“Alva,” he murmured.
“What…” But her voice trailed off as she squinted through the darkness to the figure behind the pyre.
And a moment later, the glade was a blinding wash of white.
The heat was stifling, even some thirty feet back, the distance growing as she edged further away. A sharp crack split the night, a great spiral of sparks released from a vein—not of sap, though, she realized. It couldn’t be, those blood-red whorls hurdling to the sky with vicious ferocity.
The sickening stench of burning meat filled the air, sumptuous and fetid. It sent her stomach churning anew—
crrrACK
Another burst, this time darker, like a fist-full of rubies glowing against the navy sky.
She was going to be sick.
She felt it, lurking from the moment they’d evanesced into this gods-forsaken glen—
The gods have not forsaken it, a voice admonished.
A voice, it took her a moment to realize, that did not belong to her.
Her feet were ready to move, she was going to be ill, violently ill, when that same voice, that same beautiful, sweet, bird-like voice filled the glen.
More than the glen.
Filled her.
And her mind stilled. Her heart fluttered to a quiet rhythm, and the air—it was enough. The frigid breeze against her back, the raging inferno against her face, they became a balance, and for a moment, the world was sort of beautiful.
May the fire release your soul from the confines of your mortal body.
It did, Elsie thought, watching the blue-white flames licking the logs.
Who had she been, before she’d been ashes?
Pain.
She had been pain.
And it was a better fate, to become embers in the night than refuse in the street. A better fate than to remain the discarded shell, than the weapon of weak men.
Better to be embers than scars.
May the light of the gods lead you safely to the afterlife.
What a light it was, blazing towards the heavens, columns of flame growing, growing—
And she blinked, and the world was dark.
It took her a moment to realize the fire had vanished, that she’d been left light-blinded by the pyre. She squeezed her eyes shut, the way Teddy used to tell her, when she was a little girl and he’d blow out the lamp beside her bed, and one two three four five six seven eight nine until she could see through the dark once more.
The pyre was gone.
Not even charred earth and smoldering ashes remained.
Who’d she been, before she’d been fire. A better question, perhaps.
Delicate hands were withdrawing from beneath the figure’s cloak, pulling back the hood as they stepped across the patch of ghostly moon-bathed grass where the pyre had burned moments before. Blonde curls cascaded down, eyes flashing as a whisper of color twirled at the hem of the black shroud, a gown that did not belong in such a mournful place.
She was making for Fletcher, meeting him with a hug—a hug given on tip-toes, and even then, her head didn’t clear his chin.
But her name…her name was a rumble beneath the earth.
Alva.
SAM
“And the frigid winter whipped through the trees, whispering all the words we thought existed only in the darkest corners of our minds.”
~Greysha Boewliç
He found Teddy leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, vacant ocean eyes staring out the darkened window.
“Hon?”
But the soft word fell pathetically to the tiled floor, unheard.
A few quiet steps, though, and Sam had broken his stare, coming to stand before him. And quietly, he edged closer, hands gently finding Teddy’s waist as he straddled Teddy’s stockinged feet with his own, until at last, the touch seemed to awaken something in Teddy, the brilliant blue eyes registering him at last.
With a sigh, he drew Sam in, arms holding him close to his chest.
Four inches between them, each one conspired and carved for a perfect fit.
Retreating to the apartment, a small wake had manifested in Sam’s living room. A bottle of wine had been passed around—a very fine Warken, heavy, with faintly nutty undertones and a deep warmth that seemed to reach into ones bones—a hot, baked cheese with fig and water crackers on the coffee table.
But where remembrances should’ve been, they could offer nothing.
Alva had, apropos of an abundance of empty chairs, sank delicately onto the floor, her burnt-rose gown spreading like melted candies around her, glistening with something more than the exquisite weave of choice satin. It moved where she moved—moved how she moved would’ve perhaps been a better description, though, Sam thought, eying the dress from his armchair.
