Chapter Twenty Three
Rosalie
Credits roll atop an upbeat but outdated pop ballad. Neither of us watched to see the heartfelt confession and the happily-ever-after, but I know the genre well enough to guess at what it entailed: the big bad thwarted, the misunderstanding resolved, a kiss and a sunset and a fade to black. The story is scripted, the ending guaranteed. Would that I were so lucky.
The tape ends, and the screen cuts to black and hums static. Marcella stands and shuts the television off, lingering in front of it with her back to me.
I shift beneath my blanket, muscles stiff. “He should be back by now.”
“Hush.”
The dismissal isn’t new, but it hasn’t gotten easier to bear. In the months since Uriel tried to kill me, I’ve followed Marcella’s advice and kept my shit together— for the most part. Making myself docile, agreeable, non-imposing… I’ve had plenty of practice. Shoving down my less than savory reactions to objectively upsetting information is second nature to me. I did it for years with Henry, with Emily. I can do it now.
It’s not like I’m suffering. Not really. My days are filled with physical exercise disguised as combat training. The defenses she teaches me would do nothing against the forces actually threatening my life, but it makes me feel stronger, and the repetitive movements are soothing. She taught me a fine amount of breath work too, saying it was essential to maintaining stamina. It’s also essential to maintaining my sanity when she refuses to give me information, but I haven’t told her that.
In the evenings, when Theo returns from wherever he goes and Marcella leaves to have dinner with Azmaveth, we settle into the sort of domesticity I despised with Henry. We make dinner together, or he cooks while I read, or we order delivery and talk about everything except the sword swinging just above our heads. He asks me about my day and listens to my answer. I ask him about his, and he changes the subject.
The second time I kissed him was gentler than the first, prompted by sweetness instead of desperation. He was scrubbing dishes, careful not to splash the counter where I was sitting. Bubbles of soap danced on his elbows and wet the front of his shirt. The damp fabric stuck to his body, and I found myself jealous of the water sliding down his forearms. It would evaporate but leave a residue in the way I could never manage. Temporary but not, a fading sensation not easily forgotten. I leaned forward and grabbed his chin, guiding his face to mine.
His hands were occupied, stilling in the suds while my tongue teased his lips open. A tiny, timid sound slipped from him. I pulled back, satisfied, laughing while he blinked at me. It isn’t easy to surprise him.
At my amusement, he slipped into a full-mouthed grin and pulled his hands from the water, settling them on my waist and soaking through my own shirt. I yelped and squirmed but didn’t try very hard to escape. He would’ve let me go if I did, and I didn’t want to be let go.
So I’m not suffering. And even if I was, it wouldn’t be in silence. Both of them can read my mind— and do, though I’ve asked them not to.
Which is why Marcella’s staring at me with a raised brow and a frown. To steer her away from my more relevant— and more anxious— thoughts, I say, “I talked to Emily yesterday.”
She sees through the distraction. She sees through everything, but she’s willing to humor me. “What groundbreaking news this time?”
“I need to swing by the apartment soon. The lease is up at the end of the month, so I have to clear out my things.” Henry already fetched his own belongings, or at least I assume he did. We haven’t spoken in months. “You don’t happen to own a truck, do you?”
“I’ll get one.”
It’s best for me not to inspect that statement too closely. Marcella is even more secretive about her activities outside of this house than Theo.
“Emily’s upset with me. They’re all upset with me.” I sigh. “Even if I could explain the situation, I don’t know where I’d begin. They think I flew off the handle because Henry left. Is it kinder to let them believe that?”
“Kindness is a playground rule.” She settles back into the rocking chair, kicking off to make it sway. “You should be asking about what’s most effective.”
“But is it fair? Is it right?”
“Fair,” she scoffs. “The world doesn’t operate on fair. If it did, neither of us would be here. I’d be in the ground, and you’d be…” She considers. “What would you be doing, if you weren’t the Heir of Death’s consort?”
“Don’t call me that.”
A flash of her palms. “Title redacted. The question stands.”
I shrug. Weekly dinners with my friends and evenings with Henry seem so far away now. Like I was carrying a life in a half-closed hand, never quite grasping anything but unable to let go.
“Come on,” Marcella groans. “There has to be something you want.”
