Maestra

by Elle Cross

  “No, I think I’m good for now. Thanks though. The focus helped me.”

  War took the mitts off and dropped them onto a pile. “Yeah, don’t want you getting bad habits now, getting lazy just playing with the heavy bag.”

  Immortelle smiled. Training equipment and strategy was an old conversation. A comfortable one. “God forbid I lose my focus.” She took off her boxing gloves and threw them on the pile of equipment to be cleaned for later. The tape around her fingers got tangled up.

  War sidled up to her, and grasped her hand, turning it over so he could slide the tip of his knife underneath the layers of tape and gauze. With a flick, the wrap laid open. He did the same with her other hand.

  “Thanks.” Immortelle flexed her fingers and hands. She was very aware of his nearness. Heat rolled from his body, licking against her skin. Hair raising tingles shivered all over her body.

  She took a step back away massaging her wrists, and finding other things to do other than make it obvious that she wanted room from him to give herself space to breathe.

  “So, that Bianco was all mind games, yeah? Was there something more going on there?”

  Meaning: Had there been some other ways he communicated that they couldn’t see? She almost wished there were. The conversation, half-shaded as it was, frustrated her. It was like trying to drive with a foggy mirror. The objects seemed obvious and clear, but the finer details were lost.

  And it was those details that she needed to see but couldn’t. It was driving her mad.

  “I know this sounds weird but yes. Except I didn’t pick it up either.” She tore the hair tie out of her ponytail, massaging her scalp. When he didn’t say anything in response, she looked up at him.

  He gestured with his hand as if to say, and?

  A quiet War that let her speak her mind without comment? This was new. Immortelle gave War the rundown, especially about her suspicions that Bianco had planned on being able to share memories or thoughts privately in his soulscape. Bianco just didn’t count on the fact that she couldn’t do so at will, especially when she had shielded against it.

  Throughout her recitation, War actively listened. It was nice to be able to get it all out of her head. Immortelle paced the length of the fighting ring as she spoke. It was even fitting that they were going over the specifics of the conversation in Death's war room.

  "What do you think it means?"

  War shrugged, the wings of his power billowing behind him in that one motion. "It could mean a host of things. It could mean nothing."

  Immortelle stopped pacing. “All this for nothing?”

  War shrugged. “What do you think? Could he be the type of man who would plant seeds of doubt in your head as a means to drive you crazy?”

  She snorted. “Yes, he would do that.” She sobered then, reflecting on Bianco’s words. His mannerisms. His eyes. As much as she believed he had the potential for cruelty, and had been cruel in his past, she had to admit to herself that this wasn’t it. “But I don’t think that was the case here. I think he wants me to think. The one thing he counted on was that I would be too curious. Too driven to find the truth. He practically bet on it.”

  “For what? Because he was all of the sudden open to change and wanted you to know why his son was a prick?”

  Immortelle laughed. “No, I think we agreed that he does nothing for my sake. I’m just a means to an end.”

  Another weapon to be used.

  “Ironic since he’s claiming that was what he was.”

  “Yeah, and if I hadn’t cornered him, and if the Furies hadn’t hauled his ass to the council, he would be doing exactly this: trying to discover who would move against his house and why.”

  War put a hand on her shoulder. “For a moment there I thought that you were about to tell me that he was doing things out of the goodness of his heart.”

  She met his gaze. “No. He believes that there is something out there that’s moving against him and his house. It’s like he wants me to absolve the Della Serra House, and put the spotlight on something else.”

  "Could be an easy way for him to hide something or someone when the heat’s not on him.”

  "Or he might be telling the truth. There could be something out there that’s pulling strings and creating all kinds of trouble behind the scenes."

  “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? It could be anyone.” War handed her a cool water bottle, and she accepted.

  Immortelle took a long pull from that water bottle.

  It was nice to bounce ideas off of War. Usually he’d just state his opinion and that would be all.

  Being able to speak out all sides as she saw them, though, made her feel more in control. Made her feel like she could somehow logically solve the problem before her.

  It would have been easier to believe the surface story. Vincente failed. Bianco failed. She was alive, and so she was due a happily ever after. Or at least some kind of relief.

  Immortelle didn't want to doubt. She didn’t want to see the strings in the magic trick.

  The bad guys were the bad guys. They were easy to pick out from the good guys.

  Bad guys tried to kill you.

  Bad guys murdered the people you love.

  Bad guys tried to hide other bad guys.

  She didn't want there to be more. She said as much.

  “If you want to let it go, let it go.”

  "I do. But I can’t.”

  “Okay. Then that settles it.” War caressed her cheek, examining her expression. Whatever he saw there he kept to himself, which was fine with her.

  Buckling from this inspection of her, she drew back into herself. “I’m gonna clean up.” Immortelle, embarrassed by her cowardly retreat, didn’t look back.

  * * *

  She had cleaned up and found that trying to put on anything more than a bathrobe was too much effort. So she indulged herself inside the pillowy softness of the silk robe that Death had provided for her.

  She attacked the tangle of her long hair and just finished taming it to a black sheen when the red phone tucked away in the corner of the room rang. It was odd how that phone that used to be so much a part of her life felt alien to her.

