by Elle Cross
Death seemed to consider her for a moment. "Because you seem like you can't decide whether you're about to punch someone or fuck someone?"
Immortelle sputtered and coughed on her drink as Mischief and Strife appeared. Strife pat her back as Death poured her more water. “Oi, whatcha doing letting her choke?”
Death’s wintry smile made his eyes even blacker. “I wasn’t letting her do anything, you got in my way.”
Strife twirled a chair so that he straddled it, leaning against the chair back. He popped an appetizer in his mouth, brushing a knuckle over her cheek. "What we got here with your blooming pink cheeks?”
“It’s like you said something naughty. Are you all talking about us again?" Mischief appeared, and smacked a kiss on her cheek. She made a show of wiping his touch from her skin, and he pretended to be hurt by it as he found his seat.
"Where have you been?" she asked Mischief.
Unlike his brother, Mischief leaned back on his chair, looking like the cat who got the cream. His leg crossed so that he rested his ankle on his knee, fingers interlocking over his chest as he twiddled his thumb. "Oh you know, here and there. Discussing who might have outbid whom in certain auctions. The outcomes of bets. Dropping some choice gossip around into hungry little ears. You know." He punctuated the last bit with a shrug.
Yeah. She did know. He would do whatever he had to do to eat.
The Mortal Coil was most familiar with dhampirs, half-blood vampires who were the base of much of their vampire lore regarding blood. They were the ones who needed the life force potent in mortals the most, especially the young ones.
Those who drew too much attention to their condition get pushed out of the Mortal Coil. It wasn't feasible to sustain powers like that. A balance of power needed to be maintained.
After a while, the dawn of a new day dispelled many magicks, literally unraveling the spells conjured in the world. Most beings get ejected from their mules or other flesh that held them in the world, if they even had longer than a few hours.
The dispensation that Thorne granted Death, War, Mischief, and Strife only lasted a few hours, it didn't even make it to dawn.
They were no longer beings of the Mortal Coil, and so would be ejected from it.
The elder gods become so much bigger as they travel various planes that they see us, but they didn't interact. This world didn't rate in their interests or their palate.
Dragons were the farthest away, and were the biggest. To displace their metaphysical bodies to gain physical forms was a feat.
Reminded her to check in on Gabriel to see how he was doing.
The chancellor and the Cabal gathered in the dais in the raised stage. The fountain of knowledge barely rippled.
Thorne waited until the tittering died down.
"Honored guests. Thank you for coming. Some have been invited here by special invitation. We recognize Demonhold for their journey." They were acknowledged, and Fear took that time to shoot a glance back toward the council. He captured Immortelle’s gaze.
Clever.
Fear tilted his head toward her, and she pointedly rolled her eyes away. With a dark smirk, he turned away. She could almost hear him laughing at her. The memory of their face off made her pulse race.
He had no power here, especially none over her. She would make sure of it.
Immortelle felt a hand at her back. Death's touch was always soothing, hypnotic, and he used it to bring her back from her memories and into herself. But when she turned to look at Death, he had followed her gaze to see Fear.
He shifted his black eyes to meet her amber ones. "Do you know that man?"
Death said it nonchalantly. They both knew that she did.
"Yes. Fear. Demon. Annoying."
Death regarded her a moment, and she could almost hear the gears clicking together in his head, connecting points of their conversation. After another long moment, he nodded. "Agreed. Terribly annoying." And then he captured her lips.
Once Immortelle got over his public display of affection, she kissed him back. Nothing too deep, just enough to awaken passion and longing.
This all was new. Death didn't usually do things like that. Hells, neither did she.
She said as much as she searched his face with wonder.
A slow smile softened the marble his face had become. "I didn't before because you were never comfortable with it." As if in emphasis, he kissed her again. "If I could take you here without embarrassing you, I would."
The fire in his words made her topple her glass. War deftly caught it and righted it before a drop of liquid spilled.
"Is that true? I was never comfortable with it?"
She didn't need to look at War to know that he agreed with Death’s assessment as well.
Immortelle sat heavily in her seat once they were able to do so.
Maybe she had been the one pushing them all away. Maybe it was the only way she knew to survive in the Underworld. Maybe she was scared.
Maybe all of the above.
Death put a hand on hers, and his calm seeped into her skin. "It's the past. We all did our fair share of pushing the other away. Don't blame yourself."
She just nodded, trying to piece together things. That was the difference between mortality and not. There always seemed to be so much time. Time to correct wrongs. Time to make things better.
What time didn't give her was the opportunity to care.
Everything else seemed so much more important. Lives were at stake. Political intrigues. Responsibilities. It had been important to her to stand on her own, and let it be known that she was here on her own prerogative and power and not because she was the lover of one or the other.
Of course there were those who slept around for recreation, and for the most part they did so discreetly. One night stands that scratched an itch but then moved on.
