Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  She thanked him and excused herself, then shut the door behind her once all her familiar’s bulk had joined her in the hallway. “If you continue at this pace, you’ll be too big for the hallways in Staelash.”

  Then make them bigger.

  “Do I get to ride you instead of my horse?”

  No.

  “No?”

  No.

  “You’d barely feel me. Ana could ride too.”

  Were Demitri capable of raising an eyebrow, Flowridia knew now would be the time. And who is Ana?

  “My fox.”

  Your undead servant has a name?

  “She does, yes. I just thought of it.”

  Are you going to be this attached to all your precious aberrations of nature?

  “Very likely.”

  The plush carpet felt unnatural beneath her dirty feet. She cringed at the flakes of mud trailing behind her, longing for a bath.

  At Ayla’s room, she paused, mentally bracing herself as she turned the doorknob. The room felt colder than the hallway, colder than the woods. Exhaustion hit her as she shut the door, and she couldn’t say if it came from spending months in the woods or from the bludgeoning of memories. Each glass globe brought tender feelings, cherished memories she clung to.

  But Flowridia swallowed her emotions; instead, upon the desk was her bag, her spear, and her new undead servant sitting on top, wagging her little tail.

  Her darling Ana, who did not yet know her name. A slight smile graced Flowridia’s lips. “Ana?” The fox turned, perhaps distracted by the noise. A rattling of hollow bones met her ears as Ana jumped down from her perch and onto the floor. She wandered over and sat at Flowridia’s feet, her skeletal tail wagging from side to side.

  Flowridia knelt and let her fingers stroke against the smooth cheekbone of the small creature. When Ana pushed into the touch, she smiled and lifted the fox into her arms.

  Demitri watched from the corner. Why Ana?

  “Because it’s a darling name, Demitri.”

  Does she actually have thoughts in her head?

  “She must know something,” Flowridia said, cradling the bony creature in her arms. “Otherwise, why would she be so affectionate?”

  Perhaps she only responds to stimuli, like a plant.

  “Then I’ll care for Ana just as I care for my plants. I love them too.”

  Let’s hope your love isn’t wasted on something that can’t appreciate it.

  His tone sat unwell with her. She stepped closer before sitting against his warm fur. “Well, I certainly appreciate you, my dearest Demitri. If you get bigger, I won’t need a bed.” He grumbled; she giggled and placed a kiss on his ear. “I won’t need a horse soon either.” She couldn’t help but smirk at his indignation. “You really won’t let me ride you?”

  You might stunt my growth.

  She swatted him lightly with her wrist. “And when did I raise such a rude little boy?”

  At least we know I wasn’t raised by wolves.

  “Funny, because I was.”

  Sleep stole them soon, exhaustion from weeks of travel settling in.

  * * *

  Flowridia savored the silent lingering between wakefulness and sleep. Demitri’s deep breathing soothed her tired bones. Ana lay in her lap, utterly frozen like the dead creature she truly was. The chain trapping Ayla’s ear tangled about her fingers, and in the stillness, she withdrew the small, familiar mirror from her pocket and tapped the glass, deeming herself truly and safely alone.

  The mirror glowed a moment, and then Etolié’s bloodshot eyes appeared, her face sallow and pale. “Kind of you, to grace me with your presence.”

  Surprised at her visage, Flowridia ignored the slight. “Etolié, when is the last time you’ve eaten solid food?”

  “Literal weeks. Now back to you.” The ire in her expression faded, worry seeping into Etolié’s countenance. “Is everything all right?”

  “Casvir and I are back in Nox’Kartha for the time being. We found his—” She cut herself off, wondering how in Onias’ Hell she could explain to Etolié that she’d all but hand-delivered an orb to Imperator Casvir. “. . . his artifact.” A question for another time. “We’ll be leaving soon to find an orb.”

  “Good,” Etolié said, and Flowridia noticed how the mirror kept swaying away from her face. “Flowers, while I am capable of tact, I pride myself on being honest with you. How has Casvir been treating you?”

  Surprised at the inquiry, Flowridia frowned and said, “Perfectly well.”

