Chapter Twenty Two
Theodore
The streetlights are just beginning to buzz when I start making my way home. It’s been a long day of planning and debating and intimidating, and I’m looking forward to a peaceful night with Rose. She found Cora’s old VHS collection a few weeks ago, and we’re working our way through the tapes. Tonight, I was promised a rom-com.
In the four months since Uriel’s attack, we’ve settled into an easy routine. Rosalie and I wake up early for coffee and breakfast. I’ve since fixed the heater and stocked the kitchen, and I experiment with what I can remember of Anya’s recipes. In the late afternoon, Marcella arrives with news, usually bad, and I excuse myself to play monarch. I don’t mind it as much as I used to. Mostly, it’s like Elias said: dreadfully boring.
I’ve heard nothing from him or Gemma. The silence is suspicious. I know better than to think no news is good news, especially when every update regarding my mother’s activities has been the opposite.
As if sending the thought into the universe prompted a response, a shadow appears to my left and a step behind me. I stifle the urge to throw my head back and groan. Since I’ve refused to hold formal court, Marcella’s rebels have taken to tracking me around the city. They’ve taken my disdain for speaking out of turn to heart, following in silence until I prompt with a curt, “Yes?”
“I just got word from Joseph.” It’s Anamaria. She’s one of the more devout rebels. From what Marcella has told me, she cares less about toppling Morrigan’s reign than she does about seeing my ascension. That faction makes my skin crawl more than the other. “There’s been a culling.”
Even though Anamaria is behind me, I keep my face carefully neutral. For the third time this month, Morrigan has sacrificed lives of others to amass more power. It’s not surprising news, but it’s concerning. Her push to consume the souls of her followers means she’s been paying attention to our antics. She’s preparing, but for what?
“Humans?” I ask, thinking of the mortals who frequent her motel at a cost higher than the one listed on the neon sign.
“No.”
A small relief, but a relief all the same. “How many? Divided?” It wouldn’t be the first time she divvied up power to elevate those most loyal to her.
“Eighteen,” Anamaria says. “All to Morrigan.”
I pause as if considering, taking time to bite back the panic. It’s just as likely that she’s headed our way this very moment as it is that she walked in on an ill-advised and unsanctioned orgy. How many of those eighteen did I know? Were they people who threw wine on me, or did they loosen my chains when Morrigan walked away? Was Elias among them, or Gemma? Do I wish she was? Would it be better for her to be dead even if I don’t get to deal the final blow, or do I want to watch the cunning slip from her eyes?
Do I want it to be me?
“No more communication,” I say slowly. “It’s too dangerous for our contacts if Morrigan is sacrificing people like this. Let’s not give her an excuse.”
Anamaria clears her throat. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Sure, whatever.”
“A hundred of us couldn’t stand against Morrigan, but— you could. Marcella says you could. Not now, obviously, but there are some of us who would be willing to… Culling is a strong word, but we would be willing, if that’s what you needed.”
I stop walking. She lingers behind me, waiting for me to agree or strike her. I do neither. “Like I said before,” I say cooly, “I need numbers. Not souls, but bodies. I can’t stop you from Yielding, but if you’re seeking my blessing, you won’t find it.”
Anamaria whispers, “They call you weak. Behind your back, they do.”
Mortae’s lives are long, but their memories are so short. There’s not a single cloud in the sky, but thunder claps in the distance. Anamaria yelps, a short and restrained sound.
“If they want to go toe-to-toe with Morrigan, they’re more than welcome to. If not, I suggest you remind them that we’re playing by my rules, not hers, and definitely not theirs. Understood?”
She murmurs in agreement, and her presence behind me fades. Impatience gets the better of me. I abandon the walk and instead wrap myself in darkness, stepping between this world and the next. The night air is good for me, but spending the evening with Rosalie is even better.
I deposit myself just outside the front door, peeking at the flowers lining the walkway. The spring blooms are coming in, evidence of mornings spent with my hands in the dirt. I'm no expert and not nearly as skilled as Azmaveth's landscapers, but I've done a fine enough job. They'll live until summer sets in, even if they aren't placed in meticulous straight rows.
