Maestra

by Elle Cross

The faint smell of leather polish and cleaning oils wafted up to her as she rifled through her old belongings. Even a few cosmetic accessories like brushes and perfume bottles lined a neat and orderly vanity.

  She turned around when she felt a shadow cross behind her.

  Death leaned against the threshold. “Finding anything useful?”

  “There’s so much in here. I didn’t think—You kept them all?”

  He shrugged. “They were yours.”

  “And I left.” She bit her lip. There was no reason to bring that up, was there? “I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you for destroying them. Or giving them away. Or something other than keeping them.”

  “I told you. They were yours. It wasn’t my place to destroy them.”

  “But it’s your place,” she insisted.

  “And I decided your things belonged here.”

  She snapped her mouth shut, teeth clacking together. Clearly, they were talking about more than just closet space and how much of it she could use.

  A sprightly rap at the door doused the growing tension between them.

  "I called for food to be brought up for you,” Death said. “Get ready for a lot of fruit."

  The Underworld didn't host many mortals. There wasn't a lot of food kept on hand, and when it was, it was planned for. So there were a lot of fruits and vegetables donated by the arboretum, and plenty of beverages. A continental breakfast, on the other hand, was not on the menu.

  Of course, a full breakfast was exactly what her appetite craved.

  I would love for the day when what I want aligns with what is offered to me.

  "Don't worry, I expected it. It's all good. The promise of good food back at the Arapax is a motivator for me to get back to the Mortal Coil."

  A flicker of emotion broke the smooth surface of his face like a tiny ripple on a glassy lake. "At the Arapax? Two out of the three trays of food you ordered there ended up being poisoned or sabotaged."

  Whatever simmered behind his mask, didn’t break the quiet of his voice.

  She didn't need to be reminded of the bungled assassination attempts. "But they were delicious."

  The memory of that assassin was fresh in their minds, it seemed. And their time spent after.

  Another knock sounded on the door, this time more insistent, and the moment between them passed. "Yes?" she called out.

  The response was muffled. Death went to see who it was as War, Strife, and Mischief pushed in.

  “You’re not room service,” Immortelle blurted out by way of greeting.

  Death retreated from her in their presence, leaning against a wall. Mischief went right to her and kissed her loudly on the cheek. "No, but we can be.” He lifted his brow at her, inspecting her body.

  She put her hands to her hips at his words. “No, thank you.”

  Mischief grinned. “You sure, love? Because it looks like you got a good night’s sleep."

  "And if I did?" she asked, curiosity and dread coiled together in her gut.

  "Because if you needed company, I would have gladly entertained your every whim—ow!" He was cut off from speaking when something unseen whacked his head from behind. “The hell?!"

  War settled against the wall, a look of pure innocence sparkling on his face. She had the impression that he had stretched out one of his wings of power against Mischief's head. Mischief must have thought the same because he scowled at the other man.

  War flashed a cheesy smile at Mischief, all teeth and bright eyes as Mischief glowered away. War winked at her, making her laugh.

  Strife snorted. "She wouldn’t have needed your company. Besides, Death’s looking well-rested too." Then, with a light kiss on her other cheek, he said, "Breakkie should be here soon. I slipped a surprise for you on there."

  She dreamed of the full, hearty breakfast from Arapax Hotel, but schooled her expectations for a light tray full of fruit.

  Before she could ask, the service cart came inside of her room. The unseen servants always made her nervous. They weren't like ghosts or spirits; those were easy to understand since they were what remained of the living. No, these servants were more like animated things, and it was always unsettling. Like, what was fueling them?

  Immortelle shook her head to stop that way of thinking.

  War took the cover off and pixies shining of radiant gold fluttered out—and not just any pixies. This one had a resonant tone that was familiar to her by now.

  "Farasail!" Immortelle was happy to see her little pixie friend. The last time she saw her, Farasail was unconscious and she had thought the poison would have broken her poor little body. Farasail zoomed around Immortelle's head, a mellifluous tune sung in her wake.

