What does it say that I think I prefer you like this…?
17
Maverick had a problem.
It wasn’t that he was unaware of his own personal failings. What was the word some of the newer members of his house used? “Baggage?” That was what Evie always claimed he had, at any rate.
It was not even that the bite on his arm still had yet to heal. It was not that the poison was seeping through his body, slowly corrupting the marks of purple ink that he had owned for nearly six hundred years and was slowly turning them a sickly shade of yellow.
It was that he was increasingly furious about it.
He was beginning to feel ill. The cold weather was seeping into him and making him shiver against the snow. He had to distance himself from the other survivors more and more, lest someone notice that sweat was beading on his forehead.
He had a fever.
No one of Under should have anything of the sort. We are meant to be immortal. Now the Ancients have brought us this new cruelty. Levied upon us this new hardship for their sick amusement.
His temperature and temper both were climbing slowly higher. He wanted to rage at the sky. To curse the Ancients for what they had done to their “children.” Is it not enough that you took from me my wife? That you pitted us against each other to bring peace to your favorite and only son? Is our suffering ever going to be complete?
No.
He knew it wouldn’t.
The Ancients enjoyed their perverted forms of entertainment. They wished to see all life on Under dance to their tune. To cry, to weep, to lose all that a person could care about. That was where the old ones derived their joy.
And now…this.
Hungry, wandering corpses with poisonous bites.
There was another matter that was troubling him deeply. One that seemed to needle him in the back of his mind, spurring on his indignancy and furor over his ill treatment.
He was not the only one who had been bitten since they had headed toward the town of Jor’nel.
He was just the only one who was poisoned.
He was the only one who was dying. Or changing. He was not quite sure. Two of Dtu’s shifters had been bitten by the drengil, and their wounds had healed without issue. Their marks were not slowly becoming corrupted.
He thought perhaps it was a product of their unique state of being, until several of Ini’s house endured a similar process. Bitten, wounded, and restored without corruption.
Corruption.
That was what was happening to him.
And it was the fault of the Ancients. Why? Why had he been chosen for this?
He glared up at the cloudy skies overhead as they rode into Jor’nel. The snow had not slowed in two days. It had been a painful ride through the blinding white and biting wind. Several mortals had not made the journey. Now, both mortals and immortals alike hunkered together for protection against the weather.
But finally, they arrived. The small town had been abandoned, its old homes clustered close together, as if they too were leaning on each other for support. The survivors had fled, leaving only desecrated corpses and piles of gore in their wake. Kamira and her retinue had cleared out any remaining drengil.
More and more of them were beginning to show proof that they were once of Under, and not merely the remnants of Gioll’s plague.
So much needless death…and why?
Because they found it entertaining.
I hope you can hear me, Ancients—I despise you.
“Maverick, my sweet?” Ini placed her hand on his shoulder. He flinched away from her touch. He had not realized she had reappeared behind him on the horse he had been given. “Are you well?”
“I am fine.” He gritted his teeth and forced the thoughts from his mind. He focused on the task at hand. “We should get the mortals out of the cold. They should take whatever shelter and supplies they can. We can hold up here until the snowstorm passes.”
“You…should rest as well, darling. Please.” Ini brushed some of the snow from his coat. “You do not seem all right.”
“I am tired and frustrated.” He shook his head. “I will be fine.”
He regretted having to lie to Ini. He was not even certain how well he was managing to guard his thoughts from the elven psychic. But if she knew that he was ill, she said nothing. The Queen of Fate was a strange, enigmatic, and eccentric creature, even as far as the royals of Under were concerned. She was unpredictable, and never confided in others, even if all others confided in her.
She was always a pair of open arms, ready to console, protect, and soothe. There was never a lack of compassion from her, no matter the individual seeking shelter. That was what had sent him to her, and to her bed.
Loneliness. Frustration. Loathing for his dead wife.
“I am dwelling on Aria. This upheaval reminds me of the Rise of the Ancients. I do not wish to relive more of their twisted diversions at our expense. That is all.” He frowned. He could give her that much. And not a word of it was a lie.
“I know. They are what they are, and always have been. Their machinations are a mystery, even unto me.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her masked cheek to his back, despite the layer of snow that likely covered him. “Even with as much as I can see, and all that I know, I do not know what they plan for us this time. If it is any consolation, I do not think this turn of events was intentional on their part.”
“Yet they let it continue. No chains hold them to their prison. They could stop this foolishness if they wished. But they do not.”
“Do you want them to intervene in our lives, or no? I fear you cannot have it both ways.”
“I am not in the mood to be lectured, Ini. Forgive me.” He shrugged her off him. “I should find somewhere warm and dry to rest.”
“Yes, of course. Be mindful you do not wear yourself out. We have no tactician amongst us, save you.” She chuckled. “If anything were to happen to you, I would be left with Kamira and Dtu. Take pity on me.”
“What do you—” He twisted in his seat, intending to ask her what she meant. But she was already gone. Does she know?
He frowned.
Does it matter if she does?