  Bracing herself for who this might be, she lifted the receiver and answered. "Hello."

  "Ms. Lucy?" The voice that replied was light and sweet, tinged with an edge of steel.

  "Grace? How lovely to hear from you.” Immortelle was so relieved to hear from her. Grace would be one of the few people she knew that wasn’t trying to kill her. Plus, she had seemed stubbornly determined to step into her father’s footsteps and serve the Templar order. Her father, Gabriel, seemed less keen on the idea. “How are you? How is your father?"

  "He's well. We're well. So listen, I didn't mean to just call you all of a sudden, but I wanted you to know that dad was planning a surprise for you."

  Immortelle blinked into the phone as if it had been the one to say something crazy. "Surprise?" Often that word came with the connotation of blood and death. Murder awaiting around the corner. “I don’t particularly care for surprises. Surprises tend to want to kill me.”

  She could practically see Grace cringe on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, I saw the aftermath of your last surprise levelled on your house, and that’s actually partly the reason I’m calling. My dad’s resurrecting your house, and I wanted you to know now in case it would upset you later.”

  Immortelle forgot to breathe. Water blurred in her eyes. "My house?" It had been riddled with holes when Vincente sent two waves of hitmen to her house to kill her. It had been completely destroyed when Bianco had obliterated it with hellfire.

  Grace sighed, long and teenaged like. "I knew it. You're upset. I tried to talk him out of it, to let him know that sometimes people want to make their own decisions and he should have at least asked you first to see if you even want anything to be done with your property rather than being such a dinosaur male about it—"

  When Immortelle stopped gaping
like a fish, she rushed in to interrupt Grace’s ranty speech. "No, wait, it's okay, Grace. I’m fine. Really. I was just shocked at the mention and the thoughtfulness. I love it. Really. Please let him continue."

  "Are you sure, Ms. Lucy? Because the men are all gung-ho about it, and Santos cleaners and his entire crew have already excavated the site and removed the debris. That part I thought you'd be okay with. But the rest—"

  "No, I swear, thank you. I don't know what to say to that except that I appreciate his--their--thoughtfulness and kindness."

  "I hope I didn't ruin a surprise, now!"

  Immortelle laughed. "No don't worry about it, you didn't ruin anything, I promise. Thank you for telling me. At least this way I can brace myself from being a sobbing mess."

  Grace’s eye roll communicated unseen over the phone line with just one tsk. "Aw man, I think my dad expected a sobbing mess, though."

  "I'm sure I can still find grateful tears to accommodate him on that." Seeing a home that she thought was destroyed rebuilt again? She would likely find some reason to get emotional.

  "Hey, speaking of sobbing mess, I found some things that Mr. Santos collected. They looked like they would be sentimental in nature. I want to see what I can salvage, if that's okay."

  "Of course,” Immortelle said, voice soft. “If you have any say in how the progress would be, I don't have a preference to the house at all. It can be whatever style, I really don't care. I would just ask for another picture window. That view over the cliff was amazing."

  Immortelle could almost hear the girl's smile over the phone. "Of course! And I agree, that view would be amazing. Okay, I'll let you go, dad's calling for me." Grace yelled something to her father before she put the phone down properly.

  Immortelle laughed to herself. She had every confidence that Grace would be able to tell her father what to do, even if he was a Templar Knight, he was a Dragon first, and they are protective over their hoard. Especially if that included a feisty, free-thinking daughter.

  "You look concerned," a quiet voice pressed into her space. Immortelle wondered if there would ever be a time that she would get used to the fact that Death was there now.

  "Just Grace. She gave me some news that she didn't know how I would take."

  "I guess from your smiling at nothing that the news was taken well." Death wrapped his arms around her shoulders and drew her into his chest. She sighed there, wrapped in his warmth.

  When had this been a normal occurrence?

  He tightened his hold when she would have moved away. "Ready for the trial?"

  Would she ever be? She sighed again, relaxing into his embrace even more. This wasn’t so bad. She could rest here for a time. "Ready for it to be over. Does that count?"

  Wouldn't that be nice? For the man who sought to kill her out of a twisted sense of honor finally be defeated. For the Cabal to be appeased. For her to be able to go back to living her boring life once more.

  Instead of the elation she had expected to feel, the thought gave her an unsettled and hollow feeling. Immortelle drew away from Death suddenly. “I need to get ready,” she mumbled as her excuse, and strode toward the closet that he had kept for her.

  Calling it a closet was ludicrous; it was easily a separate room arranged to look like a closet. Surely there were some formal gowns in here.

  "If you don't want to go, you don't have to?" Death said to her retreating form.

  Immortelle could feel his eyes boring into her, willing her to come back to him. She kept herself occupied rifling through the hanging selection, taking out this nameless frustration that had built up in her chest on the random clothes. Sliding them along the rod, the colors and fabric blurring.

  "I would rather go. I want to be able to see it all with my own eyes."

  Death followed her into the walk-in. Somehow in the pile of all the clothes, he homed in on a seemingly random section and plucked out a floor length dress. It was black and spilled to the floor. The way he held it from his body, she could tell that she would need to wear heels so it wouldn’t drag on the floor.

