Chapter Six
Theodore
After one year and three months, I stop expecting to see Azmaveth's house again. After three years, eight months, and twelve days, I stop responding to Uriel's quips with my own. After five years, ten months, six days, and fourteen hours, I stop counting.
Morrigan's new throne room is impossibly less decadent than the one before. The floors are rotted wood that creaks beneath my feet as I make my way to my assigned spot, a peeling brown pleather couch. There's an indent in the cushion the size of my bottom and legs. Beside me are tall, empty filing cabinets that make a horrible grinding sound when opened. On top of them, there's a stack of books with the spines turned towards the wall so I can't see the titles, a fan with dusty blades, and a globe that I've never seen spun.
Her chair is turned towards the window, half-covered by dented and yellowed horizontal blinds. The chipped mahogany desk behind her is completely bare except for an empty ashtray that's probably a stayover from when she requisitioned this motel. She doesn't smoke, though it wouldn't matter if she did.
Her black hair falls over the back of the chair. The angle of the sunlight interrupted by her body casts a shadow that stretches to the door. I don't announce my arrival. She doesn't turn when I take my seat.
"You've been practicing," she says.
I open my mouth to ask how she's aware that I spend my nights letting the lightning surge beneath my skin, conjuring balls of wind in my palms, painting the walls with droplets formed from the moisture in the air, but I decide I'd rather not know. "I have little else to do."
"Would you like an assignment?"
"I'd like to go home."
Always the same refrain. Always the same amused uptick of her chin. "Is this not your home?"
I exhale through my nose and bring my legs up, crossing them on the couch. It squeaks terribly beneath my weight. Silence is my only defense, so I wield it.
She spins in her chair, spine straight and face unreadable. This close, it's impossible to deny my heritage. Our eyes are the same shade of navy; our nose dips and bulbs at the same angle. Even the curve of my lips and curl of my hair are reflections of her. Loathing her image would be like cursing a mirror— which I do, and I have done.
"From my own body, such a stubborn boy."
Despite myself, I bristle. "You didn't birth me."
"But I raised you, did I not?" I scowl, but she's quick to answer her own question. "Nineteen years with those humans you called parents, and nearly three centuries with me. I can guess which holds more influence, if you'd like."
She's usually short-tempered, but it's odd for her to pick a fight so blatantly. Trouble with the rebellion perhaps, or an ill-fated Mortae orientation, or a slight eastward breeze… Anything could've sparked the irritation shimmering behind her eyes. I know better than to bite lest I end up with a hook in my gills, fileted and grilled over a campfire. I've learned a thousand lessons in this room— No, I've learned the same lesson a thousand times.
"When I placed you in that woman's womb, I didn't expect you to grow so attached. The hands that caught you when you entered this world were not mine, but do you think I wasn't watching?"
Errant energy surges in my chest, turning the air in my lungs to fire, then smoke.
"When you moved through the market, swiping rolls and meat, who darkened the shadows around you? Who spun the wind at your back? Who softened your footsteps?"
My mouth moves before I can swallow the words. "You let me die."
She slams a fist on the desk. The ashtray clatters against the wood. "I gave you eternity. Do not tempt me to take it away."
If she's bluffing, I'm not brave enough to call her on it. I squeeze my hands into fists in my lap.
In a voice too loud to be addressed to me, she says, "Come."
The door opens, and a man I've only ever seen in passing walks in. The scar that stretches down the left side of his face, through his eye, and across his cheekbone is visible even with his head bowed. He doesn't look much older than I am. Rafe, I think his name is. I've seen him laughing with another Mortae with the same hazel eyes and golden hair.
He stops in the center of the room but doesn't speak or lift his chin. Smart man. The silence slithers through the air, flashing its fangs, daring one of us to flinch. I hold my breath and resist the urge to clear my throat.
"Are you providing information," my mother asks, snapping the air back into my lungs, "or issuing a complaint?"
Rafe taps his index finger against his thigh. "Both, I suppose."
"You suppose."
"There's— Ah. A woman."
I almost pity him for the way Morrigan's face twists in impatience. "Not a woman."
"Noela Tove. She made a deal with some man in the city. Promised him riches or something, it doesn't matter." He shifts his weight onto his left foot. "Hector got into it with him last time we were in town. Standard machismo fanfare, but he ended up killing the guy. Took the soul owed to Noela."
"Hector." For once, her cutting glare isn't aimed at me. "Your brother?"