If I’m honest with myself, which I rarely am, any plans I had for the future fizzled long before I met Theo. Even now, conjuring an image of my life in five, ten, fifteen years is taxing. I had goals before, I must’ve, but I can’t remember them. A dream, and ideal, something that’s mine…
“A boat.”
She leans forward. “A boat?”
“Not on the open ocean, but a houseboat. I wouldn’t be tethered to anything. I mean, the boat would be tethered, but…” I nod, sounding more certain than I feel. “It’d be quiet, but not too quiet. I’d invite people over when I want company and sail away when I don’t. I could end up in a new city every day.” The mundanity of life would be shattered under my sails. Sails? Could one live in a sailboat? I suppose it is only a fantasy. “I’d be free to explore, beholden to nobody.”
Marcella considers. “You need a boat for that?”
“Everything I’ve tried so far hasn’t worked, so why not a boat?”
“I can buy you a boat, Petunia.”
“But then I’d be beholden to you.”
I expect her to laugh. She doesn’t. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“What?”
“Your friend. It wasn’t your fault.”
My answering swallow sticks. I unwind myself from the blanket and tuck it beside me. “What would you be doing, if not this?”
It’s not my most artful diversion, but my point is made. We won’t talk about Andrew, not unless she wants to make herself vulnerable, too. Marcella would sooner draw blood than bleed, and I’m not going to be the only one staining the carpet.
She narrows her eyes. “I’d find another tyrant to topple.”
“Likely,” I deadpan.
“What do you want to hear from me? That I’m miserable under the responsibility I sought out?” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t forced into this. I’m doing it because it needs to be done, and I have the ability to do it.”
“Theo says you’re only here because you want revenge.”
Her expression darkens. “Theo is a hypocrite— and worse, a gossip.” She glances out the window. “And late.”
At this, I sit up straighter. “Have you heard anything?”
“You’d know if I had.”
Because my head would be pounding. Some days, a headache blossoms before I even open my eyes and persists until I close them. It’s important for them to communicate— all of them, even the rebels I’ve only seen once and never wish to again— but would it be so terrible to invest in cell phones? It’s not like they can’t afford a phone bill for the forty-odd Mortae in town. The last time I mentioned to Marcella that technology has advanced past the need for telepathic communication, she looked at me like I was a kid asking for a unicorn.
Theo is more sympathetic to the pain it causes me, but that doesn’t stop him from using it. Which is why I’m certain they read my mind more often than they admit. That, and because they react more to what I’m thinking than what I’m saying, even when I’m trying very hard to put on a face.
Like I am now.
I stand. “Well, let’s go find him.”
“We can’t.” At a raise of my brow, she clarifies, “If we go out searching for him, it’ll tip off the Mortae that something is wrong.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She gestures for me to sit back down. I don’t. “He might just be taking his time catching up with Elias. They haven’t seen each other in a while, and they didn’t part on the best terms. He has some groveling to do.”
She’s trying to distract me with jealousy, and it’ll work if I let it. “Theo doesn’t grovel.”
“He snapped at a housekeeper once and spent the rest of the day scrubbing every surface he could find, including the floors, so the man he offended wouldn’t have to. He most certainly does grovel.”
Despite the situation, I crack a smile. “You’ve been the recipient too, I assume?”
Her groan is lighthearted. “It’s not a story I like to tell, and probably one you won’t want to hear.”
Now I have to know. Finally, I settle back onto the couch. “Tell it anyway.”
This sparks a tiny, victorious smile. She thinks she outwitted me, and that’s fine. I’m the one walking away with what I want: information.
Well, what I want is to make sure Theo is alright, but information is a close second.
“To be clear,” Marcella says, “this was decades ago.”
“Are you going to tell me you slept together?” I joke.
“God, no.” She shrugs. “But he did ask. I declined. It embarrassed him, I think, but he was very graceful about it. Apologetic, even. Some of the other men at the manor didn’t manage their wounded pride half as well, and Theo made it his responsibility to see them set straight.”
“He killed them?”
“Of course not. He just frightened them. Az killed them. The more persistent ones, at least.”