Last time I looked at a clock, it was 6:45. It must be well-past seven now, and Marcella is still here. She'll have a fit about me running late. One of us is home with Rose at all times, an addendum to our previously agreed upon bargain. She wouldn't shirk that responsibility, but I'll certainly get an earful about punctuality.
I haven't wavered in my dismissal of her dinner invitations— Az's invitations. She offers every night, and every night, I refuse. I can't leave Rosalie unguarded, and I can't bring her to that manor. Az still takes orders from my mother. Introducing him to Rose would be signing off on her death— or worse.
Rose mentioned it only once. She was sitting on the paved path where I stand now, watching me pluck weeds from sprouts. Sipping on a glass of lemonade, her silence was odd enough to raise suspicion but not solemn enough to warrant parsing through her thoughts without her permission.
"The winter storms have passed," I said without looking at her. "We'll still need to be wary of frost, though. One cold night, and our efforts will have been for nothing."
"Mmm."
"It'll be a few weeks before we see any color, but I feel good about this batch, humble as they are now."
"That's good."
I pulled off my gloves and set them next to the tended plant. She swirled her cup, watching the liquid tease the brim, frowning. Three full strides and I was before her, kneeling so our faces were level. I tucked a finger under her chin, applying light pressure until she looked at me.
"If your thoughts are more interesting than my ramblings," I prodded, "please share them."
She caught my wrist and moved my hand to cup her cheek. "Please? So polite."
"I take well to instruction."
This drew a laugh from her, which drew a grin from me. Though neither of us were healed from the events following Uriel's attack and Hayes' demise, we were healing. Playing at domesticity was a bandage when we required stitches, but we made do. We make do.
She started, "When I die—"
"You're not going to die."
"When I do, will I be brought back? Will I be— like you?"
"No." I kissed her forehead to soften the word. "I won't allow it."
"But why not? You wouldn't have to worry about me as much. Imagine how much more time you'd have if I could defend myself! Right now, I'm useless. Don't try to deny it, I am. Why not make me immortal? If I'm going to die anyway, why not get it over with and save us all the trouble of pretending I won't?"
I withdrew my hand like she burned me. "Did Marcella put you up to this?"
That was the exact wrong thing to say. Her cheeks lit with righteous anger. "Nobody put me up to— I can come to my own conclusions. I'm not an invalid."
"Your conclusion is reckless and ill-informed." I stood, brushing dirt from my knees. "The only person who can raise Mortae is the very person we're trying to avoid. Asking her for this favor would be baring my throat to her. I won't do it."
"Not even for my life?"
"Because of your life!"
It wasn’t entirely the truth. I have plenty of experience with my mother’s generosity. I don’t doubt that we could reach an agreement to secure Rosalie’s immortal existence. I know what my mother would ask for in return, and as I don’t intend to spend another few centuries as her errand boy or assassin, the presented option is not an option at all. But that’s not my sole hesitation.
I will not condemn her to this life. I won’t steal the warmth of the sun on her skin, or the contented fullness after eating a meal she’s been starving for, or the ache of stretched muscles. Not while she has another option.
I didn’t say that, though, so she shoved to her feet and stormed off down the sidewalk. She’s not a prisoner, so I made no real effort to stop her, but I did follow at a distance for her own safety. I trust Marcella’s rebels, but not that much. Not enough to leave her alone, even in the middle of the day.
That was weeks ago. She’s since forgiven me, evidenced by the coy grin she shoots over her shoulder when I walk through the front door. She’s sitting on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, legs dangling beneath her, balancing a book between the fingers of one hand while she idly twirls her hair.
Despite my near-constant presence, or maybe because of it, she’s been sleeping better. Eating, too. The jutting bones of her shoulders are starting to round, and her skin is less sallow. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s a liveliness to her appearance now. I’m not arrogant enough to take credit for it, but I’d be remiss to ignore the correlation.
She marks her page and sets the book on the counter. “Did you kill anyone today?”
It’s her usual greeting, said with a lightness betrayed by the worry in the set of her lips. I give the answer I always do. It’s true, most of the time. “No.”