He nods, barely a twitch of his head.
My mother's eyes slide to mine. At some point during this conversation, my mouth fell open. I snap it shut. "What should we do, dove?"
It's the first time she's spoken to me so civilly in front of an audience. A test, and there's no correct answer. If I say that we should ignore the complaint, it'll confirm my mother's suspicion of my weakness. Would she drag me to that basement again? Would she at least wait until Rafe leaves to pour water in my lungs, to cuff my wrists and slice my skin? But if I say that Hector should be punished, would Rafe mourn? Would he curse me even though he brought the matter before us?
"Nothing," I say, more resolute than I feel. "Show mercy."
Rafe's head jerks up. "Mercy?"
Morrigan snaps, "Are you asking him to repeat himself?"
"No. No, of course not." He bows to me, then to my mother, and walks backwards out of the room. The door slams shut behind him like a guillotine.
I set my feet on the floor and turn to face her fully. She's not looking at me.
"Come."
Over the next nine hours and sixteen minutes, the scene repeats. Some are personal disputes where no Mortae law has been broken: thievery, honor disputed, gossip and insults. Usually, my mother would wave her hand and order them to duel. Today, though, she turns to me.
"Dove?"
"Do nothing."
If my repeated answer displeases her, she hides it well. They scurry away, glad to be free of her suffocating presence. Would that I were so lucky.
I recognize a few of them, though I know none personally. My world has become a tiny place. I'm only allowed in this office or in the dingy room that's been allocated for me. "Or in the basement," my mother said when I arrived, "if you'd be more comfortable there." It's not a long walk between here and the room, so I briefly see the open sky twice a day: once when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, and again when the stars have made their appearance.
A woman enters with the same deference that all before her showed: head low, eyes cast to the ground, shoulders dropped. She's older, maybe Anya's age. Her hair is cropped short and shaved on one side. She doesn't speak until my mother asks, "Do you bring information or are you issuing a complaint?"
Morrigan looks as fresh as she did when we began this morning, sharp eyes tracking every twitch of muscle, seeking dishonesty. My own body is slumped against the back of the couch. I tilt my head towards the ceiling and count the tiles, imagining that I can see the sky beyond.
The woman drones on and on about how Hayes is a rebel sympathizer, how he tried to seduce her into defecting with him. "He's gone now," she says. "Wouldn't tell me where to until I agreed. And I didn't— agree, I mean. I would never."
My mother raises a brow. "Why?"
"What?"
"What do they want?"
The woman hesitates. I open my mouth to speak in her defense but decide against it.
She starts, "If I may speak freely—"
"You may not," Morrigan says coolly.
My mother must be bored if she's toying with her like this. At least the cruelty isn't directed towards me. I don't know this woman. Maybe she deserves it. If she's willing to sell out a friend for something so simple, I don't doubt it. She must know the consequences if he's caught.
"They want him," the woman says finally, jerking her chin towards me. "They think he's going to… surpass you."
Morrigan doesn't flinch. "And what do you think?"
I lean forward, more awake than I've been in hours. Every muscle in the informant's body is taut. Her throat works as she tries to find the words to soothe my mother without disrespecting me. What does Morrigan want to hear? If I ever knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't be sitting here.
Too long of a silence would damn her. I exhale and whisper into her mind, Your power is vast and without comparison.
She blinks and repeats the words without looking at me.
If he sits on the throne, it will only be because you allow him to do so.
Morrigan inclines her head.
You have led us for an eternity and you will lead for an eternity more.
I wait for the woman to repeat the final statement. She closes her eyes, mouth moving silently. When she opens them again, I know I've made a mistake. "His ascension will make the earth tremble, and you will be swallowed whole."
The smile that creeps across Morrigan's lips is almost pleased, like she expected this. I curl my shoulders forward, pressing my fists into my thighs. Whatever the woman meant to achieve, whatever she meant to find in this hell of hells, she will not be successful. My mother only has one answer for defiance. She raises a hand and swats as if she's fielding a gnat. The woman throws her shoulders back as the atoms in her body separate into dust. A spark of light, then all that's left of her is a pile of clothes where she stood.
"I suppose I don't need to ask your opinion," Morrigan says. "Mercy, correct?"
The sunlight glints on the copper of the woman's belt. Was it for fashion or comfort? I'll never find out now. "You knew."
"That she was the seducer? Not a difficult conclusion to reach."