  “So I’ve heard. Well enough for you to be incubating a parasite, if rumor serves.”

  It took a moment, but then Flowridia realized the implication behind Etolié’s statement. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look, I know Ayla’s barely dead, but I’ve heard a few too many whispers about you riding Nox’Kartha’s throne—”

  “Etolié, please—” Finishing the statement seemed too daunting a thing. Her skin crawled at the insinuation. “Casvir and I are friendly enough, but he’s never— And I would never— He’s a perfect gentleman, Etolié—”

  “All right, all right. Flowers, I believe you.”

  Flowridia touched her face, realizing it burned. “Is that what people are saying?”

  From opposite the mirror, Etolié nodded. “Thalmus has threatened more than once to march his way to Nox’Kartha and take you back.”

  Oh, Thalmus. Flowridia’s homesick heart swelled. “Send him my love and reassurance that I’m fine.”

  “Well, while you’re off gallivanting, the quest to trade for the Theocracy’s orb continues with absolutely zero success. Despite certain Nox’Karthan deaths, Archbishop Xoran fears the next assassin will succeed and has politely refused to reopen the negotiation. Without it, searching for the rest is all but impossible. Orbs lead to orbs. I only hope that you and Casvir find one sooner than not. Then, we have a hope of stopping Soliel.”

  “Have you heard anything of him?”

  “Not since he appeared in the Theocracy. Believe me—we’re trying. But he’s a slippery bastard, and we have little to go off.” She smiled curtly, far too wide. “So if you hear of any magic explosions or world-ending type things, do let me know. It’ll be more than we’ve heard.”

  “How’s the empress dealing with all of this?” Flowridia asked, but she immediately regretted the question when Etolié grimaced. “Sorry—”

  “No, no. Nothing wrong with asking. Understand, Flowers, my baby Lara has only been in power a few months, and the pressures of ruling are getting to her head. That, and she’s barely had a moment to mourn her father, much less a half-demon who shall not be named. She’s not coping well. Kind of you to ask, though. She thinks very highly of you.”

  Flowridia smiled at the thought, confused but amused that the neighboring empress thought of her at all.

  “How are you, Flowers?” Etolié continued, the smile at her lips much too wide. “Ayla’s gone.”

  Flowridia presumed to not imagine the insincerity of her concern. She tensed at the words. “She’s gone, yes.”

  “And how are you dealing with—”

  “I’m not.” Flowridia clasped her hands together. “I’m still processing everything.”

  Etolié held some semblance of tact, it seemed—Flowridia was grateful the Celestial didn’t push. “Good for you, Flowers.”

  “Etolié, do you know anything about a war in Sha’Demoni?”

  Etolié shook her head, frowning as she did.

  “When Casvir and I were in the woods, I was kidnapped by a demonic acolyte of Ku’Shya. She said Khastra’s death was an insult to Ku’Shya’s pride and that she’d started a war.”

  Etolié’s frown appeared permanently etched on her features, forcibly stoic at the mention of her dead friend’s name. “Makes sense. The Goddess of War is known for being a prideful, vengeful bitch. You were kidnapped?”

  Flowridia withheld the detail of Ayla’s doppelganger, shy at any mention of her deceased love, but
told the rest—of waking encased in what she was now fairly confident was spider silk, the witches, the demon—

  At which point, Etolié interrupted her. “She couldn’t have been a full demon if she manifested in our world. Four arms, you said?”

  Flowridia nodded.

  “Kinda spider-y?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Sounds like a Ku’Shya wannabe. Tell me more.”

  Flowridia spoke of the threat of her own death, of the ritual, and of her rescue. “Should I have done it, Etolié?”

  “Absolutely not. Like you said—delivering the world into Ku’Shya’s hands would be the literal opposite of a good thing. With the hammer missing from the Theocracy, we’re already properly fucked—”

  “The hammer?”

  “The ‘name we don’t mention’s’ sworn duty on our world was to prevent her mother from stealing back her weapon—that over-polished crystal monstrosity.”