Marcella’s rebels aren’t a well-behaved bunch, especially when they’re allowed to congregate, and especially when I haven’t established clear guidelines. Taking the soul of an otherwise healthy human in the radius they patrol is forbidden, but they’re otherwise allowed to proceed as they would under my mother’s watch. Making deals, attending deaths… I meant it when I said I’m not a tyrant.
Still, they test boundaries and my patience. Morrigan’s unwavering control of every aspect of their immortal existence might’ve made my life easier, but if I wanted easier, I would’ve knelt at her feet centuries ago.
A dry chuckle drifts from the rocking chair in the corner. Marcella catches my eye with a scowl but says nothing, not even telepathically. That method of communication upsets Rose, so we try not to use it. We don’t really need to speak anymore, anyway. She knows how I feel about her rebels, and I know how she feels about using her resources to keep Rosalie safe. There’s not much more to talk about.
A cupboard squeaks open in the kitchen. I break from Marcella and make my way over, stopping to lean against the refrigerator. Rosalie is digging through a cabinet, shuffling around bags of flour and jars of spices.
“You have no junk food in this house,” she groans.
From the other room, Marcella says, “The fridge and pantry are stocked.”
“With ingredients,” Rose sighs, turning to face me. “You can’t have a movie night with ingredients. Both of you have been alive for hundreds of years, and I’m still teaching you things.”
I close the distance between us and reach above her to fetch a jar of popcorn kernels— top shelf, far back. “We’ll get more groceries tomorrow, mon cœur. Not ingredients,” I add when she opens her mouth to argue. “You can educate us on the art of the snack.”
“Us,” Marcella snorts, edging towards the door.
Rose glares at her over my shoulder. I love when she’s like this. “You’re staying.”
I’m not sure what they do when I’m away. When I asked, Marcella said flippantly, “Girl stuff,” which, knowing Marcella, could mean anything from painting each others’ nails to grand larceny. She did mention once that it was a damn shame nobody taught Rosalie how to throw a punch and that she was amazed so many questions could fit in such a small body.
“I’m already late for dinner,” Marcella says, crossing her arms, “and I have more important things to do than spend the night chaperoning you two.”
Rose shoves past me. I almost stop her but decide against it. Her frustration is even more entertaining when I’m not the cause of it. “We’re going to sit on that couch and watch a terrible movie and eat not-junk food like normal people on a normal Friday night. All three of us.”
“We are at war.”
“More of a siege than a war,” I mumble, “and a light one at that.”
They both ignore me. “Taking one night off isn’t going to sway the outcome,” Rose argues, “unless you have some secret plan to confront Morrigan tonight.”
Marcella pulls her shoulders back, fuming. “Why is tonight so—” She realizes the date at the same time I do. I flinch before she even looks in my direction. “You told her?”
I shrug. “I didn’t think she’d remember.”
“Of course I remember.” Satisfied that Marcella isn’t going to flee, Rose pulls open a kitchen drawer and fishes something out, tossing it to Marcella before I can make out its shape. Marcella catches it with one hand. A smile ghosts her lips before she clamps them together.
Rose explains, “Everyone deserves cake on their birthday.”
Marcella holds out her palm and studies the rubber cupcake. She squeezes it. It lets out a horrible squeak before reforming. “This is a dog toy.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested in the real thing.”
“I’m not interested in any of it.”
“Sure. You’re very intimidating.”
Marcella closes her fist around the gift, light enough not to draw out that awful sound again. “Did you pick a movie, or must I do everything myself?”
The rom-com plays as background noise while we lounge and laugh. Marcella reclines in the armchair, legs stretched and hanging over the side. Rose perches cross-legged beside me on the couch with my feet in her lap, a throw blanket covering both of us.
The moon casting shadows through the open curtains loosens Marcella’s tongue. She tells stories about her life before Morrigan and Tomas, when she was a girl chastised for muddying the hems of dresses and running barefoot down gravel roads. I rest my eyes and refrain from my usual commentary. She doesn’t speak about being human often, if ever.
“I came home with my arms scratched and knuckles bloody. I’m pretty sure I broke my pinky on his face.” Marcella raises the finger, frowning. “My father took one look at the bruise on my cheek and gave me another to match. He wasn’t angry that I was fighting the village boys. He was angry that I lost. He told me often that he wished I was born a man.” She sighs. “Not for his own benefit, but for my own. I had too much soul for a girl, he would say. A good son and a terrible wife.”
