes, feeling the earth and the magic all around, touching the energy already permeating the area and circling it around she and her companions. A shield of invisibility, of silence, and of healing.

  Content with her work, Flowridia stood and turned, noting the look of approval on her mysterious compa
nion’s face. “What sort of magic is this?”

  “The moss will be more enduring than mere spoken words. Anything coming close will be revolted. The wards themselves will make us invisible, impossible to hear, and prevent undead from entering or exiting.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “Is your glowing friend undead?”

  “No,” Flowridia replied, and she began walking back into the cave. “But you’re an elf; it’s a safe assumption that you have little or no talent for magic no matter how old you are.”

  “And I’d be trapped here if I tried anything. Clever girl.” The confirmed vampire followed but stayed several feet behind, her steps silent on the rough, stone floor. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions,” she continued. “And I have a few for you. You can go first.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The woman smiled pleasantly, always five steps behind. “Mereen.”

  “And you’re a vampire,” Flowridia continued, and Mereen’s grin spoke volumes. “Demitri, my wolf, told me so.”

  Mereen’s smile broadened, her lips full and enticing. She was gorgeous, breathtakingly so, like all vampires. Perfect for luring in mortal prey. “You’re a witch.”

  Flowridia nodded slowly.

  “You’re also awfully at ease when facing down a predator,” she said, chuckling.

  “You’re not the first vampire I’ve met,” Flowridia admitted.

  “No? Well, sweetie, aren’t you something. You kill vampires?”

  Flowridia shook her head. “I’m a diplomat. Lady Flowridia, Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”

  Back in the cave, Demitri slept. Flowridia’s bag rustled; she knelt beside it and withdrew her beloved, albeit twitchy, fox. Ana took careful steps, some of the crevices deep enough for her to fall into.

  Charming laughter laced Mereen’s words. “Well, isn’t she darling.”

  Flowridia smiled, keeping her gaze on Ana as the little thing stumbled about.

  “So you negotiate with vampires?”

  “You jest, but I have dealt with one diplomat who was a vampire. She was from Nox’Kartha.”

  “Nox’Kartha is the only kingdom foolish enough to employ the undead in such high callings. We vampires are known for our charm and for our unfortunate habit of eating our guests.” She waited, perhaps hoping for Flowridia to react. But Flowridia kept her same expression, and Mereen began laughing anew. “Gods, you are at ease.”