Maestra

by Elle Cross

  “It seems we haven’t been explicit enough for her to understand our intentions.” Death looked to War meaningfully.

  War had drawn closer so that he was able to touch her. He traced her eyebrow, her cheekbone, the slope of her shoulder. The prickly halo that he kept around him melted away, leaving only softness. “I’ve missed this. I missed you.”

  War bowed his head and pushed lush, pillowy lips against hers.

  A desperate gasp escaped Immortelle’s lips when War pulled away from her. She twisted in Death’s arms so she could follow the heat of War’s body.

  Death allowed her to turn so that her back was pressed against his front, but he wouldn’t let her leave. He pinned her arms to her sides, and wrapped his fingers around her neck, grazing the hollow there gently. “Where do you think you’re going?” he whispered. “War is trying to tell you something.”

  War’s wings of power flexed in the air, warping reality around them. He did that when he was agitated and uncomfortable.

  The fact that he had trouble expressing what he wanted to say warmed her heart. Gods knew that it was near impossible for her to talk out her feelings and speak what she wanted, let alone ask for what she wanted.

  It was easier to want something different.

  She had the feeling that War at least felt the same way. “Would it help you to know that I want you to have your say?”

  It must have been the combination of what Immortelle wanted and the mention of peace, because he finally blurted out, “I want you to stay. Please.” War shot Death a look. “There! You happy? And look, now she’s upset! We should have just left it alone, and let it all happen naturally.” He gestured his arms in defeat.

  Immortelle blinked the tears from her eyes, but she wasn’t upset. “I’m not upset. Just baffled.”

  War stopped his pacing. “What?”

  Death pressed kisses along her shoulder, up her neck, nipping at her earlobe. “See?” he whispered. “We all love you and want you with us.” He sucked her earlobe, and she shivered in his arms.

  War growled. “Hey, now. Stop distracting her. She was talking.”

  “You were taking too long,” Death replied.

  Immortelle managed to grasp a coherent thought in the haze of pleasure that Death wrapped around her mind. “Is that true?” She asked War. “You love me, too?”

  War came to her then and bent to kiss her, but Death pulled them back a step. Red leaked into War’s eyes as he stared up at Death. “I will test the limits of your immortality.” Every word was sharpened to a flinty edge.

  “Words first,” Death said.

  War dipped a mock bow acknowledging Death’s words. “Fine.” But when War addressed Immortelle, he lost the mocking edge. “I love you. Being apart from you destroyed me. Every time you talk of leaving to hide in the Mortal Coil, you might as well plunge your hand into my chest and rip out my beating heart.” He spoke it all in one breath, so that he stood there, gulping down air.

  For someone who didn’t need to breathe to live, his discomfort was endearing. Immortelle pulled on the hold that Death had on her, and cupping his face, pulled him toward her to kiss him.

  She wanted more, but Death restrained her arms. When she would have protested, War kissed down the front of her, nipping and sucking a trail over her skin. Laving a circle around her navel with his tongue.

  Immortelle fought to be free of Death’s grip, wanted to anchor her hands in something—hair, flesh, anything—but his hold was harder than steel.

  War gripped her hips and the first lick over the molten core of her body bowed her head back.

  She was dimly aware that Death spoke to her in hushed, urgent tones, but she couldn’t decipher the words. All she knew were the hands that gripped her. The press of fingers. The mouths that tasted her flesh. The graze of teeth.

  When the first ragged cry tore from her throat, she openly wept in relief. Her skin was alive with tingling sensation.

  Death laid her down on the pile of cushions so he could continue the torment on her sensitive nipples. Above him, War divested himself of his clothes, his hard body rippling with muscles. The ritual scarring over his body a testament to his strength and endurance.

  With a charming smile, War descended on her body once more.

  He parted her legs first with his tongue, worshiping her body until she bucked and screamed against him. While she was still caught in her bliss, gasping moans filled with raw need, War pushed her legs ever wider to press his hardness into her silken sheath.

