40. Belladonna
40
BELLADONNA
T he ballroom is abuzz for Mercy and Wolfgang’s wedding reception. Half of the dance floor has been filled with round tables, covered in black velvet cloth. The intricate gold, black, and red flower arrangements at the center of each table are reminiscent of the very couple we are celebrating.
Dinner ended hours ago, and the guests have moved on to a more decadent and intoxicated way of celebrating. The wine and champagne flow freely, like blood from a severed artery, and if I squint my eyes just right, I’m sure I’ll find plenty of drugs being passed around too.
As a servant of our gods, I’m not affected by the manic need for excess that overcomes most mortals when in the vicinity of one of Vorovsky’s celebrations. And normally, I would never set foot on any of that degenerate’s properties … except I have twice now … in the span of a month.
I can’t deny the winds of change. Certainly, there is a new epoch knocking at our door. I must learn to be more adaptable, just like my peers, who seem a lot less bothered by change than me. That aside, I promised Mercy I would enjoy myself tonight, and my glass of Barolo, always topped off by attentive servers, has helped considerably.
Even Constantine doesn’t come off as shrill as I usually find her.
After spending some time dancing, I sit beside her at our table. A handful of dessert plates with half-eaten wedding cake still lingers, and I idly look for someone to take them away.
Constantine appears morose—an emotion I can’t say I’ve ever seen on her.
“Something the bother?” I ask over the music.
She huffs theatrically, the puff of air dancing in the pink feathers of her bustier. “I’m about to cut this cast off myself,” she whines. “I’m so bored … actually”—she straightens as if something just dawned on her and reaches for a knife still littering the table— “I’ll do it right now.”
I lunge for the knife. “No, you will not, Tinny.”
“Let me do this!” she exclaims. “This is the closest I’ve ever felt to real pain. Even death would be a more palatable fate!”
I scoff, still trying to wrench the knife out of her hands. “You’re so dramatic.”
After a short game of tug and pull, I manage to wrestle the knife out of her grip and place it out of her reach. She crosses her arms and pouts, but something over my shoulder catches her attention, and her face immediately lifts into a wide, amused smile.
I turn to find a beaming Gemini strolling into the ballroom, Veil in tow. My nape prickles at the sight of her. The same faint knowing throbs inside of me, right at the edge of my subconscious. I quickly push it away.
Now is not the time.
They’re both disheveled, caked in what looks like blood and dirt. Veil’s pale blue dress is ripped near the shoulder while Gemini’s shirt has disappeared altogether.
Their current state isn’t shocking—we’ve all seen and done much worse. Still, I know I’ll find displeasure on Mercy’s and Wolfgang’s faces, even before I locate them standing just off the dance floor with Vorovsky.
Gemini whispers something in Veil’s ear, and her attention shifts to Constantine and me. She starts for our table while Gemini heads for the disapproving couple, a wide grin on his bloodied face.
“Vee-Vee, my darling,” Constantine chirps as Veil approaches.
She gives us a sheepish smile, uselessly dusting off her tattered dress before sitting by Constantine.
“Please tell me what kind of high jinks you and Gemini got into. I’m quite literally dying for some entertainment.”
As Veil fumbles over explaining whatever Gemini roped her into doing, I reach for a cloth napkin. Pouring a fresh glass of water from the carafe, I dip a corner of the cloth into the water and hand it to Veil. She blinks at me owlishly, as if wondering why I’m handing her a napkin, but takes it from my grasp nonetheless.
“For the blood,” I say, tapping the corner of my mouth before flashing her a sardonic smile.
Realization dawns over her face, and her laugh hints of a timidity she’s obviously trying to conceal around us.
As she cleans herself up, Constantine presses her for more details, and I pretend to listen as I observe Gemini from the corner of my eye. He seems to be trying to pull Mercy away from Wolfgang.
I can only imagine what insults are flying out of her mouth as she appears to protest his efforts, but Gemini doesn’t balk, until finally, Mercy gives up the fight.
Veil has barely started her half-baked explanation about her current physical state when Gemini drags Mercy up to our table.
“Time for the bouquet toss!” Gemini gleefully announces, and Mercy’s entire body recoils.
She rolls her eyes with exasperation, but says nothing.
A quiet shock of surprise leaves my lips. “How did Gemini ever convince you to do a bouquet toss?”
Mercy’s cheeks pinken, and she fumbles over her words, staring at the all-black bouquet. “I — it’s —”
“Never the mind how ,” Gemini says with sparkles in his eyes. Now that he’s closer, I notice the beginning of a purple bruise under his left eye. “Everyone, up! Let’s move to the center of the dance floor.”