"That I'm the conduit they're looking for."
"Also not a difficult conclusion." She surveys me. "Was it denial or ignorance keeping you from that truth?"
A bit of both, but I won't admit that to her. "Why not just kill me?"
She frowns. "You are my blood."
"Cowardice disguised as sentimentality. I expected more from you, mother."
Death is wicked, but she's also predictable. In the split second between the word leaving my lips and the water rushing into my lungs, a twitch of her brow shatters her cool facade. I deserve the punishment. I know I do, even though my hands fly to my throat. I try to gasp, but the water spilling from my nose and mouth blocks any air from entering. My lungs seize. I topple forward, knees cracking on the floor. Beyond my instinctual panic, a pang of victory. Who else could wring such emotion from her? Who else could snap her patience?
Maybe this is the power she— fears isn't the right word. Resents. Seeks to squash. Does she see me when she looks in the mirror? The most vulnerable, most human parts of her— does she curse me, too?
Her hold loosens enough for me to gulp down air. I press my forehead against the floor and groan. My ears are ringing, body too heavy to rise.
"Come."
The door squeaks open. Scraping, slow footsteps approach. They halt inches away from my bowed head.
A familiar, trilling voice says, "I always preferred you on your knees."
My panic sharpens, boiling and cooling and boiling again like a sword being forged in my blood. I knew she was around—she's my mother's creature, after all—but I didn't think she'd be stupid enough to come here.
My fault, underestimating her. It isn't the first time.
I roll back, balancing with my calves tucked beneath me. Her hair is longer, nearly reaching her mid-back and neatly combed. Everything about her is more refined than I remember: her jaw is sharper, her clothes are tailored and modern, and her nails are clean and clipped short. The sunglasses are the same though, as is the twitch in her cheek when our eyes meet. She's frightened, and she's hiding it poorly.
Since I'm merciful, I hiss, "Get out."
"Don't be rude, dove. She has information." Morrigan raises a brow. "Correct?"
"Yes." Gemma is still looking at me. I curl my lip. "Uriel has been… fraternizing," she says slowly, "with human women."
"Am I meant to mediate this lover's spat?" Morrigan asks.
"Six of them have given birth."
She sits back in her chair and exhales, the only sign of shock she'll allow. "You're certain he sired them?"
"I'm certain he tried." Gemma smirks, such a familiar sight that I want to rip it off of her face. "Blood of the Second doesn't have the same ring to it."
"What of the spawn?"
"Disposed of."
My stomach turns. I find my feet. "You killed—"
"Be silent," Morrigan snaps, "or I will silence you." To Gemma, "Is Uriel aware of your involvement?"
The smirk spreads into a full, toothy grin. "He's not aware of much these days."
"Careful. He does still outrank you."
Gemma shrugs. "Maybe he shouldn't."
The retort bubbles on my tongue, eight decades of anger rising to the surface. I can't hold it in, and honestly, I can't be bothered to try all that hard. "A power play? And here I thought your inability to keep him satisfied was your sole motivation."
Hurt flashes in her eyes, hidden beneath her sunglasses. They were a spoil of war from another lifetime, swept from the corpse of a man that deserved his fate as much as we did. I was the one that suggested she wear them in an effort to guard herself from those who would weaponize our emotions, my mother included. I know her too well to be fooled by the flimsy shield—or I did eighty years ago. If she means to appeal to that shared past, she'll find no purchase. I revel in her wince, only visible to someone attuned to every minute shift in her expression. I'll have my vengeance— my vengeance, not my mother's.
Morrigan continues as if I hadn't spoken, "If you want his position, you know what I require of you."
"To challenge him would be to court death," Gemma says, tearing her gaze from mine, "though I suppose I have experience with that."
If I reach out, I could have her throat in my hands. I wouldn't need to squeeze that hard.
Without looking at me, Morrigan asks, "What will it be, dove?"
I clench my teeth. She already knows my answer.
Morrigan sighs. "That's all for today. Gemma will escort you back to your room."
I straighten. "I don't need an escort."
"Forgive me if I don't want to fetch you from…" She sniffs, "Was it Texas?"
An obvious attempt to bait either of us into asking about Elias. If Gemma knows where he is, she gives no indication. I say, "You think I'll run."
"You do have a history."
"And if I decide to dispose of her once we're alone?"
A shrug. "You outrank her, too."
