Chapter Nine
Theodore
Someone's at the door, tapping a polite but insistent pattern. I narrow my eyes; nobody ever bothers to knock. After schooling my face into calculated boredom, an easy task given how often I've kept up the facade while here, I open the door to find a familiar figure. Relief and shame mingle in my throat, thickening my exhale.
His clothes are filthy and outdated, but his face lacks any evidence of the passage of time. Bright hazel eyes trace my body, down to my feet and back up slowly. I do the same, assessing him for any indication that my mother disregarded our agreement, but he's uninjured. He's safe. He's here. I'd pull him inside and lock the door behind us if I were certain he'd be amenable. I'd grab his hand and sprint into the trees if we wouldn't be dragged back.
His hair is shorter than it was before but the same shade of copper. It flicks up defiantly around the crown of his head, forming a mockery of a halo. If any of us could be considered an angel, I suppose it would be Elias.
He throws his arms around me and smacks a kiss on my temple. "It's been an age," he says. "I've missed you. Where have you been?"
I embrace him, scanning over his shoulder until I spot Morrigan standing a respectable distance away. Of course. "Here and there. And here."
He pulls away and grins like I've told him a perfect secret. I can't help myself; I return it. My ability to read Gemma's expressions came from a century of attentiveness and proximity, but my knowledge of Elias' was born of shared experience. A thief and a cheat, both scaling an unscalable mountain, unable to see its peak except in the dark, except when he laid with his face close to mine and we exchanged promises like breath.
I want to take his hands. I want to tell him that I thought of him every day, even if it's a lie. I want to weep at his feet and beg forgiveness. "You've been busy?"
"I just got back. Front lines and all." There's a new weariness in the pitch of his brows, the quirk of his lips. He leans in like we're conspirators. "Dreadfully boring, if you ask me. Nobody ever does."
"I can't imagine why."
Morrigan approaches us. He doesn't turn, but he marks her movements the same way I do: shoulders tensing just so, chin tilted up, ready for the strike— physical or verbal, we've suffered both. "A fine reunion," she says, "and a gift. Such friendship only blooms in darkness. Don't you agree, dove?"
I say nothing.
She continues, mischief littering her voice, "I have a task for you. If all goes well, it'll be your final errand." I swallow my answering scoff. She nods towards Elias. "He will accompany you."
Elias straightens. "Not Gemma?"
Her name on his lips is a searing knife my gut. He wasn't there that final night. I wish he had been, if only so he didn't smooth the syllables with such tenderness.
"She's occupied," my mother says, snapping her fingers and turning on her heel. "Come. We'll talk while you prepare."
After we’ve been given our instructions, we trudge through the forest on foot. “It’s an honor, you know,” Elias says. “She doesn’t usually give orders herself.”
“She always gives me orders.”
“Let me rephrase, then. She doesn’t usually give orders to those without her cursed blood in their veins.”
I glance at him with raised brows. “Cursed blood?”
His face flushes. He adjusts his glasses, a nervous tic that I’m glad he hasn’t kicked. “I meant no offense. I meant it as praise, actually. The power of her blood is rich with— Oh, fuck off.” He shoves me when he notices my grin.
“No, go on. I want to hear more about the sanctity of the First One, the Creator, the Undying Soul, our valiant savior and protector—” He shoves me again, and I laugh more freely than I have in years.
His face falls like a cloud brushing past the moon. “Do you believe it’s true? That she is undying?”
“I believe that this is a dangerous conversation to have.”
“Be straight with me, Theodore. It’s just us.” I sigh, but he doesn’t let up. “Are we not all undying?”
“We are all undead.”
He grabs my shoulder, pulling me to a stop. His eyes burn with something I’ve seen before but never on his face. “Do you think she can be killed?”
I shirk out of his grip. “If she found out we were having this conversation, she would obliterate you. I quite enjoy your company, so can we drop it?”
“Give me an answer.”
“Elias, stop—”
“Yes or no.”
I clench my jaw before admitting the truth that could damn us both. “Yes.”
“And who would take her place?”
I begin walking. He follows a step behind. “Never speak of this again,” I say.
“Is that an order?” The smirk in his voice is impossible to miss.
I exhale through my teeth. “I missed you, Elias. So very much.”