“But—” Constantine begins to whine in protest, but Gemini cuts her off by yelling across the ballroom, “Sasha!”
Vorovsky looks over, and Gemini signals him to come over with overly enthusiastic hand waves.
“Carry Tinny in your arms, will you?” he asks, still yelling across the room, then turns to Constantine and winks.
I sigh. Gemini’s personality always grates on my nerves, but I stand to join Mercy, who wordlessly thanks me for my begrudging participation.
Seconds later, Vorovsky trots over, lifting Constantine into his arms. She laughs gleefully, one arm raised in the air while the other circles Vorovsky’s neck, her pink cast sticking straight out in front of her.
After pulling Veil up from her chair, followed by an unnecessary show of affection, Gemini leaves us to flutter around the ballroom and round up as many willing participants as possible. Eventually, a small crowd gathers. I stay on the outskirts, having no intention of catching the bouquet. Mercy stands awkwardly in front of us, and I don’t miss her subtle glances to Wolfgang, who is wordlessly cheering her on.
Shoulders start pushing against shoulders when Mercy turns her back to us, and little shrieks of excitement rise from the participants as the anticipation of the bouquet toss rises. Meanwhile, Vorovsky parades Constantine in front of the whole group, as if winding up for a race.
There’s a short lull of silence when Mercy tosses the bouquet in the air until everyone winds back to life and lunges for the flowers. There’s a flurry of hands as the heap of people moves forward like a sentient mass, and I step backward, trying to avoid getting an elbow to the face.
A blonde I don’t recognize snatches it from midair, but her victory is short-lived when Gemini appears out of nowhere and rips the bouquet out of her grasp. Her mouth falls open in protest, but she doesn’t dare say a word as Gemini yelps in victory.
“Where’s my future wife?!” he says with the widest smile, his face still stained and bloodied, as he whips his head left and right, looking for Veil.
He finds her beaming, standing in the dispersing crowd, and pulls her into his arms for a kiss before dramatically bending her backward, lips still sealed.
My gaze slips to Mercy, standing a few steps away. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips as she watches the new couple. Her obvious affection for Gemini will forever evade me.
It’s late into the night, and the festivities have retired to a far less formal room. It appears to have been designed just for this kind of night with its low, moody lighting and countless couches and chaises filling the space. It’s my first time inside the Vorovsky estate, having only frequented the gardens and maze during the Feast of Fools.
Aside from us six—now seven—servants, everyone celebrating alongside us has been overtaken by the throes of excess, and I’m struck by how similar some of the facets of our powers are. I’ve never before stayed long enough in Vorovsky’s presence to witness it myself. I’m suddenly realizing that the lack of inhibitions among the celebrants looks a lot like being overtaken by lust. The same wide pupils. The same insatiable hunger.
Except my power is a lot more controlled, dignified. I prefer to keep that facet of my powers for my designated day during Tithe Season.
Still, it makes my throat go dry and my skin itch, as if my god were becoming restless at the sight. To distract myself, I grab a wandering soul by the collar and pull them into a kiss. They’re too drunk to protest—although I’ve never had anyone protest my affections before.
I can feel the effect instantly. The feeling is close to an orgasm, followed by a tingle of electricity from my toes all the way up to the crown of my head. I feel immediately recharged, my heart thumping with renewed energy. After having my fill, I break the kiss and shove them out of the way, now feeling a lot more social.
I scan the dark room for some familiar faces and spot Gemini, Veil, and Constantine sitting in one of the far corners. Not my first choice, but they will do for now. Reaching into my clutch purse for my pocket mirror, I retouch my red lipstick before making my way to them.
They’re in a fit of giggles when I approach, Constantine especially.
“What’s so funny?” I ask with genuine interest, still strumming with adrenaline from the kiss.
“Veil was showing me her powers,” Constantine says, breathy with excitement.
“Oh?” I respond, sitting beside her.
“Veil, now do her, do her,” Constantine presses, and I can hear the faintest of slurring in her speech.
My heart sinks when Veil turns to me, a sparkle of determination in her brown eyes.
I begin to protest. “Veil, no, don’t—” But it’s too late.
I feel my powers siphon out of me like a cold chill traversing through my bones.
I can tell the instant it dawns on her.
Veil’s smile drops, her eyes widening in horror.
There’s a beat of loaded silence.
Then, she speaks far too calmly. “I’m pregnant.”