  Etolié smiled, but Flowridia saw hurt behind it. “Ku’Shya stole it?”

  “It’s missing from the Theocracy. If she’s allowed a host, she might be able to fight Soliel—but what would stop her from causing her own apocalypse when she wields the orbs next? She can’t take them to Sha’Demoni, but no one said she can’t use them when she’s here. She’d have everything to gain by wrecking half the world’s populace—queen bitch of Sha’Demoni gains power through bloodshed.” Etolié looked away, off in the distance of her library. “If a demonic entity came once, it’ll come again. Be careful, Flowers.”

  Flowridia’s blood chilled at the thought of the strange demon who had disappeared into shadow. “I think I’m as safe here in the castle as I could be.” Etolié’s smile highlighted her sallow cheeks. “Etolié, are you all right?”

  “Breathing hurts.” Etolié kept her smile, but Flowridia saw her jaw clench, watched the Celestial swallow back whatever else threatened to spill out with her words. “You don’t know how much you need something until it’s brutally murdered by your ward’s lady-friend.”

  The words were said in jest, Flowridia knew, but they crawled beneath her skin and stung. “Will you eat something? For me?”

  “Why ya gotta phrase it like that, Flowers-”

  “Because you won’t take care of yourself for you.”

  For the first time since leaving, Flowridia felt impatient to go home.

  Etolié said nothing, merely stared off beyond the mirror, lavender eyes glistening. “For you,” she whispered. She swallowed again, this time with audible sound—and pain. “Oh look, a visitor. Gotta go, Flowers.”

  “Etolié—” The Celestial’s face disappeared, replaced with her own visage.

  There was nothing she could do for Etolié except find the orb as quickly as possible. She wondered, idly, if offering a prayer to Eionei might do something; Etolié had once said Nox’Kartha held temples to every god—demons and angels alike.

  She would be wary of Ku’Shya’s domain.

  Flowridia’s body craved movement, her mind fully awake. Demitri’s breathing remained steady as she stood. Ana jumped from her arms and followed closely at her feet, tiny bones pitter-pattering on the floor wherever she stepped.

  Draped lovingly on the soft couch in the corner, several dresses caught Flowridia’s eye, ones she knew hadn’t been there the last time she’d visited. Upon the pile was a note, written in gorgeous script, gaudy flourishes in each stroke:

  These were found among Ayla’s projects. I could only presume they were meant for you. I hope they bring comfort to your broken heart.

  It wasn’t signed.

  She went to investigate the apparent gift. Five total, she realized, each uniquely designed. A deep green drew her eye, and she lifted the fine silk into her arms, admiring the beaded bodice and train, though the revealing neckline brought a blush to her cheeks.

  Another held all the majesty of the night sky, deep blue with silver stars, and one reminded her of a pale, yellow rose with speckles of green. But the one she chose had cream-colored lace, and each embroidered floral masterpiece upon the bodice held detail unparalleled.

  Holding the extravagant garment reminded Flowridia that she hadn’t had a proper bath since leaving Staelash.

  Did vampires—or creatures like them, her mind habitually corrected—have to bathe? Perhaps only for aesthetic reasons.

  There was no washroom connected to the bedroom. With care to keep the beautiful dress away from her dirty skirts, she left the room, Ana stumbling around her feet.

  In the hallway, she sought a servant, anyone to help her find a path. But as she walked, she passed by one of the many ominous pillars of black sand. Before, she had felt something dark radiating, but now she swore she saw each individual grain and knew it was not truly sand but pure, radiant energy, condescend and weaponized. She herself could conjure dark matter into a ball, but this was a thousand times condensed. She gazed into the abyss, knowing if she were to thrust her hand in, she’d withdraw a stump.

  It was docile to her. Any intruders would be met with a hellish fate.

  “Lady Flowridia?”

  Flowridia turned, happy to see one of the very hooded servants she sought.

  “Casvir inquires to your well-being.”

  “Tell him I’m well,” she replied. “How long did I sleep?”

  “Half a day. The sun has set and risen.”

  Travel took a toll. This explained the rumbling in her stomach. “Could you help me find a place to bathe?”