“As I missed you, my obstinate messiah, Blood of the First, He Who Will Tame the River—”
I silence him with a sharp look.
We arrive at the destination given to us by Morrigan before the sun sets. Other than the fact that it sits smack in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited area, it’s an unremarkable shack. The windows have no glass, only shutters that are secured through willpower alone, dangling by a hinge. The wooden walls are rotting and cracked in more places than I can count. A small animal scurries through a hole in the foundation.
“If this is their base,” Elias mutters, “they don’t stand a chance.” He eyes the weather-worn door. "Should we knock?"
"Such a gentleman." I pound my fist against the wood, shocked that it doesn't crumble under the force. "Hello? Anyone home?"
"Theodore…" He puts his hand on my shoulder in warning but doesn't pull me away. "What if they run?"
This isn't how we used to do this. When we were three instead of two, we were more careful. "Then they run."
"Will we chase them?"
I shrug out of his hold. The absence of his touch is a missing limb, one I've grown accustomed to. Just as people learn to walk after an amputation, I've adapted to cover the empty space on my left that he used to occupy. And the vacancy to my right— cauterized before it became infected with something other than anger. "Nobody's dying today."
"A noble sentiment, but I disagree," a voice says from behind us. I shove Elias behind me and spin in a smooth motion, a pathetic shimmer of lightning flashing over my forearms. The speaker raises a brow at the display.
She's shorter than the command in her tone suggests. Her hair is dark and pulled into a knot at the top of her head— a style fit for fighting if I've ever seen one. A scar cuts down the left side of her face, clipping the edge of her lip. She could've fixed the blemish when she was reborn; most Mortae choose to augment their appearances to better suit their transition into the afterlife. Some choose new faces altogether, abandoning their previous visage for less humanoid features. It's an inconsequential expenditure of effort, shifting into someone new. Easy as breathing, but I've never bothered with it. Mortae identify each other through energy signatures; there's no hiding who I am.
Though my arm is stretched in front of his chest, Elias announces, "We're here on orders of the First One."
"I know why you're here. Took you long enough." She nods towards the door. "Tea?"
Elias is having none of it. "If you know why we're here, you know what you're being accused of."
"Refresh yourselves before you threaten us."
"Us?" I ask.
She waves her hand, and the door creaks open. I glance over my shoulder. The inside of the cottage is as dilapidated as the outside, rotting floors and furniture that must be decades old. A woman sits at a dining table in plain view from where we stand, forehead pressed against her clenched fists, white hair falling over her wrists, eyes squeezed shut like she's praying.
I gesture for the stranger to allow us entry. She complies, though not without a pointed glance at Elias. I brush my forearm against the bottom of his ribs, then lower it to my side. She nods, understanding without me having to speak the words. Move against him, and I'll rescind my previous assertion.
The kettle is already on. A pervasive staleness lurks in the air despite the breeze that wafts through the shattered windows. The white-haired woman doesn't look up when we take our seats, chairs complaining beneath our weight.
Elias whistles. "Sweet digs."
"We do what we can with what we have," the first woman says, pouring each of us a mug of the promised tea.
"Rebellion isn't a fruitful endeavor?"
She laughs, setting the mugs in front of us. Neither of us reach for them. "Not financially, no."
I say, "You don't deny it."
"Would it matter if I did?" She sits next to her immovable companion. "I'm guilty because Death decided I'm guilty. She's judge and jury, which makes you—"
"I'm not here to kill you."
She cocks her head. "Do you think your inaction absolves you?"
"Watch your tone," Elias snaps.
"And you," she turns to him, "have quite a reputation yourself. The heir's last companion— in your dreams, are you the shield or the sword? Is it her hands that guide you or his?" She shrugs. "I suppose it doesn't matter."
"Is there a reason you invited us inside," I ask, "or do you just mean to taunt us?"
"The truth is a taunt?"
"Get to the point."
She sips her tea slowly like she's afraid it might burn her tongue. It might have if she was alive. "A wise woman once told me that only a fool takes shelter beneath a boot."
I lean forward, resting my forearms on either side of the mug. The hum of her thoughts is curated like a melody, spliced by an expert hand and offered with a sly grin. I recoil against the obvious test, but curiosity overtakes my irritation. It seems I wasn't Marcella's only pupil. "You're Vivienne."
