Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  There was no resistance, no cold chill clinging to her. She trembled as she tossed it inside.

  But still the world encroached. Flowridia turned around, teeth clenched as she approached the door. Odessa followed. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve come too far to lose,” Flowridia seethed, and she swung the door wide open.

  “Can you defeat them all, Flower Child? Who can say how big the mob is?”

  Flowridia shook her head, pausing at the door. “I don’t have to defeat them. I just have to give Ayla time.”

  The door slammed behind her, and Flowridia ran out into the night. Her feet splashed against the murky terrain, and as she ran, she heard faint voices from afar.

  Time was scarce. She followed a path she had not travelled in years. It lay sealed in her memories, though, each step trudged back and forth between mother’s home and her destination long ago.

  A mass of graves met her view, marked only with a stone for each. Men and young girls, Odessa’s lovers and daughters, rejected and left to hellish fates.

  Aura was not among them. She had dragged her familiar farther away.

  Flowridia had thought the best kindness she could do was give Odessa’s victims a final resting place. She hadn’t been wrong. What she did now was the vilest act of all.

  She stopped before the nearest mound and knelt. Flowridia’s hand touched the cold dirt. Underneath the earth, she felt all the potential buried beneath, not only of the corpse under her hand, but all of them, each of them begging for her influence and touch.

  A distinct purple glow shone from within her being. A thump as her power hit the earth, and then silence. Flowridia stood, breathing heavy as she waited, intimately aware of the magic happening below her feet.

  Damned to hell she would be.

  A hand shot through the dirt. It bent, gripping the ground as another burst through to join it.

  All around, skeletal hands appeared in a mass of swirling purple and flying dirt, clawing their way out, desperate to escape their final prison. Flowridia watched, eyes darting from corpse to corpse. The one nearest her twitched as it stood, free from its grave. The stench of earth and rotting flesh met her nose, and when it stared at her with empty sockets, she saw the maggots feeding on the decayed flesh. Skin hung in tatters from its bones, but its nails seemed sharper, as did its teeth, practically begging to sink into warm, living flesh.

  All of them swayed as they stood, various stages of rotted corpses shuffling quickly towards her. One struggled to free itself, its tiny hands clutching more at air than dirt.

  The mere sight of those hands, minutes old upon the victim’s death, sickened Flowridia’s stomach. She couldn’t face it; she withdrew her power from the baby boy’s corpse.

  She looked to the rest, tightening her jaw as she spoke, voice strong. “Come with me. All of you.”

  There were twenty-three in all that followed her back to Odessa’s home. She remembered each and every one and had offered prayers to Sol Kareena for their souls scarcely a year prior.

  She wondered what Sol Kareena thought now. She wondered if Sol Kareena thought of her at all.

  Odessa watched from the window. All around the house, Flowridia stationed them, her undead servants spreading wide as they twitched and released hollow moans. Two she set on the porch, on either side of herself, and when she finally opened the door, Odessa’s said, “This might be madness, Flower Child, but I won’t say I’m unimpressed.”

  “If anyone tries to enter the house,” Flowridia said, grabbing her beloved spear from beside the fireplace, “cast them out.”

  She shut the door, staring out at the approaching lights.

  The torches were close enough that she could make out individual shapes and silhouettes between the trees. Flowridia released a breath, purple smoke escaping her mouth, then realized something was missing.

  She looked to the windows, realizing no ghostly interlopers watched. She prayed it meant that with the dissolution of the wards, they had been released into the beyond.

  Time passed in anxious, precious moments. Her warm, amber skin turned nearly white as she gripped her spear. Her heart thumped in her ears. She stepped down the porch to the murky, dank mud. The lights had expanded, illuminating the swamp in eerie hues. Still, Flowridia moved forward, stopping near the outskirts of her defenses.

  “Stop!” she cried. Perhaps startled by the force of her word, the shuffling feet did stop, for a moment. “I am not Odessa. I’m not the witch who terrorized your village.”

  Silence, and then a single set of footsteps met her ears. One man emerged from the trees, holding a torch. His armor reflected the light as he glared. “We aren’t here to negotiate, witch.”