  It gestured for her to follow with its draped sleeve. “Lady Ayla travelled in shadows and had no need for her washroom to be connected to her bedroom.”

  The servant led her to what appeared to be a blank stone wall. It knelt, or bent rather, or did whatever sentient cloth did to move about, and brushed its sleeve across the wall from floor to the ceiling. Where it touched began glowing, revealing a perfect line, and once he’d reached the top, it parted, showing the clouded entrance to a room.

  “She also had no need for a door,” the servant explained, “and preferred her privacy.” It gestured forward. “When you are ready to leave, simply trace a line up from the other side of the wall. It will part.”

  Flowridia nodded and lifted Ana into her arms before stepping through the wall.

  As she did, the clouds grew sharp with detail. The wall sealed behind her, but Flowridia hardly noticed, too enthralled by the scene—a small room with ornate stonework carved into the walls and a washbasin in the center. Thorns and roses surrounded the tub, carved from stone yet lifelike enough to be their own entity. Upon the wall, it seemed an artist had thrown crystals in perfect, random order, glowing in blues and purples.

  Flowridia set Ana on the floor and the dress upon a stone shelf at the corner beside a floor-length mirror. At the tub, a faucet caught her eye, and soon water gushed into the large bath. As it filled, she stripped herself of her rough travel dress and realized how much dirt clung to her skin. She removed the ear from around her neck and placed it on top of the clean dress, but not without a lingering caress to its shriveled curves. She wondered what Ayla would say, what she thought—what her awareness even was.

  Enough to scream a warning in the night. Perhaps to comfort her in dreams. Flowridia was an insane woman by appearances, cradling the ear of her dead lover, but she could accept that—witches were known for far madder things.

  The water did not need warming. Flowridia stepped into the bath, releasing a sigh as tension from her exhausted muscles seeped into the water. How often had Ayla sat here and soothed herself in the calming water? A blush colored her cheeks.

  It seemed a lifetime ago, their encounter in Flowridia’s tub. Yet, it had been scarcely two weeks before Ayla’s passing, and in those days so much had shifted, both in Flowridia’s heart and Ayla’s. To remember those imploring words, the ones that burned bright and painful in her dreams: “I love you, Flowridia. Please, never leave me.”

  Tears welled in Flowridia’s eyes, mixing in with the warm bathwater a
s she scrubbed her body.

  In another life, they had run—far from duty, from contracts and gods. Ayla longed for fine things, but Flowridia would have given all to live alone in the woods, Demitri in tow, and care for her, hold her, teach her all that nature could offer. An odd family they would have made, but a family nonetheless.

  Flowridia rinsed the soap from her hair, the fantastic impossibility of her dream evoking a quiet smile from her quivering lip.

  It quickly faded. Casvir would own them both, should she sign her name upon the dotted line.

  Flowridia wiped away her tears, though they still flowed as she stepped out of Ayla’s bath. Rows of towels hung on a rod, and Flowridia let a comforting embrace dry her. She brought it to her nose, wounded when it smelled merely clean and not of Ayla’s touch.

  Thus began the arduous process of drying her hair. Her skin had darkened beneath the sun’s light, more like unto the earth she tilled, but her hair remained a lighter shade, the color of amber at sunset. Her reflection stared back eerily in the dim light, too reminiscent of Mother. Perhaps she had begun the final lapse into adulthood, with her formidable cheekbones and ever-lengthening limbs.

  Still, it chilled her. Flowridia looked away, instead changing into the beautiful gown. A hint of the plain, metal chain peeked around her neck, but the ear itself settled between her breasts, hidden behind the lacy fabric.

  When she returned to her room, she was met with a rather grumpy looking wolf. I need food.

  “We can find food, Demitri.”

  Demitri poked her with his nose. You need food. I’ve grown, and you’ve shrunk.

  “Travelling will do that.”

  Flowridia set her dirtied clothing in a neat pile beside the couch, then the three of them went to the hall—she, Demitri, and tiny Ana, whose nails kept catching in the thick carpet.