There was vivacious youth about her, with her curling hair, tied half-back with a slender pink ribbon, her small frame setting him, for once, in the role of only second-shortest in their little ensemble.
And yet, there was one inescapable word about her.
Dangerous.
“I don’t understand,” Elsie muttered, running her finger around the rim of the wine glass, making it hum and whine, the way she always did when there was a question to be answered. “Why leave her alive? It’s cruel, for one, and she might’ve let something slip about who did this to her.”
“She wouldn’t’ve.” Teddy’s voice was soft, eyes falling down as he left the rest unspoken. Not in her condition.
Sam’s gaze flitted to the pale burgundy wine, legs drawling in long streams down the glass from where he’d taken a sip, tannins still weighty on his tongue. “This is an odd question,” he began softly, swirling the wine, watching a faint sediment stirring at the bottom, “but blood-magic…what they are collecting is her blood, no? Transformed, mutilated, yes, but it’s still what’s running through her veins? So, forget leaving her alive—why leave her bleeding in the street? Fletcher, you said yourself that’s why they burn. Why not completely exsanguinate them? It’s…wasteful.”
“Ah, a keen, if not rather morbid, observation,” Alva remarked, taking a rather ill-timed taste from her glass. “Allow me to pose a counter-query. When collecting cream, why only skim from the top?”
Teddy frowned. “Because that’s…where the cream is. The rest is just milk.”
“Precisely. What remains, after they’ve taken what is ripe, is an increasingly watered variant of the first harvest. The cream from the top, the first pressing of oil, it is…potent. I, too, find it worrying, to the highest degree, that so much has been discarded.”
“It means whatever they’re using it for has to be something big, something powerful,” Fletcher put in at last. Legs crossed in the Elsie-adjacent corner of the sofa, his eyes flicked at regular intervals to her singing cup, fingers still dancing across the rim in idle circles.
“Like what,” Sam asked, unable to stop the question.
And Alva paused, goblet half-way to her lips, her eyes flicking to meet his. They were glowing in the low light, the lamp catching them, and she seemed a cat, preening before the fire.
“Long ago,” she said softly, her voice almost a song once more, “in a time before remembering, there was no Life and Death. There simply was. Memory is long, but it is not forever, and as the creatures of the world forgot, the world was unmade in fire and terror. But the flame would remind them of their folly, and in the light of destruction, the world was remade. Such was the way of things. But Life was lurking, in the fire and the blood, hand-in-hand with Death, and as the world once more crumbled, they seized their chance. They breathed life into the creatures of the world, only to watch them die. And so, the world was empty, and Life and Death were alone.
“The nothingness left in the wake of the massacre, though, proved unnerving. Perhaps, they reasoned, it had been a mistake to leave nothing but the void, not when the two of them remained.
“But where Life wanted light and shelter, Death only wanted the darkened cold. Shoul
d we not offer a second start to the world, Life reasoned. We are the ones who have stripped it bare; it is fitting to restore it. But Death was unrelenting. We have torn existence from the mountain tops and ocean floors. It is time we pay our penance.
“Where once was love, there remained nothing but resentment and mistrust. Some say it was Death that struck the first blow, knowing it would come for Life, in the end. Others say Life moved first, cutting down the only opponent it had known in that void existence. But all agree that the blood of both was spilled. And in the blood, the creating.
“From the blood spilled in the battle of Life and Death, so came the gods, swarming like flies to honey. They joined Life and Death on the battlefield—though not to fight. Oh, no.
“They pulled the warring gods apart, and beaten and bruised, Death and Life found a truce. Some say that together, they drank from a font of peace to seal the pact. Others say they bartered their own blood.”
“And what do you believe,” Sam asked softly, entranced.