  “Then why speak to me?” Flowridia matched his gaze, wondering what a sight she must be, covered in blood and dirt, her body emanating an eerie purple.

  “To plead for you to avoid needless bloodshed and surrender.”

  Flowridia glanced at his sword. He stood only a few feet away; one swing, and her head would fly. “You’re afraid of me. That’s very wise. Walk away now, and you’ll live. You have my word. But if you stay, I won’t be able to stop what’s coming.”

  Behind her, her undead gathered. The man’s grip on his sword tightened, his eyes glancing from creature to creature, and finally to the cottage behind her. “What madness are you brewing, witch?”

  “I’m not Odessa,” she repeated, power lacing each word—by every god, she had never felt bolder. “Merely a woman with nothing left to lose. Perhaps that’s something far worse.” She took a step back, vision narrowing. “Your decision. Stay or go.”

  He took a step back and disappeared into the darkness.

  Fearless among the raised dead, Flowridia returned to the porch of the cottage. As her sight adjusted, she saw that the sea of torches was hardly limitless—a mass of fifty at most. Still more than double her own forces.

  She might’ve prayed for them to run, but she knew not what god to pray to anymore. Flanked on either side by her horrid minions, Flowridia surveyed the trees, watching for any sign of movement.

  An array of voices echoed through the swamp. Angry shouts spurred them forward; the mob rushed.

  Flowridia braced herself. A purple cloud seeped from her pores, rising in tandem with her controlled rage.

  Her undead ran to meet them.

  Sword met bone, and screams filled her ears as her undead ripped and tore through the mob. Flowridia, meanwhile, shut her eyes, and pulled to her all the life in the clearing. Human life resisted, but the rest fell to her—the mushrooms clinging to the cottage, even the trees at the outskirts. All of them relinquished their life and power to her.

  She thrust it back. Opening her eyes, she watched the charred earth suddenly imbue with life, brilliant and vibrant in the dank atmosphere. Flowridia stumbled back against the door, the release unlike anything she’d ever felt. Her head swam, but she pulled herself up, throwing her consciousness into the fray.

  The moss upon the ground clung to the legs of the villagers; vines tangled, seeking to strangle them. Trees whipped their branches about, lacerating and grabbing those who passed, cries of pain and terror erupting across the battlefield as men and women were tossed and crushed by the undead plants.

  With them, all manner of dead creatures dug themselves up from the damp earth. Bits of rodents, reptiles with jaws the size of a man’s leg—they, too joined the fray, gnawing at the furious mob.

  But none did so much damage as her humanoid dead.

  The battle stood illuminated by torches, and Flowridia could see with perfect clarity what destruction her undead wrought. Limbs were torn. Blood sprayed. One ghoul gnawed on a fallen man, oblivious to his screams as it consumed the entrails seeping through his torn stomach. Another ran to his aid, lopping the creature’s head off in a single, swift motion—still, it moved. A final strike, and the monster lay severed at the torso.

  Another ripped at a woman’s face, her body still co
nvulsing as her conscious form held too long to life. Arrows embedded into the monster’s back, but they did nothing to detour it. Someone threw a torch. When its tattered clothing caught fire, the creature continued, but steadily its skin melted. By the time it stopped moving, the woman was long dead.

  Flowridia stared forward, realizing she was being approached. Two men with clubs rushed her, but when they swung, the creatures flanking her leapt forward. One managed to tackle the attacker to the ground, gnawing at his throat as he released a gurgled scream. But the second fell as the man swung his club. Its skull shattered; it wandered aimlessly without it.

  Flowridia realized she’d meet a similar fate and instinctively thrust her spear, stance strong as Casvir always taught. Her stomach lurched when it ran straight through the man’s gut. He fell. The weapon fell with him as he cried out in pain, off the porch and into the murky terrain.

  The mass of trees and vines brought destruction, slamming into the ground and tossing her enemies left and right. In the fray, she could see her undead troops dwindling, horrendous in their strength and sheer terror, but overpowered by the mob’s numbers.

  Her favorite trick, then. From her very skin seeped a noxious purple gas, the cloud expanding and choking those who dared approach. The mass engulfed one man entirely, desiccating his skin in seconds, leaving a fallen husk on the ground.