  She gasped at the intrusion, of being stretched and filled. Death lavished attention over her breasts while War tilted her hips up and plunged into her as he needed.

  As they both needed.

  She had a thought of wanting to slow down, to savor the feel of them on her skin. If she asked, she knew they would stop, knew they would contain their blinding need and slow down for her.

  But she didn’t ask. She didn’t want slow. Not now. Not when her skin threatened to burst.

  She needed more. Wanted the breakneck pace of pistoning hips against hers. Screamed for it as she strained beneath their weight.

  “Gods, you’re beautiful.” Death’s rasping voice warped with his need as he sucked her earlobe. Licking the valley of neck and shoulder. She met his gaze, and he promised her more.

  War relaxed on top of her; she reveled in his delicious weight against her pinned hips. She motioned her body up against him. He kissed her. “Soon.”

  He pulled out of her and collapsed on her other side stroking her body; Death did the same on her other side.

  Both used their mouths and hands to stoke the embers of her passion, calling it forth once more until her soft, feminine moans became harsh gasps. She pleaded. She begged. She needed to be filled.

  And they did it for her.

  With War at her mouth and Death between her legs, the three of them worked together to drive them all to pleasure. When Immortelle started shuddering and screaming around War’s flesh, Death thrust into her harder, faster until her manic cries filled the air.

  Her desperate movements brought them both over with her. War surged forward to claim her throat while Death strained and jerked his body for more. Their clenching muscles and hungry bodies wrung out every last bit of pleasure that could be had between them.

  Immortelle shivered back into her body. War was still short of breath on the floor. She laid on her stomach, her arms stretched above her head. Death’s hand gripped her wrists. She couldn’t recall when they switched positions.

  When Death stirred, she could feel him still inside of her. He crushed her to him, and kissed her cheek before moving away from her.

  Immortelle half-groaned in protest.

  Death gathered her up in his arms. “Come along. We should really get you ready.”

  She pouted. “What if I no longer want to go?”

  He laughed, “I don’t believe that for a second. You want to go, and you will hate yourself for being late.” With a sound smack of a kiss on her lips, Death nudged War’s back with his toe.

  “You best not have kicked me,” War threatened. It lacked the appropriate scariness, though, since he mumbled in against a pile of silk scarves.

  “Get over it.” Death carried them both toward the bathroom.

  “Hey, how come he’s able to nap?” Immortelle accused.

  “Truth? Because it takes no time for men to get ready for these affairs. Just slap on a suit, and we’re done.”

  She hated how true that was. Already she was trying to decide on which dress to wear, what accessories would go with it, and how she should style her hair.

  At least she didn’t need to worry about makeup. She was never one to wear it.

  Immortelle hadn’t realized that she was absently caressing his face until he captured one of her knuckles between his teeth in a playful nip. Her heart swelled at the comfort of this playfulness. She didn’t want to put a damper on it or diminish it.

  But keeping her
concerns silent when Death had fought for honesty felt wrong to her. Before her mind overwhelmed her with all the reasons why she should ignore her worries, she confessed her secret to Death. “I’m afraid.”

  He stilled. “Of what?”

  “Of everything. Of nothing. Of something I can’t name.” She bit her lip. “I’m afraid of knowing the truth. Of what happened. Of why it happened.” Immortelle didn’t want to elaborate, but she didn’t need to. Death pressed his lips against her forehead. She felt a wash of comfort flow over her.

  “Search for answers. Do what you must. Whatever you face, know you won’t be alone.”

  The trial and following execution would be held in the Council’s inner chambers. It had been rearranged so that the setting looked more like a formal brunch at a grand hotel.

  Punishment served with a side of bite-sized sandwiches and tea. It was a far cry from the olden days when it was all ripping off heads and putting them on pikes to strike fear against your enemies.

