The Queen of Lies

by Michael J. Bode

  He didn’t resist her as she tore open his shirt the moment they walked through the door. Cameron was a sturdy man with a firm chest—more rugged than handsome, but he exuded a raw flavor of masculinity. He pressed his mouth to hers, scraping her face with his rough stubble. He shrugged off his shirt and coat, revealing his ripped torso. His black hair was peppered with gray, and long thick scars ran across his right chest and abdomen.

  “Your Majesty…I’m old enough to be your father,” he started.

  She covered his mouth. “My proper style of address is ‘Your Grace,’ and I find you incredibly appealing.”

  His kiss was hot and firm as his tongue explored her mouth. Jessa surrendered herself to the experience of his hands squeezing her breasts. The length of his hard cock pressed against her as he pushed her against the wall. His burly hand moved with practiced precision as he unfastened the back of her dress.

  Impatiently she grabbed the collar and ripped herself free of her garment, letting the delicate fabric tear with a satisfying ripping of the seams. Encouraged by her efforts, Cameron joined in earnest, yanking and pulling at the garment till it fell ruined to the floor. He paused, in awe of her nakedness, with a look of unbridled animal lust gleaming in his eyes.

  She set to work freeing his cock from his trousers. First she unfastened his belt and whipped it free. She kept it in one hand as she forced her other hand down the front of his pants. She felt his hardness twitch in her fingers as she ran them through his coarse pubic hair. She squeezed his girth and directed it upward so the head of his cock peered over the rim of his pants.

  She took the leather and looped it around Cameron’s neck and led him into the solarium. He followed her, allowing her to pull at him, his eyes fixed on her breasts. He forced his trousers down and stepped out of them as he followed. Jessa paused to let him kick off his boots and ran a finger up his muscular, hairy thigh.

  His cock was rigid and already dripping with seed. He was hunched over and panting, ready to fuck her, waiting for her to pull him close.

  Jessa tugged the belt, and Cameron fell on her. His lips were all over her neck; his hands slid up her buttocks and back. He lifted her and brought her down on his throbbing dick. Jessa moaned as he slid inside her. The belt slipped from her hand as she returned the embrace and kissed him passionately.

  Gently he lowered her to the floor and lay back, letting her ride him. Jessa writhed, exploring sensations from the angles of his manhood inside her as he bucked beneath her. His hands massaged her breasts as their bodies found a rhythm and built toward climax.

  Thunder crashed outside, and hard rain pelted the windows of the solarium. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessa noticed an automaton with a feather duster attending to a sculpture.

  She arched her back and felt the power of Cameron’s cock sliding into her wet cunt as she guided it to her spot. She smelled his musk and felt the slippery sheen of his sweat as she pressed her fingers on his heaving chest.

  Jessa came hard, but Cameron didn’t stop. With each thrust, her body shivered in ecstasy as thunder clapped outside. It was more than she could take, but she didn’t want it to stop. She grabbed his nipples and pinched. She felt the electricity build in her own body and released it through her skin—a low, gentle shock that went straight into Cameron’s aching balls and nipples.

  “Unf!” he bellowed, as his back arched and his hips pumped against hers. His legs shook, and his eyes rolled back in his head from his explosive orgasm. Gasping and spent, Jessa rolled off his cock onto the floor beside him.

  “That was amazing,” he panted, “Your Grace.”

  “Yes,” Jessa agreed. “Now I know why Mother always has made such a fuss about sex.”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me I’m your first.”

  “It’s the first time I enjoyed it.” She rolled over and laid her head on his chest. “My mother sent for a priest of Kultea to initiate me when I turned thirteen. That side of my family takes a dim view of virginity.”

  He ran his fingers through her hair. “That sounds horrible.”

  “Alicio,” Jessa recalled. “He was fifteen and very kind. We discussed religion more than seduction. I could never…feel the flash of passion with him, but I learned to fake it so he wouldn’t be punished. Everyone in the castle knew my mother’s cries of passion, but I must have sounded absurd, parroting her. Mother had him killed anyway.”