“Do you miss him?” Rose asks.
Marcella groans as she stretches. “That was a long time ago.”
Rose hums at her non-answer but doesn’t press. She nudges my leg. “When is your birthday?”
“I don’t know.” I keep my eyes closed. “We didn’t celebrate when I was young, and after I—” I clear my throat. “I never found out.”
She drums her fingers on my ankle. “You can just make one up,” she says. “Pick a day.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of a birthday?”
Marcella sits up, resting her arms on her knees. “Oh, please tell us, enlightened one: what is the purpose of a birthday?”
“To track the years since you’ve been born.”
“Birthdays are for celebrating life,” Rose says, “not quantifying it.”
“Ach, sentimentality.” Marcella crinkles her nose. “A waste of time, of which mortals have such a limited supply.”
“You were mortal once,” I remind her. “We both were.”
“I’ve been wondering about that.” Marcella swings her legs down, planting her feet on the floor, “Mortal, yes, both of us. But human? Were you, really?”
“Yes.”
“You sound so certain.”
I crack open an eye to glare at her. Rosalie’s measured tapping on my leg keeps my temper in check, but barely. "I had two human parents. I ate and slept and shat, same as you did. I bled, just as you did.”
“One human parent,” Marcella says.
“No. Regardless of the circumstances of my conception, my father was my father.”
Rose sniffs, a polite indication of her confusion. I spare her and offer, “Mortae can alter their anatomy as well as their appearances. The woman who birthed me was… involved with Morrigan. I don’t know specifics,” I add quickly, “and I don’t care to learn. She was a good woman, though. She did her best.”
She says nothing for a long moment, so I close my eyes again. My father wasn’t aware of her infidelity, as far as I know. Her dalliances were a well-kept secret, and they stopped after my birth. I doubt Morrigan felt any affection towards her, and even if she did, she let her die anyway.
"You both talk like you're so removed from the rest of us," Rose says slowly. "Like dying turned you into something else."
"It did," Marcella says.
"Technically, I guess. But a person doesn't stop being human when they're dead, so why would you not be human when you're undead?"
Marcella groans. "Don't insult me on my birthday."
At this, Rose leans forward. "You're ashamed of being human. No." She pauses. "Not shame. You're afraid. Why?"
She's not trying to get a rise out of Marcella. The question is mere curiosity, if a bit too direct. Even so, I brace for the parry. Rosalie isn't thick-skinned, and Marcella knows exactly how to draw blood.
The retort doesn't come. I peek at Marcella, holding a breath I don't need. She's fully alert now, spine straight and feet planted, staring not at Rosalie but at the front door. When she catches me watching her, I close my eyes again.
"Humans are fallible," she says quietly. "Too easily swayed by their own desires and sentiments. I made mistakes. I don't anymore. That's all there is to it."
I expect Rosalie to argue. Hell, I want to argue. Dying didn't immunize us to making questionable decisions. Quite the opposite, if I'm being honest. Without the constant terror of our own fragility, we've erred more than we haven't. We've taken chances we shouldn't take, knowing we'll walk away unscathed. Physically, at least. The little wisdom we've achieved wasn't gifted by our own demise. It was time, and experience. It was our failures that we've learned from— or should have.
Rose nods. "That makes sense."
It doesn't, and she doesn't think so either, but prodding further would only upset everyone in this room.
“November 18th,” I say, drawing their attention back to me. “The day I met Az.”
“That’s when you moved in with him?” Rose asks, skimming her finger along the side of my ankle.
“Not quite. He spent a while convincing Morrigan to let me leave with him. I was,” I swallow the word imprisoned, opting instead for, “under strict supervision when we first met. Since he’s one of my mother’s oldest and most trusted advisors, he was allowed certain privileges. Not that I was forbidden to have visitors, but most weren’t allowed to linger as he did. And he was kind the way others were not.” I lower my voice. “Kinder than he needed to be.”
“He misses you,” Marcella says.
It doesn’t change anything, but I nod. “If I could pick any day to celebrate, I’d pick that one.”
“November 18th,” Rose repeats. “I’ll mark my calendar.”