Alva gave him a coy smile. “The mystics love to hunt for relics in the texts. We believe Death and Life struck a trade, trying to balance the world. For Death, the allowance to walk amongst the living, to see what beauty she would claim, in the end. For Life…” She snickered, taking a sip of wine. “Life was given a coin from the coffers of Death herself. A threat, some argue, that she would break the vow and claim him, in the end. A mercy, others said, for even the gods cannot live forever. I say it was a gift, though. Life gave his sister a remarkable chance—the chance to find something worth living for. Death gifted her brother with the same. The ability to love something enough, he could give his life for it. And so, the balance is maintained.”
“So, what—what might they be planning,” Sam edged. “Collecting the cream, so to speak.”
“Gross,” Elsie muttered, fingers still circling the rim.
Alva, though, only shook her head. “That, I cannot say. Action, of course, that is a given—but what action, I do not know. I am only a Listener. I can’t—”
“I just—will you stop that?” Fletcher snapped, whirling on Elsie.
Her fingers darted back from the lip of the wine goblet, the whirring hum falling silent as she shot him a glare. “Don’t you dare—”
“I have asked you not to do that—”
“It didn’t seem to bother Alva,” she snipped, setting the glass on the coffee table, stem wobbling precariously as she rose.
“I asked you, Elsie, I asked you not to—to make them sing—”
Sam eyed them warily, making to rise. “Hold up, I’m sure she didn’t mean—”
“Shut up,” Teddy muttered, catching his arm, pulling him back down into the armchair.
His intervention came too late.
“Oh, so once again, I find Sam Carson intervening,” she snarled, turning on him with clenched fists. The first words she’d said to him in weeks. “That’s just perfect—”
“El, I—”
“I am done.” A dozen long steps, and she was yanking her coat from the hook, the unpleasant sound of straining stitches ripping as she did so.
Teddy was on his feet, following. “Elsie—”
“Don’t,” she glared, jamming on her coat. “If I wanted to be berated by a pair of sniveling cowards too buried in their own-self interest to see past their navel, I’d have stayed home!”
The walls of the apartment gave an ominous rattle as she slammed the door behind her.
Alva was on her feet a moment later. “I think,” she said softly, “that is my cue to leave, as well.” Drifting towards the mat, she gave them a courteous nod before vanishing, leaving nothing but mist in her wake.
Swearing, Teddy sank back down.
“I should go, too,” Fletcher muttered, turning for the coat rack.
“Don’t you dare go chasing after her,” Teddy bit, giving him an icy stare. “You’re liable to end up with a knife in your gut if you go after her right now. Give her time. She’ll cool off.”
Unlikely advice.
Elsie was an inferno.
And she’d been burning for weeks.
ELSIE
“Ah, what is sweeter than just desserts?”
~Greysha Boewliç
The cold light of the farmhouse windows met her like a bitter old friend, waiting in the dark.
Go baaaack, the hinges whined, door echoing the sentiment as she slammed it closed. Go baaaACK.
Acrid tea, brewed from a corroding kettle and icy water pushed to steaming on the cast-iron stove, and musings of ill-faith about the reliability of fellow living souls, carried Elsie to her straw-stuffed mattress and stupid, no-good, lying lamp that promised warmth but never gave it.
Perhaps…it was time.
The floorboard beneath her writing desk popped up with a sharp thud from her fist.
It wasn’t much, what she’d managed to stash in the fraying burlap pouch. Extra coppers that came from Teddy, but that really came from Sam, because it was an impossible idea that the middle Mirabeau son would support his drunkard-of-a-father and spendthrift-of-a-mother, not to mention his kid sister, on the salary eeked out in that place. That whole thing, the thing where Sam put extra silvers in Teddy’s bag and they pretended like he didn’t, that’d been going on a while.
But most of the weight jangling in her hand had come from Percy.
Well.
That was a lie.
It was her doing, those gold pieces. His idea, at the start, but he didn’t possess the wits really required in this day and age for honest-to-goodness thieving.
Nor, had it turned out, did he possess a benefactor with pockets to pay off the mercenaries, which, now that she thought about it, didn’t reflect terribly kindly on her credentials as a sticky-fingered pastry princess.
Yes. Yes, it was time to go. Time for Princess Pastry to pack it up.
