16. His own Brand of Chaos
His own Brand of Chaos
S ummer was now only a month away. Despite the Church’s ban on public celebrations, the people of Artor had found other ways to generate the buzz of excitement for a new season. A dramatic shift in costumes and food was tradition, with an emphasis made on the consumption of light, cold meals, eaten often, and in smaller portions throughout the day. Spring clothes made of sheer and flouncy fabrics were slowly being stored away, and summer garb was gradually donned. Jezebel led the trends and made sure she was seen often in the city wearing newly made outfits. This year, her choice emphasised feathers and flowing, braided strands of silk that blew aside in the breeze and enabled airflow as opposed to modesty. Others soon followed suit, and for those who could not afford the extravagance of such materials, it was common to see skirts and halter tops of dried grass worn instead .
The incoming summer also saw a change to the usual residents of the palace grounds, as nobles moved about the country. During the year, they took turns living at the palace, trying to curry favour with Midas and the High Priest.
One such addition, on a hot spring morning, was catastrophic to Mila’s plans.
Lady Meredith was sipping iced tea on the balcony with Jezebel, Mila sitting dutifully at their feet, when Christopher Culis’s carriage unexpectedly arrived in the courtyard. The three women watched from above as the swaggering man stepped out from the cab, all sun-kissed and wind-swept, and looked up, calling out to Meredith, whose role for the Church included managing the Palace’s visiting noble accommodations.
“Lady Meredith, I was told I might find you in such esteemed company. I’m after accommodation and you’re apparently the person I need to speak to about it.”
“What are you doing here, Captain Culis?” Jezebel called down haughtily, clearly happy to see him but unwilling to let him know. “Aren’t you meant to still be at sea?”
Culis squinted up at them and grinned. “There’s the real reason I’m here, and then there’s the reason that’s less grounded in truth, but far more entertaining. Which would you prefer to hear, Princess?”
Jezebel laughed. Culis’s eyes never left hers as he spoke, even as Meredith allocated him to a residence that was located just a short walk away from Jezebel’s own private suites.
“That will suit my purposes nicely. Thank you.”
He gave them a brief, two fingered salute as he alighted back into his carriage and departed in the direction of his new apartment.
Jezebel turned to Meredith with sparkling eyes .
“What do we think he’s here for?” she whispered in breathless delight.
The answer was made apparent within the hour by the arrival of a bouquet of jewels. They were the colours of the rainbow and had been cleverly stemmed as though they were flowers, tied with a gold bow and an accompanying card from Culis.
He was here to woo Jezebel.
At least, that was the official word. But from what Mila observed over the next few days, it seemed that he was rather more intent on simply creating his own brand of chaos. Scuppering all of Mila’s hard work to regain her footing with the princess.
Christopher Culis seemed to enjoy his days doing little else but gallivanting around the palace grounds, provoking and flirting with Jezebel, whilst eyeing Mila up as though she were sumptuous meat at a banquet. For a time, Jezebel was mollified by her belief in Mila‘s infatuation with Jahan, but even she could not ignore the way Culis pointedly stared at Mila, and it began to sour her towards Mila once again.
Mila could have killed him.
His unexplained, silent obsession with her was ruining everything, and on top of this, she still couldn’t read his energy and had no idea why he seemed to be immune. She remembered that'd she'd been able to read his energy in the crypt and she couldn’t work out what was different between that interaction and these prolonged visits. Even so, it didn’t take demon powers to be able to see that he knew exactly what he was doing, even if no one else could figure it out. They were all pawns in this game he was playing.
He toyed with Jezebel, whose fickle and childish nature was encouraged by the drip-fed attention that the dangerous man gave her. He’d court her over dinner one night but ignore her over the following drink. Invite her to play bowls with him one day, then snub her reciprocal invitation the next. He was maddening to her, and Mila watched on with wary fascination.
Everyone knew that Jezebel could easily tire of him, and if she was seriously displeased, there was a real possibility he could find himself kneeling in front of her father, awaiting the Midas touch. Yet it was his seemingly blatant disregard of such a fate, and his confidence in his winning charisma, that made him irresistible to the princess.
Despite the way it interfered with her plan, even Mila caught herself occasionally admiring the man’s self-assurance. But it did interfere, and there were no more flirtatious soirees arranged by Jezebel to give her and Jahan time together. In fact, she now hardly saw the man, and Jezebel seemed to have forgotten all about the idea that had so delighted her just one week earlier.
Appealing to Christopher Culis and devising ways to entrap him in her social snares was Jezebel’s new obsession, and removing Mila from the equation was an obvious step to achieving her goal.
***
In the days just before the season finally turned, as the next Sacrament of Contrition was rearing its head, Mila slaved for Jezebel tirelessly. She watched on with exhaustion as, no matter how she tried to please her, Jezebel’s interest in conversation or interactions with her faded. On the first day of Stormweek, as the rains finally broke from the sky and brought sweet relief from the humidity, Mila knew that her time was up.