"I've been waiting for you," she says, "for a very long time."
The white-haired woman lets out a choked sob but doesn't look up. Elias stiffens, eyes glazing over, frown deepening.
"When will you say, no more?" She turns to Elias. "How long can this go on before you find your spine and say, enough?"
"Stop trying to recruit him," I snap.
Her eyes flick to me. "Would you condemn the bird that stands against the axe?"
"Yes," I say with more confidence than I feel, "because the axe will not discriminate between bark and bone."
"Do you?" she asks. "Who earns your favor and who is cast aside as collateral? Though I suppose gods have the right to make that distinction."
"I'm not a god."
"Unfortunately not," she sighs, reaching to rub soothing circles between the white-haired woman's shoulder blades.
The woman's head jerks up, and she looks at Elias with such intensity that I'm certain he'd blush if he were able. "You understand?" she asks.
Elias swallows. "Yes."
"But you're afraid."
He glances at me sidelong, then back to her. "For him."
The realization knocks the wind from my lungs as thoroughly as if Morrigan was manipulating the air. I shoot to my feet. "We're leaving." He stands after the briefest hesitation. Morrigan trained him well in that regard, at least. He asks no questions.
Vivienne doesn't rise to block our exit. We've almost crossed the threshold back into the forest when she calls after us— after me, "Marcella said you were foolish and headstrong, but she did not mention that you were a coward."
I pause, my hand still on Elias' arm. He's trembling. "I'm not a coward."
"You're frightened, and you're running away. What would you call that?"
A rational reaction to an irrational situation. A refusal to accept that the worst solution is the only solution. Preservation— of them, of myself. "I know what you're offering. I decline."
"Fortunate that I don't need your compliance, then."
Elias puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me so that my back is against his chest, pulling me flush against his body. His arms wind beneath my armpits, hands locking behind my head, fingers scratching at my scalp— an attempt at reassurance despite the restraint. I thrash against him, panic manifesting as anger manifesting as energy bursting from my skin. It must burn, but his grip doesn't falter.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs into my ear. I jerk my head back, seeking impact, but he dodges. "I'm so sorry."
An animalistic snarl tears from my throat. The present becomes the past: a white-tiled room, shackles around my wrist, lashes and taunts, the wound and the salt. I'm not human, of course I'm not— my mistake for thinking I was more, not less.
The white-haired woman stands. "Be calm," she rasps. I'm not sure who she's speaking to. "It won't hurt." Her chest begins to glow, a light so bright that I struggle to lift my arms, to shield my eyes. Vivienne dips her chin as hers does the same. The light spreads until it engulfs their bodies, until they become nothing but searing brightness. It burns when sunlight does not, and light— light should not be so loud. A chorus of moans, I think. That's what the sound is: an echo of a soul ripped from a body and then compounded until it's unidentifiable as human.
I sink into Elias, eyes watering. "I don't— Please," I whimper. "We can… let's go home. Anywhere, Elias, let's just go. Just— let me go."
His arms tighten around me as the bodies are consumed by the light, pressing his forehead against the back of my neck. "I'll follow you, my prince," he says, "but you must step first."
"No." The word slips out as a plea. "No no no—"
Later, I'll find the words to describe the feeling of a hundred souls being pumped into my body, each distinct and somehow homogenous. The consumption, the being consumed, unwound by a thousand grasping hands, tearing and being torn. The pressure is unfathomable. I must be dying, but I've died before, and it was easier than this. My limbs go numb, prickling with new power. The cost… too high. I lurch backwards, collapsing into his body. His body, my body— do I still have a body? There is only light and light and light— and then there is nothing.
I wake with a start, jolting upright before calm hands land on my shoulders and guide me back down. Grass dampens my back and bare arms. My throat burns like I’ve been screaming or vomiting— likely both. The moon peeks through the canopy of leaves above me. Still in the forest, though the shack is nowhere to be found. Maybe it was incinerated the way I was certain we would be— We?
My forehead is slick with sweat— not sweat, I realize. Someone dabs my skin with a damp cloth. I blink until he comes into focus. His chest is bare; he’s using his shirt as a makeshift rag. It smells like him, like woodsmoke and pine and late nights from a hundred years ago, tucked between him and Gemma, passing around a bottle of whatever we managed to get our hands on.