  That was a small comfort. It would be a terrible shame to stain the pretty marble. And blood was so difficult to remove.

  In the middle of the chambers was the fount of knowledge, and in it was a collective sieve for the memories hosted in the Mircalla Circle.

  All the heads of houses and dignitaries of the Vampires were here. Ambassadors of the other territories were gathered and grouped together, and they would bear witness.

  Some of the Cabal looked cold and calculating, with whip frost auras dripping with malice and cruelty. The coils of rumor and gossip followed those the most, easily targeted as persons of interest for the sentinels and guardians roving the space. At least they could be trusted to play politely.

  The only territory that was noticeably absent were the Fae of Underhill. There was no representative at all.

  Interesting, considering there were so many different kinds of Fae.

  The tables were arranged in a sort of dinner theatre seating. Far be it for the guests attending to have to stand or go hungry. This way, Bianco’s trial could be placed as a sort of entertainment.

  It held the same appeal as in the Roman days when gladiators and champions were sent onto the sands of glory to mete out the judgment of the accused.

  It always bothered her that the ones who were actually guilty or standing trial weren’t the ones who fought in those days. Noble houses or those rich enough to buy allegiances, hadn’t had to fight directly. That would have been too gauche.

  To the victor goes the spoils. Might makes right. The one who was defeated was named the guilty party even when they weren't.

  Immortelle could at least be grateful that she hadn't been a weapon during those times. She had already been deemed a weapon before she could walk. She wouldn't put it past the Cabal to have made her a champion to prove their innocence in the matter.

  It would be almost as productive as dunking women in freezing lakes and proving if they were a witch or not based on their ability to survive.

  At least nowadays, they were evolved. Vendettas and bribes helped to make everything bloodless.

  Chancellor Thorne was actually praising the way things were done now as Immortelle approached the chancellor’s box seats.

  Another of the council decried his theory. "Some would say that these bloodless coups had been what weakened the Vampire houses in the first place. Why we all had to ally with each other to form three major courts. We had been deities who have since toppled off our pedestals."

  "Don't be silly,” Chancellor Thorne chided. “The capriciousness of their own godly acts doomed them. The ones that maintain a flock of faithful worshipers are the ones who have evolved the way they attain that worship."

  Immortelle nodded in agreement.

  "Oh my,” said the councilor, “don't tell me you're one of those, Immortelle?"

  Immortelle didn’t expect her response would be noticed, especially by this pinch-nosed councilor. "I'm not claiming to be a scholar, councilor. Only that the Templars, Ashenguard, and those that serve in the Cathedrals don't seem to have problems with maintaining their power base."

  Chancellor Thorne smiled at his ward while the other councilor pursed his lips. "You do have a point, Lady. Those who are obsessive with life and death always have a bit of an extra following.” The shade in his tone was undeniable. “You yourself have reinvented yourself over.”

  Immortelle could tell that the councilor had tried to serve her a dig, but she wasn’t insulted. How could she be when that was how she had survived. If he didn't understand that it was easier to hold sway over people by being who they wanted you to be, deity or otherwise, then she wasn't the one to educate him on the matter.

  Instead she simply said, "I just consider it survival. Even insects have been able to mimic their environment as camouflage or mimic other predators. I think it's as simple as that."

  “Well, survival of the fittest has been the name of the game, hasn't it?" The councilor chuckled mainly to himself.

  Immortelle lost her good humor, tiring of this conversation. “Sure.” She let him think whatever he wanted to think. She wasn't here to impress him with her philosophies.

  Thorne picked up on her annoyance, and nodded gravely. "Survival. You go where the food is, is that not so? Speaking of food, we must see to the rest of the council. Please have a seat here, Immortelle, and the rest of your party can be seated here as well.” He made a rare face at her. Thorne didn’t like the presence of this other councilor, and would see that she didn’t have to endure him, either.

