Mayhem

by Michael MolisanI

  Lady Mayhem looks fucking great tonight.

  Margaret was a very small woman. She wasn’t slender, she’d spent too many years in the field to be fragile, but she was easily the shortest person in the room, glancing up at the Owens wives and concubines. Her dress of red was manufactured from marbled velvet, Georgette, and crêpe wool. She’d chosen a flat front corset this night, without clips or hooks, embellished with complex wool and cotton needlepoint in shades of burgundy and black. It was traditional Antecedent spiral work, the same found on gates and doors back home in Crafton. Although the scallop-lace trim of her neckline was kissing her throat, the gown fell at asymmetric angles, showing off very much more of her legs than was very appropriate.

  From time to time, Margaret would stop and converse with a land minister or wealthy merchant, all certainly important in their spheres of influence. Margaret wasn’t so much a Collapse child that she didn’t know the fineries of polite society, she smiled and nodded, curtsied and embellished her absolute lack of disinterest for these people.

  “Lord Owens,” Margaret smiled more genuinely for this man. Unlike the others he was, in fact, important. He had light green eyes, and thick lashes threatened by thoughtful brows.

  Eric Owens paused, his silence hanging in the air, elbow to elbow with the steamed turkey and barbeque chicken, “Lady Mayhem,” he said finally. Margaret couldn’t decide whether he was intentionally trying to insult her. “You’ll forgive me Lady, I don’t remember seeing you at these events before.” Eric spoke with a rasp at the back of his throat and a light voice that hardly befitted a man wearing a jagged scar across his left brow, around his eye.

  Because I fucking hate these events, Margaret thought, “I’ve been far too busy in recent months to attend them.” She did her best to affect eloquent speech.

  There was an odd sort of humility about him, his energy, stance, and eyes seemed to laugh nervously. Behind that uncomfortable mirth was a rigid strength, a gleaming nobility that neither his mother nor his sister shared. Oh, they were noble for certain, they were used to giving orders, but it felt to Margaret as if Eric Owens was obeyed instinctively.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to be graced by your inviolability.”

  I have no idea what that word means, Margaret nearly choked, visibly.

  It was now obvious that Eric was looking to insult her, just as quietly as forgetting her name. “That’s what I do.” Margaret laughed, refusing to display her confusion.

  Eric wore the grey uniform that marked him as a member of Antecedent auxiliary forces, a role reserved for those soldiers who’d knelt before Margaret's brother. He wore the jacket and slacks smartly, but his awards and ranks were Owens, a lack of capitulation bordering on provocative. “What finally brought you to the Grand Ballroom?” Lord Owens gestured wide, taking in the immense room.

  Margaret shrugged, one shoulder moving slightly smoother than the other, “I was invited by The Orders, by your sister actually. How could I refuse?” She lied and took secret delight.

  “Modus Vivendi,” Eric corrected, once again looking for an opportunity to kick down at the smaller woman, “Our father was a brilliant man, but he was none too creative when he named his witch-cult, ‘The Orders.’”

  “Of course,” Margaret answered, leaning back slightly, “Modus Vivendi.”

  “I’m surprised she’d not have invited you sooner,” Eric favored Margaret with a grimace, then glanced around the room, “I’m also surprised she’d invite you to an event that the Vivendi themselves chose to ignore, Lady Lopez.”

  “Lady Mayhem, if it pleases. I am not a Lopez.” Margaret replied, curtly.

  “Oh? But, Emperor Alexander Lopez is your brother?” For the first time since they met, Margaret felt real surprise on those words. Eric’s brows also betrayed him, rising slightly as he tipped his head with curiosity. Margaret saw the opportunity, felt Eric Owens open his guard and allow her to enter in the dance with her. She could have used magic now, pressed in just a little, suggested he favor her just a bit more, but she’d never forced people to like her and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “I’m allowed to call Alexander my brother,” Margaret chose her words carefully, the subject prickly on her skin. “Maggi Lopez adopted me as a child, after the Collapse. Her last name did not extend as far as her kindness.”