  “Because he couldn’t satisfy you?” Cameron’s face darkened.

  Jessa frowned. “No, she suspected him of being a spy for my aunt Sireen, so she accused him of heresy. She said he was a follower of Kondole rather than Kultea. He was from Mazitar, where such practices remain, and she was of high enough station that she could act as she saw fit.”

  Cameron grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry you had to endure that.”

  Jessa squeezed his hand in return. “I share this with you only to assure you that you haven’t stolen my innocence, nor am I some delicate flower to be protected. I gave myself to you because I decided it.”

  “Your cousins won’t approve of this,” he mumbled, as he nuzzled the nape of her neck.

  She craned her head against his and smiled. “I don’t imagine anyone will approve of this.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Bloodlines

  SATRYN

  MY TWIN,

  I wish you could someday join me in the Abyss, at least to experience it for yourself. Seven miles beneath the ocean, you can truly realize the power of our Heritage.

  Though my title is for all intents and purposes an exile, I reign over more subjects than our mother does. I don’t think anyone realizes how much life and civilization is down here. None but the imperial line could survive the crushing weight of the sea, so I’m relieved of the tiresome, petty intrigues of court.

  Yesterday I swam the Agnathan water singers’ grotto, navigating by echolocation—a sense I didn’t even know I possessed! To perceive the world as a canvas of sound textures and liminal vibration is far beyond the limited scope of vision. Words don’t do it justice.

  I’m truly and finally happy in this strange realm. I’m not just their emperor but a God and the voice of Kultea. How I weep at the thought of a lowly Genatrovan placing his hands on your ivory skin, putting his common seed inside you.

  Seek your vengeance as you must, but it is here where you belong—with me, dear sister. Let Nasara have her throne of brittle coral. Let Sireen parade around in her ridiculous garb like the tiresome strumpet she is. Even my lowliest estates surpass the Coral Palace in their majesty. The sky is empty, and the sea is limitless.

  Yours always,

  Maelcolm, emissary to the Abyssal depths

  SATRYN RECLINED ON a sofa in the center of her cell, which now featured a sitting area for visitors. The Grand Invocus had been most accommodating in letting her entertain discussions with inquisitive scholars from the Lyceum. Mistrust had given way to curiosity, and she had been filling her days by granting various audiences with curious visitors.

  Magus Quirrus adjusted his spectacles as he peered into his copper dish. “I must say, Lady Satryn, I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to study a Stormlord’s humor. Aside from the Patreans’ complete lack of arcane aptitude, it’s the only example of hereditary theurgical capability we’ve been able to discern.”

  Have you also looked at Jessa’s blood? Probably not. The girl might as well be a Genatrovan but for her silver eyes.

  She smiled. “In Thrycea our blood mages are priestesses of Kultea. It’s equally curious for me to meet one who learned his trade outside the teachings of our faith. What was it exactly that drew you to blood magic?”

  Quirrus blushed. “I…um…I was always fascinated by blood. Even as a boy. I know that sounds odd, and perhaps it is, but I always knew this was my calling. There’s something sublime and mysterious about the humors.”

  He was a handsome man but for those stooped shoulders, which bespoke of his timidity. Beneath his crimson robes she appr
aised him as a decent specimen of manhood, especially considering his age. But if he was aware of his attractiveness at all, it didn’t display in his nebbishy demeanor.

  “I find blood quite fascinating as well,” Satryn said, “and intimate. Blood is something we aren’t supposed to see, like a bride beneath her veil. Yet when it appears, it commands our absolute attention.”

  “Oh, it does!” Quirrus said excitedly as he peered at her sample in his dish. “Yours tells me so much about who you are, where you came from, your capabilities. your possibilities. I am curious, though…who was your father?”

  Satryn reached for her wine. The Grand Invocus turned out to have quite the interest in vinology and had sent her a bottle of an exceptional white eclu from the Lowlands to compare tasting notes when he came for her nightly interrogation, which quickly had devolved into little more than an excuse for them to debate politics. He made formidable arguments for a man not known for speaking.