At least for a little while.
She had to get out of this mess, with Clark.
A city.
The likes of which you’ve yet begun to imagine.
Maybe she’d try to find it, eventually, the city he talked about. Find the place that called her home.
And do what, Elsie?
It is delicate, Clark had simpered, leaning back in his arm chair.
In spite of herself, she’d returned to the carriage house. Again. And again. And again.
We cannot simply waltz in, heads held high, and expect anything but a quick death. There is maneuvering. Petitions to be made, alliances to be forged, threats to be delivered. We will pull your ascent from the hands of our enemies. Slowly. Painfully. And in the meantime, he’d frowned, looking her up and down, there is work to do.
Dinner that night had been hell, and she realized that he hadn’t meant there was work to do, in the strategizing.
He’d meant she was unrefined. She didn’t look the part of an heiress.
One foot over the threshold of that marble foyer, and she’d regretted the sick curiosity that’d dragged her towards the gilded dining room. It hadn’t been dinner. It’d been a finishing lesson.
She’d heard Sam talk about his sisters over the years. She knew that at twenty-four, he outstripped Cele by barely a year, and Minna by three. She knew Cele had been a relentless torturer, their feuds extending to anything and everything, from boys to the birthrights, and that their early adolescence had been marked by fierce competition on the battleground of elaborate fetes. She knew that Minna had developed her sister’s enthusiasm, if not necessarily her talent, for tormenting their adopted bastard brother, and her efforts, though often childish and unsuccessful, had once resulted in an unfortunate incident involving some heavy-whipped cream and a freshly-dressed Sam.
Even still, Elsie had more or less been expecting to find allies at the table. As if they shared something, now. A title. A position. Hell, even a blood-curdling dislike of Sam.
Minna had been all flushed cheeks and giggles at her father’s chastisement as Elsie picked gingerly at the t
ender morsels of red meat, feeling sick. Rude.
But not rude enough, it seemed, to warrant more than a side-long glance from Clark as he’d snipped at Elsie. Dab, love, dab, he’d sighed, watching her wipe the corners of her mouth with the napkin.
She’d raised an eyebrow in question, half an inch from leaving. That was when she’d still kind of wanted the city, though. The one beyond imagining.
Lest you smudge your painted lips, Cele had put in, not bothering to look up.
I…don’t paint my lips.
Clark had given his wife a knowing look, clicking his tongue. Not yet, love. Not yet.
Dessert had been the final straw.
Strawberries and cream atop a sinful chocolate torte, so rich it melted right on her tongue.
And what had they done, but leave it just out of reach.
You…don’t eat it, Minna had snickered, one arm draped elegantly across the back of her chair.
Sure enough, she’d looked up, and their desserts were untouched, only the sweet wine, thick and pungent, sipped gingerly in quiet conversation.
Elsie had pushed back her chair, tossing her napkin on the table, and scooping up the half-eaten dessert atop the gold-rimmed porcelain plate, silver fork stuck unceremoniously in the center of the cake, she left.
Fuck the city.
All she wanted was to eat her cake in peace.
Returning the floorboard, she rose, tucking the burlap pouch into her satchel, fingers brushing the scarf-wrapped plate. It’d turned into a sort of trophy—and with gold inlays, she could probably get at least a silver stack for it, if she really wanted.
They’d’ve thought it was funny. Teddy. And…and Sam.
Her brother would’ve been a silent mess of laughter, and she knew he’d have been driven to tears of amusement. Sam would clap her on the back, tell her it was a job well-done, and he’d’ve turned for the pantry, the idea of dessert still swimming in his head, and as he pulled out a cake or cookies or those tiny little chilled tarts he loved from the bakery down the street, together, they’d’ve aired their grievances.
Sam probably would’ve been doubly amused, now, she thought, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. Knowing that Clark had tried to twist her into something—someone—she wasn’t, and Elsie hadn’t taken his bullshit.
Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1) Page 13