  Eric Owens considered, genuinely, before replying, “I remember now, you mentioned that the day you first came before my mother’s court. I suppose we’re both bastard children then.” Lord Owens finally smiled, though it suggested no familiarity.

  “How so, Lord Owens?” Margaret caught herself showing too much interest when she asked, and a quick jump in Eric Owens’s pulse proved it. Had he assumed this was small talk?

  “I’m the second child of Lady Owens, her youngest. My mother’s favor of me as successor never sat well with my sister.” Lord Owens shrugged, glancing around the room, offering an amused chuckle, “So, what finally brings an Imperial witch to our humble court? Besides a fake invitation from Magnate Cuttersark?”

  “It seemed as good a lie as any,” Margaret replied with a sigh, deeply regretting the empty wine glass that she clutched. “In truth, it's because my niece is arriving, soon. She asked me to make her introductions. I can’t make introductions for her unless I also introduce myself.”

  “Amy?” Eric’s eyes narrowed.

  “No,” Margaret shook her head, “Amihan is still in the south with her father, on campaign. Her twin sister, Ramona, is arriving from Crafton. Two nights from now. Perhaps, we could take dinner that evening?”

  Although Lord Owens wasn’t actively looking to insult her further, Margaret was aware that he was becoming rapidly uninterested. “Two nights from now?” Eric tilted his head, pretending to consider, but Margaret didn’t hear the wheels turn or gears click. “No, no, I’m afraid I’m engaged that evening.”

  With a mother like Maggi Lopez, Margaret had never learned timidity as a trait. Even now, out of options and opportunity, she made one final gambit. “Perhaps another evening?”

  He’s already insulted me; a little extra desperation is fine.

  “Perhaps, Lady Mayhem. I’ll continue my rounds now.” Lord Owens nodded to Margaret, before wandering away, making a show of waving to an Owens landowner, a rotund man who didn’t notice that his wine glass was tilted back and slowly dribbling down the front of his brocade jacket.

  Does he hate witches? Margaret doubted that, both his mother and sister were incredibly talented. Lord Owens would have grown up around magic, ghosts, demons, and ancient gods.

  No, he simply hates Antecedent witches.

  Exhausted by the effort of playing a role so unnatural for her, Margaret flagged down one of many servants who circled the room, confused as ants. The man was tall and slender with a neat goatee and deep acne scars. He slid a narrow-stem wine goblet off his chrome platter for her, accepting her empty glass.

  Margaret up-ended the stemware quickly, chugging the sweet drink, then cleared her throat as the servant had turned to walk away. His legs performed an odd shuffle, and he glanced over his shoulder with a coy smile. Margaret returned that smile, gestured him to return and traded her empty glass for a second full one. This time she held up a single finger, warning the man and his weird shuffle to wait for her to finish.

  Once she did, she returned the stemware and excused herself politely.

  Margaret had already decided to excuse herself politely from the entire ball by this point. She’d offer her apologies to Ramona. For now, she simply wanted to escape this world of lies and unspoken rules.

  The wide, open halls out of the ballroom were inlaid with pieces of brace tile and dark, polished brick. These were post-Collapse modifications, and Margaret’s heels clicked on the floor in oddly rhythmic patterns, reminiscent of a hurdy gurdy crank. Approaching her exit, those echoes were a prelude for two Antecedent officers, who’d been speaking in hushed tones. Both men looked away from each other, their gazes he
avy, yearning, kneading at her. She didn’t look away, her eyes met theirs, her lips turning up in a smile.

  “Keep up the good work boys, these people are savages!”

  The first man was younger, bulky under his uniform, testing seams near his shoulders and arms. Uninclined, he couldn’t stop his background thoughts as they streamed across the walls, through her skin and bones, his emotions becoming words like respect, fear, and attraction.

  The second man was older, probably Margaret’s age.

  “Lady Mayhem.” He spoke, and Margaret recognized him. He was Commander of the 3rd Army garrison, serving as a military regent in Stockton. His skull was shaved bare, and his neck grooved with deep lines that had seen too much sun and rain. He wore a bushy moustache so large that it hid his lips and gave him a perpetual frown.