  It was like it had been pulled from a night sky full of stars. She approached it with awe. “What is this?” She took it from him, examining the gossamer fabric as it flowed over her fingers. It was like trying to grasp smoke. “I don’t remember ever wearing this? Or owning this for that matter.”

  “I had it made for you. The Hesperides were up to the challenge.” Death said it with a smooth even tone that she knew belied the true depth of his feeling.

  Immortelle froze in shock at that pronouncement, as if having trouble processing exactly what his words meant. He had the dress made? By the Daughters of Evening? That meant that this dress truly was crafted from the twilight sky.

  It also meant it was exceedingly costly. What he paid the nymphs in exchange, she couldn’t fathom. And it was all done after Immortelle had left over ten years ago, when he had no guarantee that she would ever come back to him.

  Immortelle tried to say something, anything, but he had completely taken her by surprise. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  He grazed a fingertip over her cheek in a gentle caress. “I also had one made from sunset. To match the gold and fire in your eyes.” Death’s voice grew dark and husky.

  Immortelle searched his face. It was like he held eternity in his eyes. The invitation to be with him screamed out from his timeless gaze. She asked the only word that echoed in her mind. “Why?”

  Death tilted his head to the side, regarding her with a mix of amusement and a dawning realization. “I missed you and wanted you with me. Any part of you. Anything that reminded me of you.”

  The room around her swam as her eyes filled with tears. Her things thoughtfully collected and preserved in his suites. Priceless dresses made from sunset, fire, and night. All in a bid to keep any bit of her with him.

  A thrumming wave of pressure rose from Death that was at odds to the quiet front he displayed before her. Behind the calm. His knuckles were white where he gripped the hanger of the dress. The way he averted his eyes so they looked just past her and not at her. The way he pressed his lips into a grim line.

  Immortelle looked at him in awe. “You love me.” She breathed out her epiphany as if it were a prophecy scrolling open before her.

  She knew in that moment, that there were be no unspeaking what she’d said. And however he would choose to respond to her words, there would always be a time before that point, and then the time after.

  They wouldn’t be able to pretend that nothing had changed between them.

  Death pinned her with his black gaze that demanded nothing less than her entire soul. “Of course I love you.”

  Within the space of a heartbeat, Immortelle vaulted herself at this man before her. She wrapped her arms and legs around his body knowing he would catch her.

  Strong hands gripped her, pulling her ever closer. One hand on her hip, the other at the nape of her neck so he could claim her lips.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that the priceless dress had fluttered to the floor.

  Death hissed air between his teeth as she ground her hips against his waist. “I thought I was obvious. Clearly not.”

  Immortelle devoured him feverishly. It was as if something inside of her became unleashed and she couldn’t get enough of him. Needed him more than she needed breathe.

  Death took hold of her searching hands and pried her off his body. She whimpered in protest. He answered with a rare smile that showed fang.

  Seeing it there, knowing what his bite could do to her, to them, made her struggle against his hold on her hands. She wanted to rip his clothes from his body.

  He wouldn’t let her move. “Look at me,” he said. She obeyed, meeting those black eyes with her gold ones. “I love you,” he said.

  Immortelle’s heart raced. The twisting pressure in her belly tightening even more as liquid heat rushed through her. “And I, you.”

  Without any other preamble
, Death twisted his grip in the robe that barely covered her body and yanked it off her as if it offended him. He pulled her toward him again, and she squirmed at the sensation of her naked flesh against his clothed body.

  They were locked like that, Death strong and immovable with Immortelle naked in his arms, when War called out into the room. “Hey, where you all at?”

  War was at the threshold to the walk in closet a moment later, pausing at the sight before him. “Damn, what’re we doing here?”

  Immortelle flushed, surely singeing the air around her with pure fire.

  Death, however, was unruffled by the intrusion. “I was helping her get ready for the trial.”

  War took a slow lingering gaze over Immortelle’s exposed flesh. “I see. I’ve heard that finding the right wardrobe could be a challenge. I should help, too.” He entered the closet and stood before the couple.

  Immortelle had thought this closet huge, but with these two men, it felt claustrophobic. She swallowed a cough. “I’m fine—”

  Whatever she might have said was lost as Death squeezed her around her middle. “Hear out what he has to say,” Death said, with a brush of lips against her cheeks. Then he addressed War. “You have something to say to her.”

  War’s eyes clouded in confusion. “I do?”

  “Yes,” Death said without any humor. “You do. Remember our conversation this morning? You seriously do.”

  Immortelle bit her lip. She remembered their private conversation when the pixies delivered the food cart from the Arapax. “You know this conversation can happen some other time. You know, with clothes on.”

  Death pressed his lips on hers. When she would have spoken again, he kissed her some more. Again and again he kissed her until she was breathless and stopped trying to move away from his arms.

  “Are you trying to shut me up?” she asked.

  Death smiled. “In the nicest way, I know how.”

  Immortelle laughed, no longer uncomfortable. After all, they had been through a millennia of battles and long, weary campaigns. They had often sought solace in each other’s company in multiple ways, including sharing sex.