Though I've never met the man, that tracks with what I've learned about him— which isn't much. Morrigan trusts him, and Theo doesn’t. He used to. The games they play, the betrayals and secrets, is so far above me. Even if I were immortal like them, I don’t think I’d be able to keep up.
“Az protects his own,” Marcella says quietly. “As do I. As does Theodore. None of us are good people. Theodore is determined to be the last to admit that.”
“Am I your own?”
She almost smiles. Almost. “You’re Theodore’s, which makes you mine. Az’s too, but he doesn’t know it yet." She stands. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I follow her lead. “I thought we couldn’t look for him?”
“We're not. We're just walking.”
The fresh air does little to soothe my growing worry. A chill nips at my skin, making me glad I grabbed my jacket before we left. It’s not quite spring but close enough that the cold is more reinvigorating than intolerable. Beside me, Marcella’s attention drifts away from our previous conversation and towards the potential storm we’re wandering into. She keeps pace with me instead of speeding ahead, though I know she’s capable of moving faster than I am.
Cora’s house is nestled among others of various sizes and colors, a suburb untouched by the uniformity I grew up in. I’ve walked this street many times before, always with an escort. I’m not being held captive, and Theo uses strolls such as these to remind me of that. If I wanted to trudge up the hill that separates the houses from the shopping centers and offices, I could. I could hop a bus into the city and spend the afternoon downtown if I wanted to risk being spotted by my friends. I’m allowed to go wherever I want— just never alone.
Marcella leads me towards the hill, and I brace myself for the climb. “No car?” Every time I see her behind the wheel, she’s driving a different one.
“Consider it a training exercise,” she says. “We’re building your stamina.”
“Fantastic.”
“Would you like to go back? Cross our fingers for his safe return? Maybe play a game of charades?”
Fair point. “Only if you’re on my team,” I grumble. “You’d cheat.”
“Using a practiced skill isn’t cheating.”
“Using a skill the other party doesn’t have access to is cheating.”
She cocks her head. “I wonder if I could teach you.”
“To read minds?” I glance at her sidelong. “You’d probably have to kill me first.”
“Believe me,” she laughs, “if I could guarantee you’d be brought back, I’d slit your throat in an instant.”
I’ve been around her long enough to know it’s a compliment. It emboldens me to ask, “Is it true, what Theo said? Only Morrigan can make Mortae?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “Only Morrigan knows how. Could Theodore do it, if she taught him? Probably.” She pauses as if sifting through the explanation before she gives it. “He’s a Mortae the same way you’re an ape: technically true, but not entirely accurate. He died and was resurrected the way we all were, but he was something else before that. He’s something else now.”
We crest the hill and start towards the cluster of shops and restaurants that serve as this area’s hub. Though I grew up here, most of my time was spent on the opposite side of downtown, and then when I moved out of my dad’s place, in the heart of it. This area is quieter, populated with retirees instead of families. I don’t hate it.
It’s late, so there aren’t many people around. I narrow my eyes at the few who do linger, pacing sidewalks and looking— not out of place, but like they’re on an errand. An important one. I don’t know for sure that they’re Marcella’s rebels. Across the street, a man walking in the opposite direction slows when he spots us, then nods in greeting. I avert my eyes and shuffle to keep up with Marcella.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Just a bit farther.”
A bit turns out to be forty more minutes of walking. We clear the hub of shops and dip off of the sidewalk onto an unmaintained path and through some trees. Once we’re away from the streetlights, I tilt my head towards the sky and seek the stars through the canopy.
Andrew knew how to find constellations. He tried to teach me once. I don’t remember, but I pretend I do.
Though we’re technically still in the radius that Marcella’s rebels are meant to patrol, we’re the only ones out here. As we move further into the trees and away from the beacon of civilization behind us, Marcella’s mood darkens. And it’s still her birthday— or I think it is. It might be past midnight.
For a blink, I worry that I’ve made a mistake following her out here, but I dismiss the thought as quickly as it appears.
“Why did you say no to Theodore?”
“What, because he’s irresistible? I might be dead, but I do have preferences.”
“That’s not what I meant. I guess— I’m just curious, that’s all.”
She’s quiet for a moment, pensive but not offended. I’m prepared to let the inquiry drop. It’s not a secret that Theodore has had other lovers, and he might be attending to one right now. There’s so much of his history I don’t know. And hers, though I’m more hesitant to ask.