  “Lieutenant General Townsend,” Margaret smiled easily up at him, her voice relaxed, as though she was welcoming him home, “You should have been in the ballroom to rescue me.”

  “We’re all strangers here, Lady.” Townsend’s eyes pressed against Margaret and she could feel the heat of tangible desire against her skin. She’s hardly aged, she’s still goddamn beautiful.

  Tipsy, with the compliment returning color to her face that Lord Owens had consumed, Margaret placed a hand on her hip and shifted her weight to one side, “I don’t recall you and I ever spending time alone. Correct me, commander?”

  Townsend shook his head once, “You’re not wrong, Lady Mayhem.”

  Margaret had worn long silk gloves that went far above her three-quarter sleeves. It made it easier to interact socially, without an accidental brush of skin spilling unwanted secrets. Margaret stepped over to Townsend, swaying as she did. The wine, and Townsend’s attraction, burned away memories of the ballroom.

  “What’s your name?” Margaret turned to the second, bulkier man. He blinked rapidly but before he could speak, “Right this moment I don’t care. Go away. Please?”

  She was not cruel when she said it, she didn’t wave the officer off like a dog. The bulky man understood and gave her a toothy grin, then winked at Townsend before offering a half-hearted salute in departure.

  Satisfied, Margaret turned back to Townsend, examining him. He was tall, appearing more so, next to a short woman. His confidence was a bleeding wound that filled the hallway with the intoxicating odor of copper and wormwood.

  “I’d like you to fuck me, Townsend.” Margaret said, laying a gloved hand on his chest.

  Townsend feigned horror, poorly, with a gasp. “I think you’ve mistaken me. Major Grace and I had been discussing the finer points of small squad tactics, and now you’ve interrupted us.”

  “Did I?” Margaret lifted her lips, baring teeth like an angry animal, genuinely drunk.

  “Oh yes,” Townsend nodded, his right hand reaching out for her and Margaret stopped him. Sliding her palm across his, her fingers caressing his digits, the heat at his skin telling a tale of desire even through her silk. He closed his hand, fingers falling between hers, and his hold was tight. Margaret noticed his campaign ribbons. She remembered more than a few of those battles, including Saint Louis.

  “Tell me the truth. Tell me to leave, commander.” She hissed through her teeth.

  “Lady,” Townsend’s pulse was something like a buzz at his throat, Margaret could hear it if she closed her eyes and relaxed. Maybe he was secretly resentful, he was one of the few Imperial commanders who’d never bedded Lady Mayhem. “I’ll tell you to leave, so long as I leave with you.”

  “Good answer,” Margaret whispered in reply. Her neck was curved back, showing him her throat, lashes aflutter above dilated pupils and rosy cheeks. Townsend’s breathing was deep now, and it felt like he was trying to suck marrow out of the air. Margaret was exercising no magic over the man. This was his own nature, a map of free will, unrolled for all to see.

  Margaret offered Townsend her elbow. “Take me to your apartment, Lieutenant General. We’ll continue this conversation over more wine.”

  11:02 pm January 9th, 39 Veilfall

  Stockton, California

  Under the deep blue jacket, Antecedent officers wore a button-up shirt with a mandarin collar. That last button was typically polished steel, though others may have been bone. Most officers had their own initials engraved here, a kind of memento mori, a gravestone worn at the neck. When Margaret ran her thumb across Townsend’s shiny steel button, it was smooth and unmarked.

  Her fingers wrapped over the mandarin collar, pulling him down to her height, gently.

  “You plan to live forever, commander?” Margaret didn’t look away from the button, it transfixed her; she could genuinely remember no other officer who wore that button clean.

  “It’ll be harder for death to find me if he doesn’t know my name.” Townsend replied softly, and Margaret slid her fingers away from the collar and up his throat to where his jaw hinged. She could feel the prickle of his evening shadow through her gloves, along with the steady, quick, pulse of a man so close to the object of his desires.

  “Death comes for us all,” Margaret’s opposing hand lifted to the buttons of the jacket. These were larger, and concealed under fabric as not to break lines of the uniform, “You suppose you’ll escape notice if you hide?”