The fresh air does little to soothe the restlessness stirring in my lungs. I flex my fingers at my sides, slowing and tilting my head towards the sky. Gemma matches my pace, a steady presence beside me. It's been a lifetime since we walked like this, and it's been a day. The space between her hand and mine might as well be the distance between the ground beneath us and Polaris.
"He's fine," she murmurs. I don't need to ask who she's talking about.
"Don't speak to me." But I can't lose my temper, not out here, not with the eyes that track us. Sleep is not a luxury that my mother's soldiers indulge in. Most loiter in small groups, huddled together like they're preserving body heat that they don't require. Their whispers fade to silence as we pass.
"Morrigan's been keeping him busy." Her voice is swallowed by the rhythm of our footsteps. "I doubt he even knows you're here."
If there's an apology that would mend what I've broken, it's not one that I'm capable of offering. If Gemma has a similar apology, it's not one I'm interested in hearing.
We're nearing our destination when she says quietly, "Put your arm around me."
"Absolutely n—"
"If you want the chance to kill me yourself, do it now."
I throw my arm over her shoulder and tuck her into my side, surprised that the contact doesn't blister my skin. She tilts back her head and laughs just as a group of men glance our way. Once we're far enough away, she brings her lips to my ear. "Uriel's men. Nasty lot." Her breath is warm on my skin. I suppress a shiver.
"Have they—"
"No, but not for lack of trying."
I try to spin back towards them, but her arm tightens around my waist, forcing me to keep moving. "Don't be a moron."
I miss Marcella.
As soon as the door closes behind us, I shove her away. The furniture has been removed save for a stained armchair and a small desk with nothing on it except scratch marks where I've dug my nails into the wood. The adjoining bathroom is similarly unused. Sometimes a roach crawls up the drain and scurries from tile to carpet. Sometimes I let it run before I stomp on it.
Gemma pulls her hair over one shoulder and tilts her head, offering me her neck. Coward that she is, she lingers by the door.
"Where's Elias?" I ask.
"I thought gods weren't supposed to pick favorites."
"As this information is the only reason you're still standing here, I suggest you loosen your tongue."
She straightens and steps towards me, pressing her palm flat against my chest. An uptick of her chin, a pout, velvet green eyes widening behind her sunglasses— if I were a weaker man, I'd be on my knees again.
"The only reason?"
I press my forearm against her throat and shove her until her back hits the wall. She yelps, the sound consumed by the rattling of door protesting the force of the blow. The life I promised her lingers in the air between us, a life of sunshine and flowers and freedom, a life of peace that she discarded for my mother's favor. "I won't ask nicely again."
"He'll return in a few days." I lower my arm. She rubs at her throat but doesn't move away. "For his sake, you should keep your distance."
I don't deny that I'm a selfish person. An inherited trait, surely. I want, I want, I want. "I'll let him make his own decision."
She frowns. "Is it true you're working with the rebels?"
"Why? You want something to report to Morrigan?" I turn away from her. "We're done here."
"Be pissy with me if you want—"
"Pissy!"
"—but it was for your own good, and you know it."
I whirl towards her, energy prickling at my forearms. "Do you know what they did to me in that basement? Do you know what your lover did?"
She doesn't falter. I didn't expect her to. "You got out."
"Did I?"
"What would you have done?" She pushes off of the wall, stalking towards me. "Tell me what I should've done instead, Prince of Rot."
I grab her chin and squeeze, lightning teasing my fingertips. Her eyes flutter at the shock of pain but otherwise hold mine, unwavering. I lean in until our noses are nearly brushing. Her lips part, an exhale warming my own.
"When he fucks you," I murmur, "do you think of Arlington?"
Her eyes narrow. "I rarely think of anything else."
Without looking away, I reach beside me and swing the door open, giving anyone nearby a clear view of our compromising position. I'm beyond caring. "When Elias arrives, you'll send him to me."
"You sound like your mother."
It's not a new dance, lunging for each others' weakest spots. The truest suffering of being known is being exposed. We've orbited around each other for too long to bother with half-hearted jabs. She twists out of my grip and is gone before I can come up with a reply.
I slam the door closed and make my way to the chair in the center of the room, sitting just before the energy that I've been holding at bay erupts from within me. Light and heat and birth and death, the end of all things contained so neatly within this body. Tomorrow will be today again, and every night I tell myself that I cannot bear it. Then the morning comes, and I find myself bearing it.