  “My father was a master electrician in Thelassus, responsible for collecting lighting from the Everstorm and powering the city’s lights and telegraphs,” Satryn mused. “I suppose he’d be the equivalent of your artifact mages or guild of engineers. He wasn’t as prominent as the empress’s other consorts, but when your mother is the empress, the father’s status matters less than birth order.”

  “So the empress isn’t married?” Quirrus asked.

  Satryn understood his confusion. She explained, “Her husband, the imperial consort, is her cousin, Clavus. He’s the most powerful member of a separate, distantly related bloodline. But that union is purely political. He isn’t much older than I am.

  “The offspring of the empress are born to different fathers, lesser consorts. This allows her to maintain a healthy line of succession and give favor to her political allies in the form of heirs. Nasara is the daughter of King Pentios of Veyal, and Sireen is the daughter of Viceroy Bu’ma ibn Atid al-Or. My twin brother and I are the only two in recent history to share both parents.”

  Quirrus leaned forward. “Fascinating. And why does such a practice exist? I imagine the union of two Stormlords would produce more powerful offspring.”

  “It does.” Satryn finished her wine and poured two more glasses. She handed one to Quirrus, who hadn’t finished his first. “However, I believe there’s a Genatrovan saying that states, ‘Branches that grow too close together bear odd fruit’…or something of the like. Pureblood Stormlords tend to be…unpredictable, to put it lightly.”

  “That’s interesting, because your mother and father’s humors share the same characteristics as yours, which leads me to conclude he was a Stormlord and very closely related to your mother.”

  Quirrus set his bowl down on the mahogany table. The inside of the copper dish was etched with finely detailed symbols and geometric patterns. While he was swishing it, some of her blood had collected in the grooves, forming a complex diagram. Satryn had seen similar implements used by the priestesses.

  She peered into it, but of course the pattern didn’t make any sense to her. “Your inexperience has led you to a false conclusion. Children of Stormlords tend to favor that side of the family, with very little from the consort. None of us much resemble our fathers. Except Jessa, who was so much like her father that I wouldn’t have believed she was mine if I hadn’t pushed her out of me. And I’m still uncertain whether she isn’t a changeling.” Satryn laughed.

  “A changeling?” Quirrus’s eyes lit up.

  Satryn waved her hand dismissively. “Her great-grandfather, Raegur, was supposedly the son of the Witch Queen, according to local folklore. I had Jessa tested when she was born—the blood priestess found nothing, much to my disappointment.”

  Quirrus pondered the bowl. “Perhaps I should look into this matter. It seems your priestesses missed a fairly obvious family connection. They may have overlooked it with Jessa as well.”

  “No offense to your college, Magus, but blood magic in Thrycea is a far older and more established school of theurgy. As a child I had my blood read more times than I care to recall by the most senior of Kultean priestesses. And none of them brought my parentage into question.”

  “With respect, we practice the science of blood magic, not the religion.” Quirrus finally was showing some backbone. “It can’t be any more plain to even an utter novice that you were born from the union of two Stormlords. The only reasonable question is why anyone would go through the trouble to conceal it from you.”

  Satryn opened her mouth to reply, but the words died on her lips.

  She breathed in sharply and set her glass down. “By Kultea’s cold tits…”

  Quirrus bit the side of his finger nervously, his conviction wilting. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was merely making an observation based on the empirical data. There are always factors that can’t be accounted for…Even in blood magic, we find that sometimes predicted outcomes don’t always match the anticipated results.”

  She wasn’t paying any attention to him. Uncle Nash always showed an unsettling interest in me. Was it him? It would explain the shark I got on my fifth birthday and the jewelry every year after.

  Who else in the family knows about this? Nasara most certainly…Why else would she go to such elaborate lengths to have me sent away while that little idiot Sireen parades around court?

  And my brother…sent to be the emissary to the Abyss. I thought it was their intent to separate us, but…were they secretly afraid? Two purebloods in line for the Coral Throne, though I’m older by a scant few minutes.

  “Lady Satryn, are you all right?” Quirrus asked cautiously.

