Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  Knives tucked away in a vanity drawer was so endearingly, predictably Ayla. It drew a sorrowful smile to her face.

  But she did take them.

  Something lay missing. Her heart stopped. Within her hand, she held the ear.

  But the body had gone. She had placed it on the couch before she left.

  Mom?

  Gasping, Flowridia burst from the room. “Imperator—!”

  There was no sign of Casvir. Only the brightly lit hallway and odd black sand flowing in ominous lines.

  Flowridia’s words threatened to choke her, but still she held them in her throat. She could not staunch her sudden tears. Instead, she fell against the wall, trembling as she fought the urge to sob.

  “My dear, are you all right?”

  Flowridia turned at the words, gasping as she brought her sleeve up to wipe the moisture clouding her vision. A gentleman approached her, one draped in luxurious fabrics and bearing opulent signs of wealth. His blonde hair fell in perfect waves past his shoulders, his features sharp and inviting, his smile as kind and sincere as she had ever seen.

  Flowridia had never given much thought toward the supposed appeal of men, but even she could see he was exceptionally handsome. Beautiful, even.

  Still, she froze despite his soothing voice. “Are you lost?” the man asked, quickly approaching her.

  Flowridia shook her head, ashamed at the display of weakness in Casvir’s home.

  “Lady Flowridia? You are Lady Flowridia of Staelash, yes?”

  She managed a nod, cowering as he stood before her. She wrapped her arms around herself, tears flowing freely. Demitri’s nose against her leg did nothing to soothe her.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” the man pressed, and from the air he withdrew a handkerchief and offered it forward. Flowridia accepted the gift, a pungent perfume suddenly wafting from the gentleman’s aura—almost floral, but sweet enough to upset her stomach. Flowridia crumpled the gifted cloth in her hand as she trembled. “Whatever it is, I can help.”

  Flowridia’s hiccup masked a sob. “A-Ayla’s body—”

  When the sound of heavy armor met her ears, she shut her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, determined to staunch the flow of tears.

  Imperator Casvir rounded the corner, sparing only a glance toward the man before his glowing eyes settled back on her. “Lady Flowridia?” his voice rumbled.

  Demitri tensed beside her, but Casvir made no move to step forward. Flowridia forced herself to stand tall. No use in lying. “Where is Ayla’s body?”

  “In the catacombs of my palace, safe from any who would steal it.”

  What a pitiful sight she must be, face swollen with tears, clad in only her nightclothes, unquestionably indecent as she stood before this monster of a man. Utterly embarrassed—both at her appearance and her implied accusation—she brought her arms up to cover her shame and protect herself when he inevitably tore her to shreds with his claws. She managed to nod. “Thank you,” she whispered, staring at the floor.

  The man beside her stepped forward. “Casvir, the lady is in crisis. Your boorish words—”

  “Leave.”

  The man bowed in a dramatic fashion, arms spread wide. He took a step back, out of Flowridia’s line of sight.

  A blush blossomed across her cheeks, then she heard Casvir say, “Do you want it?”

  She shook her head. “Yes, but not yet. Safer there, as you said.”

  Metal shifted. Flowridia dared to glance up. “I will not think less of you for mourning,” he said, and he left her alone.

  * * *

  Flowridia laid herself down to sleep, the couch cozier than even her bed at home and wide enough to accommodate another two or three of her. The ear rested at its place above her heart, the weight a comfort. She clutched the maroon dress, stolen from the wardrobe. The scent both soothed and haunted her broken self, and when Demitri curled beside her, she wished that he would speak to distract her.

  In the stark silence, her thoughts became unbearably loud. When she finally teetered on the cusp of sleep, she swore she heard a pained scream, one that shrieked at the cusp of familiarity somewhere far away.

  Before she could contemplate it more, darkness fell upon her.

  She recalled visions of Ayla, her voice and her touch.

  Sensuous words caressed her ear. “I love you, Flowridia.”