My ears start ringing, a high-pitched whine that’ll evolve into a throbbing headache if it continues. I brace myself for bad news. She’s talking to someone, or someone is talking to her. She doesn’t flinch at whatever information she’s getting, but that’s not an indication of anything. Marcella never flinches.
“I’m married,” she says finally.
“You— what?”
“My husband is dead. Morrigan killed him, and she’ll kill you too, and this is what Theodore isn’t telling you. What he ought to tell you.” She stops and grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. “I’m going to apologize now. I should’ve before. This won’t end well for you. You know that, right?”
I clamp my lips together and nod. Of course I know. I’d be a fool if I didn’t. I’m a fool either way.
There’s a touch of fondness in her eyes as she studies my resolve. “He’s trying to keep you safe. You are his priority, and he is mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“We’re not friends. I’d be rid of you in an instant if I thought it would benefit me, or him.”
A fist squeezes my heart. “I know.”
“You don’t deserve this.”
I’m not afraid. The role I’m meant to play is one I accepted a while ago.
“I forgive you.” The words spill out as the pulsing in my head intensifies. “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but you’re forgiven.”
For a second, the mask of indifference she usually wears cracks. A flash of— remorse? Pain? “Sweet girl,” she whispers. “He should’ve left you alone.”
A fist slams into my temple, and the world goes dark.
Andrew was scared of heights. That didn’t stop him from climbing the tree. At fourteen, he had more lank than muscle. Limbs twisted and clung and fumbled while he hoisted himself onto the tallest branch that could support his weight— until it didn’t.
A broken collarbone was a bitch to heal, and Andrew let me know it. He told everyone he fell. I watched him jump.
“Fear is a dare,” he said, and laughed when I called him reckless.
I understood him, of course I did. When we sat up at night, staring into the darkest parts of ourselves— when we kept our eyes open knowing what we would find, we weren’t brave. But we looked anyway.
Now, I keep my eyes closed. Floating— no, carried. Arms under my knees and back, my cheek against a shoulder, my head, my head. Not the usual pulsing ache but a sharper, deeper pain. My mouth falls open in a whimper.
A furious voice rumbles under my ear but sounds so far away. It takes me a second to place it, but I do. Marcella’s here, so I must be okay.
“—lucky you didn’t crack her skull, you brute. She would’ve come...”
The words muffle under another stab of pain. I’m being rocked. Jostled. We’re walking.
Another person speaks. His voice is gruff and oily, like he’s telling a joke to an unwilling audience. “I had to make it look realistic. The First One has keen eyes for deception. This way, she’ll come to you instead of demanding you travel.”
I know that voice. Fear lights in the pit of my stomach. I struggle against the arms holding me, but Marcella’s grip tightens to the point of pain.
“This doesn’t make us allies,” Marcella hisses. “Come around here again, and I’ll see you strung up.”
Uriel laughs, a horrible sound. “As entertaining as it would be to watch you try, you don’t need to make such threats. I’m in the muck with you, succubus. Breathe a word of this to our creator, and you wouldn’t need to lift a finger to see me extinguished. You have me, to put it colloquially, by the balls.”
“So why do it?”
Silence.
Then, “Best not to mention this to the prince.”
“Yeah,” Marcella says. “Best.”
“Tell Azmaveth I advise him to pay better attention.”
The arms holding me tighten again. Footsteps scrape against the path— hers, and not. The other set quiets, getting further and further away until I can’t hear them anymore. She shifts the arm supporting my back, reaching to stroke her thumb over my shoulder.
“I know you’re awake.”
My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. “Wh—”
“Hush. You’re alright. Az will patch you up.” She keeps walking but tries to keep me as still as possible. It doesn’t work; every step makes me grit my teeth. “We’re nearly there.”
Finding the words is like pulling shells from dry sand. Unconsciousness tries to drag me under again, but I struggle against it. “He’s— gonna— kill you.”
Like a thick quilt being placed over my head, I drift away from her, trusting, despite what she’s done, that she won’t drop me and leave me for the scavengers. She’s one herself, but a vulture on my side is better than one not. And I’m not dead yet.
A whisper, so distant that it might be my imagination: “Don’t I know it.”