My mouth forms around his name like a prayer. He combs my hair back with his fingers. "Rest," he says.
I close my eyes and see light in the form of a hundred screams, a hundred specks of dust so close that I could reach out and hold them in my palm or scatter them if I exhale too hard. "Are they dead?"
He hesitates. "You did not kill them."
I sit up, flipping my hands to stare at my palms. Light circles my fingertips like sentient rings, then settles in the creases. "A myth," I whisper.
He humors me. "Perhaps."
"Morrigan will be furious when she finds out."
"She likely already knows. Or do you think I'm so lenient about your safety that I don't recognize when we're being followed?"
My eyes fly open. He's grinning though, the slightest knit between his brows the only sign of concern. "Who?" As if his nonchalance is not answer enough.
His mood darkens as he takes in my own. "She made a mistake. She's sorrier than you know."
"Not as sorry as she'll be when I get my hands around her throat."
He looks away, disgusted. It's not my fault he thinks I'm a better person than I am. "She needs us now more than ever. She's trapped here just as we are." He plucks a blade of grass off his pants. "Just as I am, I mean. You, of course, are not subjected to such captivity."
I bristle. "Do you think I haven't experienced my mother's cruelty? Do I not bear the scars that prove otherwise?"
"You left me," he snaps. Those three words cleave the air between us. It's as much an accusation as it is a question. He leans back, bracing his palms on the ground. "You didn't even bother to say goodbye."
If I offered the truth, I would lose him. I shift and move towards him until our knees are pressed together. Rubbing my index finger over his thigh, lingering in the crease of the fabric, I meet his eyes when I say, "I was going to come back for you."
His gaze dips to watch my fingers trace circles, each pass higher than the last. "You were?"
"Of course."
He frowns. "Gemma didn't mention that."
"Why would she? Does it not benefit her for you to think me callous?" I rise on my knees, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. His eyes flick to mine, narrowed behind his glasses, brows low. I don't need to decipher his thoughts to know what wars within him. "Am I callous, Elias?"
His fingers curl in the grass. "You should've told me."
"I should have." I lower my voice. "Forgive me?"
His exhale is shaky. He puts his hand over mine, still resting on his cheek. "I missed you." Three new words— better words, words I can live with. I need him the way that air needs lungs, a place to return when the world becomes too vast, but I will not wound either of us by calling it love.
"I know," I say, wrapping my hand around the back of his head, fingers twining in his hair. This must be how he felt, restraining me. I ought to punish him, to remind him that we’ve never been equals. I press my forehead against his. "I'm here."
His kiss is not gentle, but I don't want it to be. This, for now, is punishment enough.
It’s not a long walk back to the motel, but we take our time. Elias is in a pleasant mood given our recoupling, pointing out bird nests and pausing to watch insects crawl over logs or blades of grass. Neither of us mention the shadow keeping just out of sight, trailing behind us when we used to walk arm-in-arm.
“Tell me about Azmaveth,” he says. “Tell me about the house. Tell me about your life.”
So I do. He listens as I ramble about how the winter blooms in the garden would be thriving by now. I tell him about lazy Sunday nights with Liam and Anya, about holidays and family dinners and swapping books with Az and bickering with Marcella about choosing music to play in the foyer. I tell him about my room, about the first time Az took me shopping to buy bedding and how I purchased so many pillows that there was hardly room for me to lay on the bed. I describe the view from my window, overlooking the front driveway, and how the light sometimes hits the glass so perfectly that it casts rainbows across the floor.
It takes a while for me to run out of things to say, but I do. He nods silently, a strange expression on his face. “You’re happy there?” he asks.
When I first arrived, I would’ve said no, but now I consider. A bird caws overhead. I rub my thumbs together. “It’s a different life,” I say finally. “One I wasn’t ever expecting to live. It’s… peaceful.”
“Good,” Elias says, adjusting his glasses. “Good.”
We return to Morrigan’s motel before the sun sets again. Uriel is huddled with a group of fresh-faced men in front of the main office, nobody I recognize. For every Mortae that Morrigan slaughters, she brings in ten new ones. Marcella and her rebels don’t stand a chance against that advantage, replacing soldiers as they fall.
“The errant son returns,” Uriel calls.