  Within the darkness, she caught flashes of skin, of brilliant cyan eyes refracting the light. Cold hands skimmed her body, desperately groped her form, yet felt as nothing at all, the touch as elusive as shadow.

  But once within her, sensation burst, ice freezing her to her very soul. She swore they were one, that Ayla moved inside her. And by every god, she ached, but when she tried to clutch the ghost, she was as smoke.

  “Please, never leave me,” the voice pled, and Flowridia felt tears upon her face.

  She whispered, “Never—”

  She awoke freezing, despite her blankets. Demitri’s wet tongue licked her face. Mom?

  Flowridia stared into Demitri’s golden eyes, piercing even in the dark.

  You were talking in your sleep.

  Flowridia slowly sat up, pulling Demitri into her arms, recalling visions that were as clear as the ornaments decorating the room.

  “Her spirit lingers.” But what did that mean?

  A knock caused her to stiffen. “Lady Flowridia?”

  Not a voice she recognized.

  “Imperator Casvir requests you ready yourself. You leave in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered, as loud as she could summon.

  * * *

  Flowridia wore simple clothing for travel. With a bag on her hip, her maldectine bracelet on her wrist—though it brought her sadness to think of its maker—and a silver mirror in her pocket, she grasped the gifted spear, admiring the intricate carvings when another knock pulled her focus.

  She quickly tucked Ayla’s ear into her bodice, hiding it from view. She answered, surprised to see that Imperator Casvir had come to collect her himself. He stood back enough to not block her exit, but still she withered beneath his gaze. “Ready?”

  Flowridia nodded.

  “Our carriage awaits.” His relentless stare left her face a moment, glancing down at her hands. “Allow me,” he said, extending his arm.

  For a brief, alarming moment, she thought he meant to take her hand. Demitri stiffened beside her, fur bristling as he sensed her fear. But she recalled the spear she held, one that looked far heavier than its craftsman had designed it to be, and cautiously allowed Casvir to take it.

  His claws wrapped carefully around it, but still he stared at her expectantly. When she froze a moment too long, his deep voice rumbled, “Your bag.”

  She nearly dropped it as she fumbled to get it off her shoulder.

  The demonic tyrant began trekking down the hall. Did he ever relax his stance? He held no weapon at his hip or back, yet he strode through his own home like a battlefield.

  But as they walked, an alarming thought welled in her gut, the realization that she would be travelling alone with this strange and terrifying man, one who had been watching her since near her infancy, who had admitted to wanting to keep her here. At her hip, she kept Etolié’s mirror, her hand reflexively reaching down to caress the magic-infused object, but careful not to summon attention.

  He would never know she had it, Flowridia decided. It would be her one escape if Demitri’s fears about his character were confirmed.

  The hallways of Nox’Kartha twisted and turned, and by the time Flowridia thought to pay attention they appeared outside. The sun steadily rose, morning still new, and Flowridia’s gaze fell to two enormous, armored horses hitched to a carriage emblazoned with the Nox’Karthan seal on the door—that of a skull embedded into a gold coin. Drawn to the animals, Flowridia stepped forward, Demitri close behind, and smiled. “What beautiful creatures you are.”

  They smell wrong. Demitri’s voice chilled her blood.

  Flo
wridia tilted her head as she studied their glazed expressions, the clouded white of their eyes. Between the plates of their armor, she noticed rotting flesh clinging to the white bones and exposed musculature. The horses were not pained as far as she could see, but the realization came with a curiosity that startled her. Undeath pervaded this nation, or so they said. Of course the horses would be among them.

  With appropriate caution, she offered her hand, watching closely for any sign of aggression. It barely reacted when she placed a hand on its armored nose. With the same amount of care, she placed a hand on the opposite horse, surprised when it turned to face her.

  That metallic echo, louder now against the stone road, drew her attention. Casvir watched, and she drew her hands back, hating how she flinched.

  He all but ignored her, instead making his way to the carriage door. It opened at his touch, and he watched her expectantly as he offered a taloned hand.