  "Yeah, I thought you'd appreciate knowing she was cool. And she ferried all this over, compliments of Arapax, of course."

  It was a full breakfast. Just as she’d hoped for. Immortelle swallowed her drool. She was hungrier than she’d thought. She didn't realize until just then how grateful she was for a non-fruit, non-twiggish breakfast. "Thank you so much! I was just telling Death that I was looking forward to Arapax’s food."

  A whisper of tension crackled in the room. Of course, the others picked up on it. They were, after all, beings that fed on conflict, nursed it, and used it for their own purposes. As Death remained silent, Mischief cleared his throat.

  "Yeah, even though they said that their balance with you was square, Henrick specifically wanted me to let you know that he is deeply sorry for your trouble and you are always welcome at the Arapax. Like, not just welcome-welcome since they welcome anyone, but, like, for real welcome." Mischief snapped his fingers. “He said something, and it totally slipped my mind. What was it? It sounded like a credit card or something French.”

  Immortelle stilled. That kind of invitation could only mean one thing in a place of sanctuary. "You mean, Carte Blanche?"

  Mischief’s eyes grew wide, the black and white swirls dizzying in their excitement. "Yup! Carte Blanche! That’s cool, right?" Then he seemed to sense the cautious tone that descended in the room. “Why aren’t we happy about that?”

  Death pushed off from against the wall and approached Mischief. "When did Henrick say this?"

  Mischief pointed at the service cart which he viewed suspiciously now. "It was just with the message he left with Farasail. Here."

  As if on cue, Farasail swirled with her other friends and made a holographic shadow that looked faintly like Henrick. He had the austere salt and pepper hair and striking cheekbones that not even glamour could hide.

  "Dear Ms. Lucy. Please accept this gift. I know that the Underworld doesn't normally stock mortal food and I would hate knowing that you might be inconvenienced when we could extend our hospitality. If you choose to stay with Arapax in the future, you would be welcome. Carte Blanche."

  The message delivered, the halo of the message dissipated as the pixies flew apart to indulge and play elsewhere.

  Immortelle blinked at the pronouncement. Henrick had said the words plainly as if it were a common greeting or farewell.

  Carte. Blanche.

  That was unheard of. In theory, she knew the Arapax Hotels had a carte blanche policy; most Sanctuaries did, especially the ones that were hosted by the Fae. They were weird about things like favors and gifts. There was always that balance that they needed to maintain. No one wanted to be beholden to another.

  Some of the older Fae even saw it as an insult to receive a gift, because it implied that the recipient was weak or the other person thought they were stronger.

  Enforcing the gift rules and balance rules seemed the best thing for everyone involved.

  Regarding Carte Blanche—it had always existed in theory, but she didn't know anyone alive who had the privilege of carrying it. Maybe there was a legend or myth about it that she could research later? She would need to do some investigating, that was for sure.

  Because the honor of carrying Carte Blanche might sound like fun, but no matter how honorable, the Fae played a l
ong game. It was in their nature to plot and scheme.

  To use someone for their purposes.

  "I don’t know. This is Carte Blanche. A privilege. You know what that means?" Mischief's face lit up.

  Immortelle poked at the food, the scrumptious meal already losing its appeal. "Yup. Means someone high up in the Fae world wants to give me the privilege of killing someone without the threat of blowback or reprisals.”

  Mischief tsked. "Well, talk about a killjoy."

  Strife simmered beside her, tattoos undulating even though they didn’t quite move. Smoke and whispers gathered toward him, pooling around him. His black and white eyes dizzying as he stared off in the distance. His body was here, but his mind was elsewhere. Possibly, multiple elsewheres.

  He breathed back into his body, his gaze a bit glassy as he considered Immortelle. "I hate to say it, but I think Immortelle is right. There's something going on. Something that’s shifting. Can't you feel it?"

  Death and War just shrugged, unaware of what Strife was talking about. Mischief, Strife’s mirror twin, breathed deeply of the shadows that flickered around Strife. "Damn, you're right. Something about that invitation feels too good to be true."