We settle into comfortable silence save for the tinkling voices from the television. With Marcella on watch and Rosalie comfortable, I let myself drift. Not sleeping, as I rarely allow myself to sleep anymore. When I do, I get thrown into a memory, and never one of my own. The boy’s are the most potent, but others make their appearances.
A week ago, I dreamed I was selling hand-canned honey on the side of a southern highway. The sun on my neck was brutal, but the screaming sound of cars passing was worse. A fly whipped around my head. I didn’t swat at it.
Before then, I was at a nighttime church service. It was one of those larger parishes, one that ended in live music with too much bass. The pastor had a headset microphone and sprayed saliva when he was impassioned. I stayed after the crowd dispersed, sipping water from a paper cone and watching the lead guitarist pack his equipment.
In an earlier dream, I was a child, barefoot on sand and staring at water that stretched into the horizon. The Pacific Ocean— I’ve never seen it in person. The tide came in fast, covering the tops of my feet and splashing onto my calves. Beneath my sole, something squirmed. I lifted my leg and found a tiny shelled creature. I picked it up and let it wriggle in my palm.
I’ve been an auditioning violinist, a car salesman, and a racketeer. I’ve performed puppet shows at a library in a town I’ve never seen on a map. I’ve held my wailing newborn in my arms as I was stitched back together. I hold these memories at a distance, but I can see them if I squint. If I sleep.
Hundreds of stories told in snapshots, and none of them are mine. There must be a memory I want to relive, but it’s buried under the weight of them.
The sound of shoes scraping against hardwood rouses me. I startle, bolting upright and finding Marcella on her feet with her head cocked. Beside me, Rosalie groans, rubbing her temple. I lay my hand on her thigh in an attempt to soothe both her pain and my impatience.
A frown sours Marcella’s lips. Her eyes narrow, then flick to me. “Elias.”
I’m on my feet and out the door before she can say more.
It doesn’t take long to find a patrol able to point me in the right direction. Telepathy as a long-distance communication system is a boon I’ll thank Marcella for later. Marcella’s rebels are on alert, pacing their assigned areas and only halting when they spot me, near-frantic in my pursuit for information.
I approach two of them, a gruff man with a short, grey-speckled beard and a stout woman with her hair drawn in a tight, neat knot. I only vaguely recognize them, but they must be old; they tilt their heads to expose their necks in a show of subordinance traditionally reserved for my mother.
“Where is he?” I demand. Energy pricks at my skin. If I looked, I’d see lightning circling my arms, a reflection of the storm inside me. It’s not his safety I’m worried about. He’s capable of defending himself against anyone except my mother, but nobody could defend themselves against her. The only recourse to provoking her temper is to bow and scrape and submit, regardless of one’s actual thoughts.
Elias never mastered himself in that regard. He wears his emotions like laundry hanging on a line. If she were to catch him, she’d know his intentions, no telepathy necessary.
The woman answers, “Outside of the city. Near the—”
I dive into shadows, snatching the location from her thoughts and abandoning the conversation. Did he find Gemma? Was she with him, or did she return to Morrigan to report on our activities? How much would Elias tell her? How much would she tell my mother?
When I emerge on the overpass, the rebels who sounded the alarm recoil, then fall back. I ought to thank them for their diligence, but instead I walk forward to brace my hands on the railing and peer into the wash.
A figure paces in the distance, in and out of the trees. A flash of auburn hair taunts me, but he doesn’t look up. Mud sticks to his shoes and splashes onto his ankles. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his head is bowed, watching his own steps like he’s worried the ground will reach up and snatch him.
It’s a poor imitation from one who has only ever seen him cowed. He’d know better than to walk with his head down, especially surrounded by Mortae who were once his enemies as much as they were mine. He wouldn’t avoid looking at me; he’d seek me out. He’d wait, still and calm, because he believes I’d come to him, because I’ve told him I will, because he’s accustomed to waiting.
I dismiss the lingering rebels without glancing back. After they’ve scurried away, I toss myself off the overpass. Alive, the leap would’ve broken my legs. Mud spits up around me, but I land on my feet and approach.