Would Ini betray his illness if she knew? What would they do? Kill him? It was possible. If Queen Vjo were with him, she would dissect him and watch the process happen. With a grimace, he realized that was precisely what he would do in her place, as well.
One must understand poison to fight it. And what better way to understand venom than to watch it destroy a victim?
No. He had suffered enough—sacrificed enough—for Under and its people. Dismounting the horse, he nearly staggered as the ground beneath him shifted unexpectedly. Not because it had moved, but because his own perception of it was flawed.
The fever was getting worse.
Heading to one of the abandoned homes, he pushed open the door and shut it behind him, quickly shedding his snow-covered coat. It was quiet and empty inside. It would have been a perfectly normal home, save for the upended furniture and large swath of dried blood that covered the floor and traveled up the living room wall.
Under at its finest.
Upstairs he found the master bedroom suite. It had a bathroom, a bed, a wardrobe, and a fireplace. It was all he needed. Locking the door, he filled the fireplace with wood and lit the flame. Stripping off his vest and sweat soaked shirts, he tossed them onto a nearby chair.
Sadly, the wardrobe revealed the room had belonged to a woman. But a heavy blanket would suffice for now. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he headed to the bathroom to inspect the wound on his arm.
Carefully peeling the cotton strips away, he hissed through his teeth in pain. The bandage had begun to stick inside the festering bite. He felt woozy. Hurrying to the toilet, he emptied the meager contents of his stomach and felt instantly the better for it. Rinsing his mouth, he decided to do the task that he dreaded.
To see if there was no way back from this thre
shold on which he stood. If the poison had not yet reached his face…if it had not corrupted his soulmarks, perhaps Kamira would be convinced to lop off his head. It would be an agonizing injury to heal, but at least he might return to normal.
Removing his half mask from his face, he studied it briefly, wishing to postpone the inevitable, if even for another moment. A deep purple with gray, esoteric writing etched upon the surface. It had been his since the moment he had emerged from the Pool of the Ancients, chosen to be Vjo’s Elder of Words. The position had been vacant at the time, since her previous one had committed suicide several hundred years prior.
Vjo had been asleep in her crypt when he had risen as her elder. Indeed, for the first two hundred years of his time in Under, he had never known her. He had been thrust into the vacuum of leadership that had been created, and he had dutifully filled it.
More importantly…there, in the halls of the library that became his home, he had fallen in love. He had met a woman who not only tolerated him but seemed to love him in return. The gift of companionship that he had never bothered himself with during his mortal years had found him in a place of seemingly endless horror.
He had known of the encroaching void that was slowly destroying their world. He was prepared to face it with Aria at his side. For she was always there, smiling at him. Caring for him. Bringing him tea when he had become absorbed in his work and neglected to care for himself.
“Why did you make that traitor’s deal…why?” He sighed and placed his mask down on the countertop. He wanted to blame his current ordeal on her. It was a foolish instinct, but it was there all the same. Aria had died four hundred years ago. She had nothing to do with the bite on his arm and the poison in his veins that felt like acid in his blood.
But the urge was there.
Sighing, he braced himself.
Looking up at the mirror, he felt all hope, as tepid and anemic as it was, flee from him.
The marks on his face were no longer purple. He barely recognized himself with the yellow ink.
Touching his cheek with shaking hands, he felt no sorrow. No grief. No sadness.
Picking up a candlestick from the bathroom counter, he shattered the mirror as he screamed in rage.
Lydia watched Aon pace around the room, back and forth, back and forth, his gauntlet tucked at his lower back. He had been at it for an hour. He did this when he was trying to solve a problem. So, she did what she did every time this happened. She sat back, sipped her margarita, and went back to reading her book.
It might have been a little under half an hour when Lyon entered the room. Aon didn’t even turn to look at the tall man in white as he furrowed his brow at the King of Shadows. The pale vampire cast her a raised eyebrow.
“Something-something-something, zombie blood and Rxa’s blood are connected, yadda-yadda-yadda, end of the world, and so on.” She turned the page in her book.
“Ah,” Lyon said quietly. “I see.” He went to the bar to fix himself a drink.
“He mumbled something about ‘it’s all the same,’ and he’s been at it for at least two hours now.” She kicked up her feet on the arm of her pillow-covered stone bench to make room for Lyon.
When the tall man sat next to her, she leaned back against his arm. Their relationship was purely platonic—it wasn’t like Aon to share, and she wasn’t interested in having other partners anyway—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t affectionate.
“I came to report that the tunnel down to the prison beneath the temple has been completed. Unfortunately, we came through on the top of the room itself. Stairs have been built to assist in reaching the room, but after that, a rope ladder must be used if there are no other means of travel.”
“He can still move through the shadows, and you and I can fly. I think we’ll be fine.” She frowned. She didn’t like the idea of seeing that room ever again. She shuddered at the memory of waking up there, in that strange, domed prison Aon had built not for her, but for Qta. Turquoise ink was turquoise ink, after all.