  Immortelle met Death's questioning gaze. Would she want to go? What would be her next move?

  She could almost feel those questions leaping from him, though he said nothing.

  Immortelle moved to the food. Regardless of what the offer would be, at least she could eat the food with relative safety. "Well, at face value, he didn't offer a contract or a negotiation. Only a place of Sanctuary if I choose to go there, and if I did, the Sanctuary would give me Carte Blanche resources. No need to be excited over something that hasn't happened yet." She lifted a plate and scooped some of the eggs onto it.

  "Besides, he offered the food as a gift. At least I won't have to meet with Chancellor Thorne on an empty stomach."

  “What’s your plan today, love?” Mischief picked at her discarded tomatoes. “Disrupting the natural order?”

  She poked at her eggs. “Chancellor Thorne. I want to make sure he and I have an understanding.”

  “Okay.” Mischief plucked more of the discards off her plate. “He might be busy, though. Don’t wantcha to be disappointed.”

  “Too busy for me?” Immortelle might not have been high on his priority, but she knew her value to him. The fact that he had sent Il Torero to extend an olive branch as peace was proof enough.

  Mischief sucked each of his fingertips clean. He saved his thumb for last, sucking it with a flourish. Then licking his lips as a follow up.

  She merely raised her eyebrow at this overt display, biting into her toast to keep from snarling at him, let alone smacking him to get him to answer her question.

  “It’s not that he’d avoid you, love. Just seems his schedule would be a bit packed today. What with the trial and execution of Bianco and all.” Mischief shrugged. “But yeah, for you he’d probably make time.”

  Immortelle choked on the flaky crust of her toast. Strife pounded on her back. Mischief, eyes wide in surprise, handed her a drink.

  War and Death turned from their private conversation to see what had happened. Immortelle met Death’s gaze. “Bianco is still alive?”

  She didn’t want to hear the possibly calculated speech he hid behind his mask. Instead, she strode to the phone that hid in the corner of the room and lifted the receiver. Forming her words clearly, she said, “Il Torero.”

  Immortelle allowed herself to be led through the halls of the compound as if she didn't know where it would be. It had been a while, but she was sure that the ways of the Omnia Compound would be forever scorched into her memories.

  As they faced down a stretch of hallway that she hadn't seen before, she swallowed a peeved breath. "So it seems that there has been a rearrangement?"

  "Always,” Mischief said with a grin. He would find petty pranks and inconveniences entertaining. “The compound seems to move more and more these days."

  Strife continued his story. "At one point I walked the same hallway for what had to be a mile before I realized that it was doing a weird loop. I ended up sitting down waiting for the compound to arrange itself, and then I was able to get back to where I was going."

  Immortelle groaned. "Super. Well, hopefully, if I ever get separated from you, I don't walk myself until I die."

  Death placed his hand on her back. "As if I'd let that happen."

  The Omnia compound was a vast and rambling architecture of marble and magick. It reflected the reach of the Cabal. It housed mainly the Mircalla Circle of Vampire courts, bits of Underhill and Ashenguard. But, the Firelock Burrows and Deepstar Chasm were far away from the Cabal’s reach, and even emissaries only wanted to communicate via orbs.

  They were the outer reaches of the known territories. Each held a separate realm, let alone world, yet it seemed that the Fae of the Underhill wanted more. If the rumors were true, the great tree shrank back from the Fae wing. The rooms had begun to decay and wilt. It was as if the magick that caused the rooms to consist were hollowing out like a snake shedding its skin.

  Did that mean that all of the Fae shrank back from the Cabal Accords? What would that mean about Sanctuaries? Armistice? Offers like Carte Blanche? Would it even still hold?

  Immortelle’s sigh seemed to echo and bounce along the marble columns and the high ceilings of the Omnia Compound. They always gave her a sense of awe in this world. Toward the center of the compound was an open place full of light and gave off a prismatic effect as if a rainbow wrapped itself around the area.