If the Mortae on the overpass would’ve come closer, they would’ve been able to identify her. They haven’t spent enough time with Elias to mark his energy signature, but all of us are familiar with hers. Our creator, our god— it’s a wonder they weren’t lured in and slaughtered the way I might be.
He’s wearing the same clothes as when I last saw him. She must’ve found him recently.
Once I’m close enough for my voice not to get lost in the wind, I call, “Tired of your own skin?”
Morrigan looks at me with Elias’ eyes and speaks with Elias’ voice. “I underestimated your infatuation. You came so quickly. Would you have done so for me?”
“Yes,” I say, and almost mean it. I would’ve come, certainly, to face her and voice demands of my own. I would’ve fled. I would’ve hidden until she got bored or razed the entire town and left me standing in the rubble.
She glances at the empty overpass. “You ought to reprimand your army. They weren’t able to spot an enemy this close to the area you’ve claimed as your own.”
“I haven’t claimed anything, and it’s not an army.”
“And I’m not your enemy, but since you’re so prone to dramatics, I figured I’d speak your language for a change.” She removes Elias’ glasses and tosses them on the ground, flicking her attention to me. “This charade is becoming tiresome, dove. An especially inconvenient tantrum, even from you.”
“You’re murdering your own followers because I’m inconveniencing you?”
She laughs, and it comes from Elias’ throat. “They’ve already died. Any extra time they’ve been gifted is contingent on their utility.”
“Not their loyalty?”
“Loyalty is fickle.” She steps forward and puts Elias’ palm on my cheek. “Love is fickle. Even power is fickle, or have I taught you nothing?” A sigh. “The succubus is a pest poisoning you against me, but I’ve anticipated this bout of rebellion ever since you took your first breath. The adolescent years are the most trying, or so I’ve been told.”
“I’m three hundred years old.”
“And only now taking your first steps, waddling into the world clumsy and pink. I won’t punish you for trying to build what I’ve already built.”
Her careful choice of words sends a chill down my spine. Trying to lull me into complacency, but I’m no fool. “But you will punish me.”
The look she gives me makes me feel like I’m the child she thinks I am. “Of course. The vermin under your jurisdiction have abandoned their duties.” She pats my cheek and then steps back, offering me her hand. “You asked to endure the consequences in their place, so come. Endure them.”
My hands roll into fists, but they stay by my side. Both of them? She has both of them. I watch her hand, steady and outstretched, then flick my eyes up to meet hers.
"And if I say no?”
Impatience darkens her features. “Must I spell it out for you? You know this story.” She waves towards the overpass behind me, the city lights behind it, the Mortae with their misplaced faith and the unaware humans sleeping beyond. “This isn’t a negotiation, dove. Come home and fulfill the oath you made to me, and to them. Stay, and I’ll rid the world of the succubus filth— and likely you as well, though I will be sorrier for it.”
“I can’t leave.”
“Of course you can. You— oh.” She frowns. “The girl.”
I set my jaw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know her name.”
“It’s so difficult to keep track of your consorts. Forgive me for not making it a priority. I can't pretend I'm surprised; you always were fond of mortals. But I thought you preferred redheads."
She's trying to provoke me to anger, and it's only sort of working. "I want your word that she won't be harmed while I'm gone."
"Would you trust me even if I gave it?"
"I want your word."
Morrigan waves dismissively. "I won't kill her."
"You won't harm her."
"I won't touch her. Satisfied?"
I'm not a coward, but I cower. It's my fault, really, for exposing my weaknesses. My fault for having weaknesses at all. I could blame Elias for his carelessness. I could say that Gemma is power-hungry and Marcella is reckless. I could curse Rosalie's fragility— but I can't ignore the one thing they all have in common. Knowing me is a death sentence. And me caring for them? A collar.
Could I kill her now? If it truly was just us and the river, would I be able to hold her head under the water?
My actions have never been without consequence, and though I try to wrestle down the surging dread, my body remembers the weeks spent in a motel basement and in a shoddy tent before that. My muscles go rigid except for the slightest tremble in my knees. A weight settles in my stomach, and the lightning whipping around my biceps stutters and fades. I'm a child the way I've been a child before, terrified and small and alone. As long as my mother walks this earth, this is what I have to look forward to: a slack leash yanked.
I take my mother’s hand.