  Still, the mob closed in. Flowridia refused to show concern. Her strength steadily depleted—unlike the animals and humans, the plants required some focus, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Her ranks dwindled, but still they fought on, unhindered by fear like the living.

  But piercing pain suddenly punctured her shoulder. She gasped, her hand instinctively grasping the arrow. With a cry, she ripped it out, stumbling into the wall of the cottage. Flowridia shut her eyes, letting a flow of healing energy stitch the wound back together, the pain decreasing with each breath she took.

  She opened her eyes just as a lasso ensnared around her neck. With a yelp, her hands gripped the rope as she was pulled across the porch and down the stairs. Murky water engulfed her as she fell.

  She forced her eyes open, struggling against the rope. She called out to her undead; soon what forces remained rushed at the man holding her bonds. Burly and barely armored, the man screamed as monsters tore at his flesh with their teeth. Flowridia managed to stand, struggling to remove the rope tightening around her neck.

  Another arrow lacerated her side. She gasped, just as another rope lassoed around her hand. A swift tug, and Flowridia fell face-first onto the ground.

  Dizzy from the impact, Flowridia struggled against the hands seeking to tie her up. She managed to let purple lightning crackle against her skin, burning those who touched her, but necromancy did nothing against rope. She was dragged along by her wrist and neck, breath cut off.

  Water choked her; mud blinded her eyes. Shock stole her focus, and she felt the influence she had cast upon nature dwindle and stagnate. Her face finally managed to lift up from the dirt and grimy water, only to be scraped against the trunk of a willow tree. She winced, bark stinging her cheek. A hand gripped the rope at her neck. She gasped as she was forced to stand, head swimming as the rope tightened.

  Odessa’s cottage stood a ways away. The mob of people had their sights set on her, the last of her minions falling lifeless into the swamp. Furious cries bombarded her ears. More ropes tightened around her limbs, her body twisting as she was forced against the tree.

  The bark dug into her back, but any movement forward only tightened her noose. Angry tears stung her eyes as two men pulled a rope around her stomach, letting it sink into her flesh before tying it off at the other side of the tree.

  An armored man, the same she had spoken to before, approached, his face torn and bleeding, and through her misted vision she realized one eye was missing from its socket. He limped, spitting blood at her feet. But no words crossed his lips; instead, he dropped his torch at her feet, letting the flames lick at the roots of the tree.

  The damp wood would mean a slow, smokey burn, but the noxious fumes from the swamp guaranteed it would. Flowridia’s feet, tied to the tree, could do nothing to kick it away. To watch her burn, to watch their literal nightmare turn to ashes would make for a bittersweet victory.

  Flowridia, however, stared beyond them to the cottage. Something shifted through the window. Curious, calm, she watched as the door slowly swung open. A small figure stood shadowed in the doorframe, casting its gaze upon the swamp. No features could be seen—the darkness saw to that—yet Flowridia swore she could feel that familiar, predatory grin.

  It vanished.

  A scream erupted from the back of the mob, drawing the attention of all. The people turned, and Flowridia watched a man fall to the ground, gore splattering as a small arm withdrew from his torso. Vibrant blood stood in stark contrast to pale skin as Ayla Darkleaf, fully nude and flush with life, studied the crowd.

  She charged. The villagers screamed as she sunk her teeth into her second victim; the woman cried out as she was drained of blood. Ayla flung her withered body against another, the sheer force snapping bones in half.

  An axe swung at her, but the vampiric woman was no longer there. Instead, her nails raked at his neck, severing his head in one motion.

  Mesmerized, Flowridia’s focus was stolen when searing pain struck her leg. She looked down, gasping when she realized her dress had caught fire. “A-Ayla!” she cried, and when the vampire met her gaze, never had she seen such fury in that icy blue stare.

  Ayla emerged from a shadow beside her and ripped the ropes in twain. Flowridia fell forward, landing on her hands and knees. Murky water cushioned her fall; she smothered her burning skirts. When her eyes darted up, she realized Ayla no longer stood beside her. Screams met her ears. Ayla had returned to the fray.