What they had was more than that. Friends with benefits. Exclusive, as far as she remembered. If they spent time with others then damn, did she not want to know? That thought hurt her more than she wanted to admit to.
As if he heard her, Death leaned in and whispered. "There was only you. I wanted no one else."
"You know that makes me feel horrible since I met and loved my husband."
Something flickered in his eyes, a red that shimmered and bloomed but then faded. "I cannot fault you for your love. And in a way, it opened my eyes to see what mattered to me. I don't think I would have realized it otherwise."
When she would look away, he captured her chin with his fingers. "Do not mourn the past, remember. We have now."
And in that moment, a blooming emotion surged from her heart and broke free. She captured his face and kissed him fiercely. It was a wonder that she stayed on her chair.
Caught up in the passion of the kiss, his teeth nicked her tongue. She tasted her blood in his mouth even as his unbidden thoughts spilled into her mind. It seemed only a millennia of discipline kept him from hauling her onto his lap and taking them away from this spectacle.
Their intermingled thoughts were a wonder for her, and she remembered that that was what it was like between a Vampire and his thrall.
With a steadying breath, he pulled away from her and kissed her forehead.
"You need water?" Mischief joked, taking a long swallow of his cool glass. "You don't have to drink it, you can just pour it down your pants."
Immortelle snorted. The men bickered and taunted in their own quiet ways. And she felt her heart expand more with a feeling she couldn’t name, even as War's wings wrapped around her when she took yet another shuddering breath.
She wasn't cold, but neither did she move away from his shelter.
Love. That was what bloomed inside of her once more.
* * *
Bianco's crimes played in full Technicolor in front of the Cabal and all that assembled there. In between courses of food, mainly vegetables and the occasional fish and fowl, there were descriptions of subterfuge and his other subversive behaviors.
Fear was there too, and he was able to testify to some things, including Bianco's desire to stop Immortelle no matter what.
The way that Fear had danced around his contract was the stuff of immortal legends. Talk about being slippery yet also carrying out the letter of the law.
The memory of him slipped under her skin. Damn, did he know how to make his presence known.
His part in letting her go free was there.
All this time though, Immortelle wasn't there. She was a blot in the minds and memories of all the people. It might have been different if they had Vincente's blood to work with.
There was something about the way mortals were presented. As if they weren't able to be captured in the immortal world.
Interesting.
Thorne didn't require testimony from Death. She wondered about that.
The Council was pretty clearly convinced that Bianco disobeyed the accords, and even flagrantly did so especially when he had destroyed Immortelle's house.
They rattled off the laws, and it was clear that they would find him guilty.
They each were polled. No one objected. There were all in agreement.
He looked out and his gaze found hers, and for a moment, she let it flow over her. She resisted falling into his soulscape, but there was a pleading there.
She wouldn't have done so, wouldn’t have let him in, even with the pleading. But he didn't force her when he could have; that was what allowed Immortelle to yield, just a little.
It wasn't anything deep, thank the gods. He didn't make her relive anything. Perhaps because all his recent memories were already displayed on the screen.
Instead of an awe inspiring montage of memories, he simply whispered. "It's up to you now."
She broke free of his soulscape with a gasp a moment before a whoosh sliced through the air and Il Torero lopped off Bianco's head.
"Are you okay?" Death whispered in her ear, a warm hand on her shoulder.
She nodded, swallowed hard. When she opened her hand, she saw a coin appear there.
Now it was supposed to be a transfer of power. All the known houses were there, and Della Serra contingent, and the entire delegation from the White Rose Court were obviously eager to grab at anything from him. His power, currency, estate would tip the balance into any one of those houses by themselves.
The body that was released burned off and disappeared as black smoke and ash.
Then something odd happened.
The coil of smoke that lifted from his body did not travel to the Della Serra house, nor to any in the White Rose Court. It drifted higher until it rushed the mezzanine, heading straight toward Immortelle.
It was like a burst of wind and more passed through her body, leaving her breathless and clutching at her heart as it raced.
A voice outside of her proclaimed that the transfer of power would be delivered to Immortelle, the new Lady and heir of House Bianco.
* * *
There was shock and murmurs, the shadows in the room whipped in agitated echo to the pronouncement.
Immortals needed a measure of predictability. Balance. Alignment. Especially immortals who were only held together with a loosely agreed upon accords.
Something like this could cause a rift in how they all did things.
It seemed the Bianco got the last say after all.
Damn, these immortals. War was right. She had wanted space from the Underworld. She didn’t want to be involved. And this was one of the reasons why.
It just painted a target on your head.
Speaking of which, Immortelle felt like one had been painted all over her and more were picking up on it as she stood there.
Thorne made a gesture. She should go to his office. It would be safer there, at least for the moment. Temporary shelter. And it couldn’t come quick enough.
Whatever that coil of smoke did to her, it had only just begun. Already, Immortelle’s vision dimmed. It was as if she drove through thick fog, and she had a feeling whatever was happening to her would get worse before it got better.