  Unseen servants seated Immortelle at the appointed table. She was first with five other seats available, all of whom had reserve placards on them. From this vantage point, she was able to see the entire chambers and would be able to see the crimes of the accused broadcast from the fount of knowledge. There would be a blood rite, and an oracle would be the witness and tuck away the proceedings in the oracle’s vast archive of collected knowledge.

  Immortelle was surprised to see the Fates flocked together in a corner, their wings unfurling. The Cabal invited the big guns. But why?

  It seemed she wasn’t the only one surprised. Nearly everyone who noticed them tittered and gawked. Perhaps their presence was intentional.

  Gossip and rumor were stalled, merely whipping in place in ceaseless agitation. Even now, the weighty portent of something to come made the darkened corners of the room pool with heavy shadows.

  It was like a coming storm, and Immortelle didn't know which way would lead to safety: in staying or running away.

  Of course, in the end, she decided to stay. What else was she going to do?

  She felt her men arrive before the crier announced them. Immortelle didn't realize that she was holding her breath watching Death and War saunter in, lethal and elegant in their suits. Their weapons were hidden from view, not that they would need them. Their reputations spoke for them, and even now, a generous swath had been cleared for them so they didn’t have to fight their way to the upper mezzanine where Immortelle waited in the chancellor’s box.

  Mischief and Strife were nowhere to be seen. Death filled in the blanks. "They're working the room."

  Immortelle hid her laugh behind her glass. She could only imagine the type of campaigns they would set in motion, sowing the seeds of future discord, just with their mere presence. "I guess they need their own fuels, too."

  A resonant tone like from a brass gong wavered along the din of plotting and scheming that rose from the Cabal elite. It was time to sit down. Immortelle with her marker and olive branch sat among the honored guests in Chancellor Thorne’s box, which was situated next to the council’s. The rest of the noble houses radiated outward from this prestigious position.

  War sat on her left, brushing his lips on the back of her hand. Death took the chair on Immortelle’s right, his back to the council where he could have the full view of the rest of the chambers. The trio drew the attention of the Cabal. It had been a while since they had sat together as a shield guarding the
council. She felt the weight of eyes, could almost feel the silky whispers of gossip shift toward her.

  Both Death and War were eye catching in their own right. Those who were old enough to be known by an abstract name were usually objects of attention in any room especially when they could afford not to align with any court or house, and could claim the protection of the council itself. As such, they were too busy serving the council and overseeing their own interests.

  The crier announced the delegates from Deepstar Chasm. The ripples of gossip and rumor uncoiled from their hidden nests in the shadows, gaining weight like inky clouds drifting as if upon a breeze. They gathered toward the source of attention.

  The Demonhold contingent was a surprise to see given they usually observed via the orbs as the Dragons do from their Firelock Burrows. The tittering from normally subdued immortals reminded her of excited schoolchildren in a crowded cafeteria. She could hear the whispers; it wasn’t like any were trying to hide them.

  They would have urgent business for them to travel so far.

  Immortelle could guess who would be part of that contingent, and he didn’t have to travel far. Fear had been around to conduct business with Bianco. If this was to be Bianco’s trial and execution, it would make sense for Fear to attend the proceedings.

  As if she had conjured him from her will alone, Fear strode in at the head of a group. He was head and shoulders taller than his compatriots, his black on black suit custom-tailored to lay perfectly over his broad shoulders and nipping into his trim waist.

  In this light she was able to see the tattoos that peeked up from his neck better, see them extend and coil up his scalp. She looked pointedly away from him as his head turned to sweep his gaze over the attendants.

  Immortelle felt the moment Fear knew she was there. The weight of his attention was something tangible against her cheek. She refused to give into that weight. She didn't want to know what else she would see.

  "Are you all right?" Death asked.

  She’d been fidgeting with the edge of her perfectly elegant napkin. She never fidgeted. Releasing the silk embroidery before it turned into a pile of thread, she reached for her drink. "Yes of course, why wouldn't I be?"