  Unease filled her, but she approached and placed her small hand into his own. Her breath hitched at the unnaturally cold touch, but she allowed him to help her inside, his claws offering a gentle cage around her skin.

  Some illusion spell must have surrounded the carriage, for it appeared much larger within than without. Two carpeted benches, sized to comfortably seat someone of Casvir’s substantial bulk, sat on opposite ends, vibrant red to juxtapose the black walls. A table sat between them, and Flowridia secured herself into the far corner as Demitri leapt inside. He sat himself upon her lap, the bottom half of him spilling out onto the seat, and growled when Casvir himself entered, whose horns narrowly avoided scraping the ceiling.

  As he sat, he seemed to notice for the first time the intricacy of Flowridia’s weapon. He inspected it with care, his eyes scanning the images lovingly carved into the shaft. With her spear in hand, Casvir leaned forward, mouth open to speak, but Demitri’s sudden growl stopped him. Casvir, though, kept steady eye contact with Demitri as he placed the spear on the table between them.

  “Your devotion to your mistress should be commended,” he said, his eyes narrowing. Flowridia placed a hand on Demitri’s back when the growling didn’t cease. Casvir placed her bag beside it. “I understand—a man travelling alone with a young woman is cause for concern. But I assure you, it is misplaced.” His stare turned ever so briefly to Flowridia herself before he focused instead on a chest situated beneath his seat. Flowridia watched as he withdrew the trunk and placed it at his side, methodically withdrawing documents and a quill. His eyes scanned the papers, placing some on the table, and Flowridia finally felt Demitri relax under her touch.

  I don’t like him.

  She let her fingers run lovingly down his fur in response.

  The carriage lurched. Flowridia took back her bag and spear, placing the latter beneath her when Casvir said, “Your weapon is impressive.”

  Flowridia nodded, bringing her knees to her chest. “You might say it’s breathtaking—”

  Horror struck her when she realized what she’d said. Here in the presence of Imperator Casvir, First and Last of His Name, Tyrant of Nox’Kartha and Marshall of the Deathless Army, she had made a joke so facetious, even Demitri looked at her with absolute bafflement.

  Casvir stared, first at Flowridia, then to the spear on the floor. The wry smile came with a short, scoffing sort of chuckle that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  He returned his attention to his paperwork, but Flowridia looked out the window, unsure if it were idiotic or not to relax.

  * * *

  The grand city spread out before them, the morning light reflecting off the spiraling, white marbled castle they left behind. They descended a slope, the towers of the castle sweeping behind in smooth, effortless strokes, built into a great mountain that served as a wall around a portion of the city. Enraptured at the sight, Flowridia put the vision to memory, knowing it was as grand a building as she had ever stepped into. Though considerably younger than the Theocracy of Sol Kareena, Nox’Kartha held a richness and grandeur that betrayed its age.

  They crossed a seemingly depthless moat, one Flowridia could barely see through the small window. The streets unraveled in every direction, spreading wide around the magnificent palace in the mountain. The white stone buildings and paved streets made it appear rich, and Flowridia wondered how anyone could look upon the city and think it evil.

  De’Sindai made up most of the populace, and she didn’t miss how they shied away and bowed at the sight of the carriage pulling through the streets. It was a busy scene, with shopkeepers and patrons, respectably dressed though with necklines far lower than Flowridia would have felt comfortable with. She realized that Ayla’s outlandish taste in dresses was entirely typical in this foreign land.

  But something odd caught her eye, something that juxtaposed problematically with the rich populace and clean streets. Flowridia narrowed her vision from behind the window of the carriage as she watched a street sweeper aimlessly clearing the sidewalk of rubbish. Aimless, because it meandered, teetering on unsteady feet—feet that had all but rotted away.