Every now and then, the nightmare of Nick’s murder haunted her. So did the feeling of Aon’s clawed gauntlet lodged deep in her ribcage as he autopsied her alive. But that had also been the room where he had confessed his love for her. That was where she had seen his face for the first time.
Their relationship was…complex.
He loved her. More than he did anything else in the world. He had done all those terrible things to try to teach her the truth of what she had become. She had been terrified. She had died at Edu’s hands. And he did the only thing he could think of to help her—hurt her in an attempt to inspire her to use her power. She had forgiven him for his actions a long time ago.
But if there was one constant in her life—her four-hundred-and-some-odd years of it—it was the fact that she loved him. She had forgiven him, and she had also gotten used to his moods.
Like when he paced.
Although she really did wish he would wear quieter shoes when he did it. The mossy stone floor of the large room they were in at least softened the clicking. They were in her “living room.” It didn’t resemble anything she had ever seen when she was a mortal on Earth. It was a huge, sprawling space with furniture and pillows here and there, but dominated by a firepit in the center. It was her kitchen, her living room, dining room…and so on. She hosted meetings and parties in the large, vaulted space.
Open concept? Was that what people called it?
Whatever. She sipped her margarita.
“What did he mean, ‘it’s all the same’?” Lyon pondered aloud. She didn’t bother answering him. He knew she didn’t know the answer. Nobody did, except for the pacing man in black who was going to walk a groove into her floor before long.
They sat in silence for a while, with nothing but the muffled clicking of Aon’s expensive loafers on the stone floor.
A lizard skittered up into her lap. It was a large, skink-looking thing, save for its feathery wings. She scratched the creature on the head, and it leaned into her touch. “Hey, Barry.”
“You named it ‘Barry?’” Lyon arched an eyebrow at her again. He did that a lot.
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Because it annoyed him.” She grinned and gestured her drink at the King in Black.
“I still maintain it is an utterly lousy name for any living creature.” Aon stopped his pacing and turned. “Oh. Hello, Lyon. When did you arrive?”
“Perhaps twenty minutes ago.”
“Ah.” Aon’s gauntleted hand left his back, the claws twitching slightly. He did hate being caught in one of his moments. But lost in whirling gears was a lot better than being lost in the fractured parts of his mind. She’d take “contemplative Aon” over “psychotic break Aon” any day. One was a lot stabbier than the other.
“How goes your research?” Lyon dutifully asked, quickly changing the subject to the matter at hand.
“The poison in Rxa’s blood is identical to the poison I clarified from the blood of one of the drengil that Lydia was kind enough to fetch for me.” Aon resumed his pacing.
“Zombies. They’re totally zombies.” She smirked. “And I will never say no to zombie hunting.”
“Yes, yes. Zombies.” Aon gestured dismissively.
“Would it not make sense that the poison is the same?” Lyon asked.
“No. You do not understand.” Aon paused to face the King in White. “The poison—it is the same cellular substance. Repeated again, and again, and again…a million times over. They are not clones—they are the same. Instances of one cell.”
“The drengil”—Lyon paused and glanced to her—“Zombies, forgive me.”
She snickered.
“The zombies are all linked together as one entity?”
“Yes. It would explain how Rxa is able to command them. And with him at the head of the army, they answer his commands. Conscious or unconscious as they may be.” Aon sighed. “Anywhere they are, he is.”
“Much like
his original form.” Lyon frowned. “That will be…problematic.”
Lydia frowned. She remembered Rxa very, very well. She had hoped the peaceful, calming presence of the angel would become a friend to her, much like his then-elder Lyon had been. She had hoped she could trust him.
That turned out to be very much not the case.
She had expected Edu or Dtu to be the ones to turn on her. But even the wolf who hated her because of her attachment to Aon couldn’t stand by Rxa’s betrayal. She remembered Lyon dying at Rxa’s hands. And then the chains that had wrapped around her neck and dragged her down to the bottom of the Pool of the Ancients.
It was meant to be her watery grave. Drowning forever—never living, never dying—imprisoned with the Ancients he kept there. But they had given her a choice. Free herself…or save Lyon’s life.
He was her friend. It had been an easy choice. He was raised as the new King of Blood, since…well, Aon had killed the last one for what he had done.
She remembered the first time she had met the angel who could split himself into a hundred thousand, if not infinite, shards of himself. He had broken up a fight to the death between Aon and Edu…over whether or not she should be allowed to live.
It had all been a careful ploy.
“Is it bad that I have an extreme need to punch Rxa in the head?” She glanced at Lyon. “At least once?”
He smiled down at her. “No. I believe you are allowed.”
“This does afford us one chance at controlling this…pandemic before it spreads out of control and murders most of the populace.” Aon stopped in his pacing to turn his attention out a large window that overlooked the center of her city and the enormous reflecting pool. “If we can capture Rxa and imprison him…it may sever his link with the drengil. They may collapse without his hatred inspiring them.”
“If he comes here.”
“He will.” Aon slowly flexed the fingers of his clawed hand. “Trust me…he will. It is just a matter of whether or not he will come alone.”
Grave of Words (Fall of Under Book 2) Page 15