Elias looks up, ready to offer a scathing retort, but I tug him along. “We stay out of trouble until we find Morrigan,” I murmur. “No point in picking fights if we’re trying to get on her good side.”
He obliges, letting me pull him away, but says, “He has the aura of a man that has never had his face beat in.”
“I agree,” I say, and mean it, “but we are not the ones to deliver that beating. Clear?”
Elias scowls as we enter the office in search of my mother. “You used to be more fun.”
Morrigan is waiting for us in her office. The setting sun behind her paints her face in oranges and shadows that stretch when she smiles. She's never one to dress casually. Even here, she wears a dark gown with flowing sleeves cut at the elbow so that her arms can move freely. Pearl earrings glimmer as she tuck her hair behind an ear. "Interesting," she says as I enter, Elias a step behind me. I resist the urge to pull at the hem of my shirt, goosebumps raising beneath her assessment. "You've done well."
The praise does little to quell the inky knot in my gut. "They're dead. Foe vanquished. Can we go?"
"You know me as many things, but I'm not a liar. You may return to Azmaveth." She glances at Elias, then back at me. "Did you kill them, dove?"
"I've acquired the souls that they possessed."
"Yes, I see that. But did you kill them?"
I could lie, but she raises her brows like she's daring me to. "They Yielded."
She leans back in her chair, beckoning me forward with a finger. I have no choice but to obey, stepping around the desk to stand next to her and leaving Elias exposed. She traces her fingernail across my neck. "You are so much more than I ever hoped you'd be."
"Can we go?"
She rests her palm against my cheek. Her nails are so close to my eyes that I tense my muscles to avoid flinching. "You may go."
This close, I can see the navy in her irises. She's incapable of reading my thoughts; she must be, or I would have never been allowed out of that basement. "Elias is coming with me."
She frowns, withdrawing. "I'm afraid not, dove."
"I'm taking him with me. Azmaveth will claim responsibility of us both."
Elias starts, "Leave it alone, my prince—"
Morrigan whips her head towards him, the manufactured warmth in her expression gone. "You do not give him orders."
I step away from her, grateful for the distraction. He dips his chin in apology, his fear so palpable that it stains the back of my tongue.
"Have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried to run away with one of your pets? Should I summon Gemma to remind you? She's around here somewhere, the doll."
"This is not like last time." I place myself in front of Elias, readying for the blow. "We're not sneaking away. I'm telling you—"
She stands, shorter than either of us, but her rage fills the room so thoroughly that she might as well be hovering above. "And I am telling you no, insolent boy. Walk away if you please, or stay here with him."
Elias' hand on my arm is resignation that I can't and must accept. To leave him here would leash me to these walls, but to press, to fight… Courting death, as Gemma said.
I could stay. The thought dissolves as soon as it bursts forth. I could stay and drive myself mad. I could stay and resent Elias for my staying. I could stay and fall into my mother's palm. It was not an option three centuries ago, and it's not an option now. "Fine."
"Fine," she mocks. "Give the succubus my regards."
The shadows that transport me back to Azmaveth's manor are easier to wade through, like stepping on packed dirt instead of sand. There's no air in this space between spaces, but breathing is a luxury, not a requirement, so I tread on. It's a skill I learned from my mother and perfected with Azmaveth's assistance. I only lost my grip once, slamming my palms on a sidewalk halfway between Az's front door and the Greek restaurant that was my destination. I'll never be so weak again.
When I was alive, I would dream of this place, the gap between life and death. Silence so loud that my ears begin to ring—or would, if I had ears here. I have no body, nothing to contain the insignificant vastness that is cobbled together into something alive but not alive. Someone who can skin his palms and not bleed.
Elias will endure, as will I. If he hates me for choosing me over us, he will not be the only one.
The cars, the fountain, the gravel— everything is exactly as I remember. Even the hedges are perfectly trimmed, identical to the way they looked when I left. The front door is cracked open which is odd but not unusual, especially since the weather is mild. I take a step forward and pause, the new light within me recoiling against some unseen threat.
Something is wrong.
Az steps into the doorway. He does not smile at my unexpected return. His mouth opens, then snaps closed. When he smooths the front of his shirt, a thin sheen of blood coats the fabric. “Come quickly.”