  Its entire form seemed in various stages of decomposition. The ghoul held its broom with unsteady hands, and Flowridia fought back revulsion. Nox’Kartha, she had heard, employed the undead for menial tasks. Dead horses pulling carriages were a very different matter than a being once sentient and intelligent in life. Was this the price of citizenship? For Nox’Kartha to dare and play with dark magic, to utilize it into everyday life bespoke complete indifference to the wrath of Sol Kareena, the most powerful of the angelic gods.

  Were the undead set into other menial jobs? Did they toil the fields and scrub the lavatories too? She glanced at Casvir, engrossed in his paperwork, and felt her voice shy away.

  Instead, she returned her attention to the city, absorbing the grand atmosphere. Nox’Kartha wore its dark secrets on its sleeve.

  That, or its dark secrets were so much worse.

  Beyond the grand gates was an expansive, lush meadow, spotted with houses in the far distance for those who would dwell within the borders but not the city itself. Parallel to the road, a great river headed west, one that if Flowridia followed she knew would eventually lead back home.

  She found it odd that they travelled with no guard, especially in so ostentatious a carriage. But she dared not question the imperator, looming like a volcano, though dormant with his quill and parchment.

  Demitri snoozed on her lap, his deep breathing soothing to her mind. When he was young and new, she would count his sweet breaths in the night, a finger at his side to feel the precious rise and fall of his chest. So very tiny he had been, before they’d been found by Etolié in the woods, only days after the demon—after Casvir—had brought him to her.

  De’Sindai, she corrected herself. No true demon could exist in this world without a host.

  Casvir had, presumably, given Aura to her as well . . . and she had been a mere toddler stepping a bit too far out into the woods when the giant wolf had appeared to her.

  She glanced up and watched Casvir, still focused on paperwork. Exhaustion pulled at her eyelids, having not slept properly for days, but her nerves had yet to settle.

  She rested her head against the window, trying to decipher what use a demon might have for a toddler when, as her eyelids grew ever heavier, Casvir asked, “Will you be able to sleep in the carriage?”

  Startled, she sat up. She realized he watched her, his eyes faintly glowing in the shelter of the carriage. Eventually, she managed a nod.

  “We can stop to camp tonight, if necessary.”

  Shaking her head, she took a deep breath and dared to whisper, “What about you?”

  “I do not sleep.”

  Of course he didn’t. And though her mind buzzed at the new information, within minutes she succumbed to exhaustion.

  * * *

  Flowridia awoke to darkness, to a sky littered with stars and a half moon stretched into a coy smirk. With bumps on her flesh from a cold she knew not the source of, she shied
away, else be reminded of gentle whispers in her dreams and tender caressing on her skin.

  She realized, then, a soft baritone voice hummed through the carriage. Flowridia dared to glance over, realizing Casvir hummed to himself, still reading over documents while his opposite hand tapped a steady rhythm into the air. But his face surprised her the most—focused as ever, but relaxed. Content.

  She found the sound soothing, something for her anxious mind to grasp beyond the troubling memories in her dreams. But it faded, and when Flowridia’s eyes fluttered open again, she realized Casvir’s red eyes stared straight at her, glowing under the reflected moonlight.

  “You talk in your sleep,” he said, no judgement in his tone. He spoke clinically, as though commenting on the sky or the color of the trees.

  Still, she curled around Demitri’s sleeping form. “If you tell me whatever it is you heard, I might die of embarrassment.”

  “You might.”

  The statement drew a blush to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Lady Flowridia, I am not bothered.” Her title sounded so formal on his tongue, as did everything he said. Such an odd juxtaposition, his civility to his inherent menace. “Merely curious. Do you often have nightmares?”

  The most she could summon the bravery for was a nod.

  Casvir returned his attention to his paperwork. The only sound became the faint cacophony of night creatures from without and the gentle scraping of rocks against the carriage wheels. Peaceful to some, Flowridia was certain, but not to her, as the silver moon mocked her from outside the window. The stars accompanying it could be mistaken for fangs, evoking a longing Flowridia dared to not entertain.

  “Imperator Casvir,” she whispered, and she didn’t have to face him to know she had his attention, “may I ask something?”