  Prayers to Sol Kareena sang through the battlefield. But how much righteous conviction would it take to stop a thousand year old monster? Ripping, slashing, Ayla tore heads from their necks and spines from their bodies. She feasted as she fought, draining one victim as she ripped the arms from another. She needed no knives, no weapons—her claws wracked through flesh with ease, and her teeth glinted against the torches as she leered at her victims. Entrails and bones littered the swamp, and within mere minutes, there remained only Ayla, engulfed in moonlight, victorious as she stared with her back to Flowridia.

  Flowridia stood as Ayla turned. Silence loomed. Ayla’s gaze met hers, intense blue eyes reflecting the silver light. She was all Flowridia remembered—standing with such power, such confidence, her lithe musculature melding with faint, feminine curves. The shadows of her cheekbones cast a gaunt shadow, her thin lips nearly white. A perfect picture from Flowridia’s memory, nothing out of place except for her vulnerable, fragile stare.

  Ayla rushed her. Flowridia gasped, fear forcing her heart to start.

  But the small woman collapsed at her feet. Fingers tugged at her skirts, and Flowridia realized Ayla sobbed. “Oh, Flowra, Sweet Flowra.” Blood and tears streaked Ayla’s face, her hands gripping her skirt like a young child to her mother. Flowridia fell to her knees, pulling Ayla into a tight embrace, the feel of that petite frame so familiar and wonderful.

  “Flowra—” A kiss cut off her words as Flowridia crushed their lips together. Ayla didn’t fight it; Flowridia felt her melt into the touch.

  “Ayla,” she whispered, and with each touch of their lips, her embrace tightened. Desperation rose, and her hands roamed the taut body, determined to study each blood-slicked curve. “Ayla, I love you.” Her voice grew soft, reverent as she pulled her head back. To face her love, to match Ayla’s eyes—oh, it overwhelmed her so. “I will never leave you.”

  Her fingers met ice as she cupped that sharp cheekbone. Her hand slid into Ayla’s black hair, sleek with blood, and nearly drew back from shock.

  She brought her other hand up, slowly parting Ayla’s hair to reveal two pointed ears. Flowridia laughed, but before Ayla�
�s curious eyes could ask, their lips touched again, blood staining both their faces. Flowridia let the kiss deepen, Ayla’s head cradled in her hand. Her other hand slid down to caress Ayla’s waist as lithe fingers slid up her back, their gentle touch forming an ache within her. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

  Flowridia’s grip tightened, and with a surge of desperation, she pushed against Ayla’s chest. By every god—she needed to hold her, to own her. Ayla was back, and Ayla was hers. “I need you,” she pled, though it was far more a prayer. She pulled back enough to face her love. “I need to know you’re real.”

  Close now, Flowridia saw flecks of silver surrounding Ayla’s pupils, fading into that penetrating, icy blue. Had that always been there? Vulnerable and wide, those enthralling eyes held her gaze as Ayla nodded.

  No words were spoken; Flowridia crushed their lips together, desperate to close the distance between them. She pulled back, nearly ripping her dress as she tore it and all her clothing from her body. The chill night whipped at her exposed form, but the frost radiating from Ayla proved a stronger force. Cold held comfort, and no comfort had ever been stronger than when she pressed their naked forms together. Blood mixed with mud and tears. Ayla’s back touched the ground, frantic kisses passing between them.

  Flowridia’s hands roamed the thin skin, each sharp valley of Ayla’s body something to explore, to rediscover. The slight hill of her breasts fit perfectly in Flowridia’s hands, and when she squeezed, Ayla’s gasp filled every crevice of her mind. Her dreams had been but a crude sketch; reality seemed a vibrant painting, each color brilliant and bright.

  Still, they kissed. Flowridia heard Ayla’s soft moans of pleasure hum against her lips.

  Her hand trailed down, meeting jutting ribs and the sharp contours of Ayla’s toned stomach, slick with blood. Like a sleek cliff-face, Flowridia scaled downward, her hand settling in the valley resting between her thighs.

  Ayla gasped when Flowridia’s finger stroked against the wetness in between, her hands tangling into her thick hair, gripping with menace. When Flowridia’s fingers slipped inside, relief laced Ayla’s shallow breaths. Flowridia felt tears spot against her face.