  Townsend didn’t answer. The room was quiet, and his surface thoughts skittered in the cracks and crevices like a mouse, plain to her keen hearing. Yes, he had hoped death would overlook him, he even feared death.

  “Kneel,” Townsend hesitated at the order, his eyes a drama of excitement and apprehension, then he obeyed. Eye to eye now, Margaret slid her thumbs up the sleeves of her marbled velvet gown, loosening the silk gloves at her biceps to pull them off. “You know I’ll be in your mind, don’t you?”

  Townsend did not break eye contact, he only nodded, “I know of witches.”

  “Do you?” Margaret laughed. It was an honest laugh, at the back of her throat, a sound she made in private when amused, a laugh she rarely shared with others. She meant no cruelty in it, she simply thought it was funny that an uninclined would claim any wisdom of her kind, “Do you know what it’s like to share a heart with strangers? To weep at a loss, you never knew? I’ll be able to taste every breath you once took.”

  Though he was kneeling for her, there was no subservience lingering at the corners of his retina, there was a steel and esprit that Margaret was surprised to see in a man who feared death. “I saw you at Saint Louis. Not in battle, but with the sick. You eased the minds of dying men. I know what a witch can give a man.”

  Margaret didn’t like that. She doesn’t talk about that. The smell of those hospitals alone, feces and putrid wounds, flesh turning necrotic, humidity and mud that would never dry, and rain that would never cease. She seized Townsend, fingers running across his face and behind his bald skull, tracing lines and patterns into his flesh with her nails. The kiss was invasive, even violent. She didn’t want Saint Louis in the room and she physically used her tongue to press those words back into Townsend’s throat.

  She didn’t listen to his mind when she kissed him. It was only the warmth of skin she felt on her palms. When she pulled away, she pressed a small hand against his chest, residual anger expanding out and into his blood, almost a slap in the face.

  “Undress me Commander. Take care, this dress is worth a soldier’s annual salary.”

  She wasn’t lying. The dress was handmade and fitted just for her. The materials that went into its creation were rare, difficult to come by and time consuming to produce. Even the colors, the darker and more vibrant reds, were made from dyes that required weeks of experimentation to capture accurately.

  Before the dress could come off, Townsend had to unlace her steel boned corset, worn on the outside. He did take care, and his big fingers had no trouble with the metal clasps at the back of Margaret’s shoulders. He also had the initiative to draw up her hair and rest his lips on the back of her neck, kissing and delicately chewing at her flesh. Most officers she
bedded feared to do such, refusing to act without her direct instruction.

  “Harder,” Margaret whispered, a stuttered sigh escaping her lips as Townsend’s teeth raked flesh, fucking draw some blood, she thought before repeating herself; “Harder.”

  Townsend did as he was bid, the next bite eliciting a shriek, coupled with a high pitch giggle. The noise paused him, and Margaret felt her temper rise again. “I didn’t say stop,” she whispered, more for herself than Townsend, then raised her arms, allowing the sleeves on her dress to fall to her shoulders loosely. Townsend followed her lead, drawing the dress upwards and off her body.

  Margaret had taken to wearing a wrap of linen around her cleavage as a young woman. It was comfortable and made more sense in combat. It also allowed her to conceal a weapon between her breasts. She withdrew a subcompact .380 and set it aside, turning to face Townsend, mostly naked.

  “What do you see, commander?” She spoke to the man the way she would a subordinate in the field. Margaret pointed to her twisted shoulder, and the silken scars down her chest and stomach. The wound at her gut was the ugliest of all, lumpy and pink, as though someone had spilled cottage cheese on her and allowed it to dry, “Do I look like a woman who has a problem with pain? If I tell you ‘harder,’ don’t stop.”

  When Margaret kissed Townsend again, she pressed her chest into his as hard as her muscles would allow, her breasts compressing into her torso. The sheer sturdiness of another human being so close was an intoxication. Being a witch meant keeping your distance, keeping bare fingers to yourself, restraint from affection, from the simple act of touch. Allowing the lines of her fingers to caress Townsend’s skin was nearly as titillating as his nails down her spine or his teeth clamped onto her shoulders.