Death pressed an urgent hand against her arm. "Let's get out of here before the Cabal gets over the shock."
Already the ones that recovered from their surprise and confusion first turned toward their group, their words lost in the echo of this chamber.
There was no mistaking their intention, though. Immortelle could feel the heaviness of their gaze. The weight of their gaze as she became their next target.
Time to move.
Death was at Immortelle’s side, hand wrapped around her upper arm as she kept her dress from tripping her up. War was on her other side while Mischief and Strife ranged around them.
As a coordinated group, they moved with purpose, their long strides eating up the ground. Not quite running, of course.
Running attracted predators, and in the heart of Omnia where the Cabal’s leaders gathered, all of them were lethal predators. Instead of sharp teeth and fur, they were beautifully wrapped up in the latest designer wear.
Their camouflage.
They might have worn pretty clothes and wrapped themselves up in structure and formality, but that was part of their hunter’s garb. Their game. In reality, they were all just one whim away from giving in to their primal urges to kill.
All the better to eat you with, my dear.
They were the reasons why myths and fables were told generation to generation from worried parents’ mouths to innocent children’s ears. They were the reason why children were taught to be afraid of the wolf in those stories.
It was best not to trigger that instinctual response to chase what was running.
And though she had been a part of their fold for nearly a millennia, she had become their prey.
“This isn’t good.” Immortelle’s vision began to dim. The blackness that pushed into her periphery stole more and more light until she could only see tiny pinpoints.
“What isn’t good?” Death asked at the same time War said, “None of this is good.”
Immortelle blinked faster and her sight didn’t improve. “Something’s happening. The pronouncement. Bianco’s inheritance. I think it’s coming now. All of it. Too much. Blinding me.”
She said the last part through ground teeth as pressure filled her skull. It was Death’s grip on her arm that kept her from buckling underneath the weight of it; kept her moving when she would have fallen.
Immortelle had to trust in him now as she became blinded by the weight of what had befallen her.
Memories. Thoughts. Instincts.
All those things that made a person who or what they are—those things that made Bianco who he was—pressed against her skull, wrapped around her head, invading her mind.
It would have been a heavy burden to carry any person’s lifetime of memories; it was even more massive to try and accommodate an immortal’s span of life.
Millennia stretched out before her and wrapped around her in an endless storm that she fought to keep away from her.
Whispers seeped in first. The words were indistinguishable from one another but she knew what they meant. She felt every intention as they grew in volume in her mind.
Though she couldn’t see, she squeezed her eyes shut against the pressure. She clamped the heels of her hands against her temples, gasping at the pain. She was only barely aware that she’d been lifted off her feet, and someone held her as she was trying to keep her head from exploding.
So many memories. They were an incoherent swirl of colors that churned around her like a tornado, and she was in its eye. She didn’t want them. She didn’t want them inside of her, tainting her.
What if they overwrote her own memories? What if they took over who she was? What if she became someone else? Someone she hated?
The fear overwhelmed her, and in the distance she heard a mewling sound. A sad discordant
whimpering that tore at her soul to hear.
She realized that she was the one crying when a voice hushed at her. The heat and comfort from the source of that voice trickled over her spine. It spread like a comforting warmth that wrapped around her ribs, like being tucked into a blanket.
The sound was like white noise, cancelling out the painful roars and prickly words that cut into her. “You’re fine. I have you.”
Immortelle should have been worried that she was blind and being held by a man she couldn’t easily identify. But the way he spoke against her hair and the way he pressed her head against his chest were familiar.
The roar of the tornado grew ever silent as she discovered another thing to focus on: a heartbeat. The steady rhythm, strong and sure became all she heard. The pressure lessened and she could relax again.
Immortelle noticed the silk under her cheek first, like a gentle caress. And as she opened her eyes, a blur of black swam in her vision. This time as she blinked, the world around her came into focus.
She sat across a man’s lap, her forehead resting against the crook of his neck, her body tucked against his chest in an intimate position that she hadn’t earned. His left hand was on her knee, the thumb absently drawing circles over the bony ridge. His right arm wrapped around her and draped over her waist as if it belonged there. As she shifted, his arm tightened in an effort to support her and shift her more securely against him.
When she sagged against him, his grip relaxed, his hand resting on her hip once more. A skeletal outline of his fingers were tattooed on his hand, and she sought to touch them.
She realized belatedly that her hand was being held.
Immortelle shifted her gaze, and saw that Death sat on a chair pulled up so close to the couch he was practically on top of her. He cradled her hand, his mouth sealed on her wrist as he fed from her. The echoing heartbeat that had pulsed in her mind and brought her back toward sanity had come from him. From this connection.
His soft lips on her skin contrasted with the hard sucking sensation. It was like he would pull all of her into him. She could feel him everywhere. Felt those lips on every nerve bundle under her skin.