  She smiled, breaking from her reverie. “This has been a revelation, Magus Quirrus. Though it is somewhat…embarrassing to realize one is a product of incest in the company of a respectable gentleman like yourself, it has given me great clarity regarding my current situation. The blood priestesses of Thrycea could learn a thing or two from your intellectual rigor.”

  “Well, I certainly would be amenable to an exchange of knowledge. It seems wasteful that we should pursue the same discipline in parallel,” he said enthusiastically, if also unsurely.

  She leaned back on her sofa and glanced back to the Invocari who guarded her cell. They had replaced the last one with a rather sour-looking woman.

  “Test Jessa,” Satryn said. “Only Mother would have the authority to meddle in the results of the Red Liturgy. I ask you as a friend, out of concern for my daughter. But don’t mention what we discussed. I don’t want to upset her.”

  Quirrus nodded eagerly. “I will arrange it.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The Death Room

  MADDOX

  THE REASON VOLKOVIANS are masters of necromancy lies in our cultural heritage. We survive winters that bring armies to their knees. There is a saying: “If Volkovia is invaded, wait six months.” During the entire month of Frostbane, we don’t see the sun. It’s natural that our thoughts turn to death, for it is around us always.

  In Vicheryad our dead are always with us. The bones of our ancestors guard our city, clean our streets, and repair our roads. What need have the departed souls for their skeletons? Is a shoemaker buried with his hammer and shears? Any Volkovian gladly donates his flesh to the service of his family and province when he passes.

  Yet necromancy is maligned at every turn by those who don’t understand our way. People will wave their hands and say, “Oh, no! Look at Pytheria—she killed all those students for her own experiments.” But meanwhile no one is claiming all seal mages are Achelon the Corruptor.

  The continued sanctions against the Lyceum for opening a necromancy college are prejudicial and punitive. If every modality of theurgy were to be judged by its worst actors, then there would be no magic.

  —LETTER FROM IVAN ZACHAROV, DEAN OF NECROMANCY AT THE VICHERYAD INSTITUTION OF LEARNING, TO THE COUNCIL OF DEANS

  MADDOX FOUND HIMSELF staring at a closed door. He was standing in what looked like an abandoned pantry. The shelves were crammed wit
h silver dishes, ornately carved jewelry boxes, statuettes, and loose gemstones. He heard a splash of water below the floor, so he knew he was in the Backwash, and he heard voices upstairs.

  He turned his head slowly to survey the room. Falco stood slightly in front of him, facing the door. He was shirtless, and his wiry back hair made his flesh look ghostly pale. The mouth on his side was gaping open and moving slightly.

  “You were right. That was fucking incredible!” Maddox said, slapping him on the shoulder. Falco turned his head slowly, his eyes missing. The sockets had been burned out, and fine black veins spidered out from the holes.

  “Guides preserve…” Maddox stepped back, tripping on a rolled-up carpet and clashing into the shelves. A jewelry box tagged him on the shoulder and burst open, spilling strings of pearls that clattered on the floor. Grabbing his shoulder, Maddox reached for the door.

  Falco’s head tilted, and he emitted a gurgling, chittering noise from his throat as he sniffed at the air. A fucking revenant. Maddox hurled him against the opposite wall of the pantry and levitated an assortment of silver serving dishes to form a barrier. Falco thrashed at them with inhuman strength and dented the metal.

  Maddox opened the door and slipped out backward as the revenant flailed against his prison. The door shut abruptly, and a chair slid under the handle, locking it in place. As Maddox was no longer able to see his plate barrier, it clanged to the floor. He heard a fervent pounding against the door that nearly took off the hinges, but it stopped abruptly.

  Maddox stood in the dreary ruins of an abandoned kitchen, but the scene was familiar. He knew exactly where he was.

  He felt something sharp and cold press against his throat. “Gran, if you can’t control these things I’m going to fucking kill them.” Esme’s sultry voice was unmistakable.

  “Hey! It’s me,” Maddox said, grabbing her arm. As he turned to face her, her expression grew slack with shock. Her weapon nearly fell to her side.