  The tree at its center was one branch from the Great Tree that spanned and connected all the realms. This tree featured in many of the mortal legends as well, along with rainbow paths that connected multiple worlds.

  Murals rippled along the walls like the scales on a fish. Shifting colors gave the effect of movement in the art. They depicted the heyday of the immortals and the beginning of the Cabal.

  Dragons, Demons, and countless hordes battling against each other. Subtle shifts of light would make the action shift so that they appeared to battle alongside each other now against darkness and unseen foes.

  Mischief dropped an arm around her shoulder. “Ah, when life was simple.”

  Immortelle broke into a smile. “The simple life of bloodshed and destruction. Those were the days,” she deadpanned.

  “Oh, if there weren’t mass graves, was it even a battle? I think not.”

  Immortelle’s smile widened. A millennium of battles and infighting was tiresome. Others seemed to glory in it, though. It was a type of worship after all. An offering that recharged the old gods.

  Had they been better off when chaos reigned? If there was more fear that had driven mortals to worship?

  Then again, even peace was deceptive. Peace shifted the flavor…from outright conflict to deception and intrigue. Behind the mask of peace, there were those who sowed discord and ruin.

  For some, it was just as nourishing as outright war, as shown in Mischief and Strife. For others, it couldn’t sustain them enough and they needed to find feeding grounds elsewhere.

  Whoever they once were, they were lost to history.

  Mischief tapped his chin. “Wonder what Dragons eat? I mean those monsters are huge!”

  Not all monsters fed on human suffering. Some were strengthened by good old fashioned faith.

  Immortelle thought of Gabriel. Templar Knight. Opposed to the Cabal. Part of a community in the Mortal Coil. Father to Grace.

  She kept her thoughts to herself. She didn’t know if Gabriel wanted to be outed as a Dragon thriving in the Mortal Coil. Instead she said, “Didn’t they hoard gold and treasure in the old myths? Maybe all the energy and power that latches onto the coins fueled them.”

  “Ha! Of course, that’s right. I forgot about all those things.”

  It would be so much easier if the Mortal Coil could have just continued worshiping and giving over their beliefs to the unseen.


  Immortelle had seen part of another branch of the Great Tree when she followed the labyrinthine paths underneath the Trinity Stone Churches.

  They reached the atrium that led to the Council chambers without any incidents.

  Massive hounds that were the size of small black horses stood at attention. These were the Council’s Sentinels, the pack mentality of canines with the size of jungle cats. Their heads came to about Immortelle’s shoulder; the perfect height to easily tear out throats.

  In a previous age, they were bred for war, outfitted with spiked armor meant to gut horses or rush through a tight battle line.

  The leader let her tousle its head and scratch behind its ear. It was nice to see them so playful. “Tell the Chancellor or the Consigliere that I will wait here.”

  The Sentinels curled into smoke and disappeared with a booming woof.

  She caught Strife looking at her, his black eye swirling, making it hard to keep his gaze. “What?”

  Strife smirked. “You always had a way with the wildlings.”

  Immortelle wiped her hands clean on the seat of her pants as she stood. “They were just lonely and wanted to play. Just wanted a friend.”

  “I’m feeling a little lonely—” he started to say, but War cut him off.

  “Then go play with yourself, now’s not the time.” War spread the wings of his power, and they expanded and contracted like a beating pulse around him.

  War linked his arm through hers. "Have we told you about the last time we saw Chancellor Thorne?"

  He knew the answer was no. There hadn’t been time to socialize before now. No time what with chasing down her husband's murderer and trying not to get stabbed in the back herself. "No, but I can tell by the tone of your voice that this might be a bit amusing."

  War grinned, his face lit up, his fang flashing. His wings of power unfurled around him, and he not so subtly pushed Death away from striking distance. "Well, funny story. The last time we walked down this hallway was to ask for special dispensation from Chancellor."

  "War..." Death growled. His warning lacked heat, but he practically bristled under the attention. His hands clenched and unclenched.