On the night before the sacrifice, Mila was not chained to her usual mat at the foot of the bed. Instead, she was chained to the golden foot of the heavy, stained-glass bathtub in Jezebel’s ensuite, as though Jezebel knew that Mila had been thinking about the glass shard that was still tucked away under the mattress and had been trying to summon the courage to use it.
Foiled.
Removed from her cushion, Mila didn’t even have the option of using the hidden glass shard on herself, to choose the time and manner of her own death that evening.
Hopelessness rose up inside and engulfed her mind like a dark mud.
This was it. She'd lost. She was going to die.
The night passed too quickly, and when the grey notes of dawn began to breech the sky, Mila felt clammy and cold with stress.
Jezebel said nothing to her when she woke, caught between a mix of somewhat enjoying Mila’s panic and being preoccupied with the decision about what to wear for the day.
Mila was grateful that she finally didn’t have to care, and angry that she still had to watch.
This was to be her last morning alive ever. The last time she’d ever see the sun poking through green fronds, the last time she’d ever hear morning birds chirping. And instead of enjoying any of that, she was being forced to watch Jezebel preen. She could not have hated her more.
It didn’t seem real. Nothing seemed real.
Midmorning, an unexpected invitation arrived from Culis, with an offer to escort Jezebel to the Sacrament. Jezebel had responded with such delight that he may as well have asked her to marry him. This also prompted a complete overhaul of her outfit and a morning of spinning joyfully around the apartment.
Mila watched on from her corner in the bathroom, feeling numb, her body leaden and slow in its movements. Eventually, Jezebel settled on a swath of layered, golden peacock feathers that hung from a golden circlet about her neck and fell to her knees. It offered tantalising glimpses when she moved, though never fully revealed the promised land beneath.
When Culis met them at the door of Jezebel’s apartments, his attention was laser focused upon the princess, appraising her with an eye that appeared to critique rather than drink her in. She giggled nervously under his gaze and swooshed the feathers as she turned one way, then the other, showcasing herself.
“Immaculate,” Culis couldn’t help but concede, but his facial expression remained tauntingly neutral, and even in her growing state of panic, Mila could sense frustration from Jezebel.
This was unsatisfactory. She stormed over to where Mila sat despondently and snatched the lead up. “Come.”
During the carriage ride from Jezebel’s apartments to the Grand Cathedral, Culis switched with distracting frequency between being enraptured by her and acting as though he were downright bored. In response, Jezebel's energy fluctuated violently between ecstasy and rage.
Mila tried to ignore them both. She didn’t have to pretend to care about Jezebel’s romantic entanglements any longer. She was about to die and was determined to drink in as much nature and experience as she possibly could in these remaining hours. It annoyed her that she could not block Culis’s suave tone and honeyed words from her ears.
She briefly wondered whether to use these final moments in their company to expose his game for what it was and wreak the same havoc on his life that he’d wreaked on hers. She considered it for a long moment, but then realised it was highly unlikely that Jezebel would care. She had never once asked Mila for a read on Culis’s intentions towards her, she was too wrapped up in his spell. And moreover, Mila realised, she wanted to be bespelled. Culis treated her unlike any other courtier or suitor. He wasn’t afraid of her, and that was intoxicating to Jezebel. So much so that she was comfortable with her own delusion of what she meant to the man.
It would have been fascinating to watch if Mila wasn’t more preoccupied with her impending death.
When they finally arrived at the Grand Cathedral, they both fell silent as they passed under the great archway. Culis took a step back, following the princess’s lead as she made her way up a flight of stairs and into her private viewing balcony. The cold, angry energy of the dead pulsed out from the thick golden pillars, and despite the renewed control she’d managed to find over her power in the past few months, it still hit Mila in much the same way as a physical blow. She tottered slightly, reeling from the impact, and to her surprise, rather than feeling the pressure of the collar yanking her forward, her stumble was supported by a large, warm hand at the small of her back.
“Alright there, little demon?” Culis whispered, his breath blowing the hair at her ear.
She did not acknowledge him. Could not.
I am about to die, I am about to die. That thought repeated over and over in her head. There was no room for anything else.
As they entered the balcony, Mila felt an intense sense of déjà vu. The brazier remained lit in the corner. She wondered briefly if this was the first time it had been lit since the last Sacrament. Would she find the ashes of her hair in there still, or had it been cleaned out since then?
Three chairs had been laid out in the small space, two in front and one behind. The scant contents of Mila’s stomach curdled when Jezebel gestured that Mila, rather than Culis, would sit beside her in the seat of honour. If the reason wasn’t immediately obvious, then Jezebel’s delighted, predatory energy soon gave it away.
From this seat, Mila would have an unobstructed view of the Grand Cathedral floor, of every sacrifice .
“You are slated for sacrifice today, demon." Jezebel announced theatrically. "But! I do not pretend that I have not enjoyed your company this past season. And so, I have decided that you will have one last chance to earn your survival."
Mila's stomach flipped. Jezebel continued. "You will watch the sacrifice with me, and the only expression I want to see on your face is joy and relief for the mercy that I extend to you. If I see a flicker of anything else, I’ll consider you ungrateful and send you down to join them, understand?”
The depths of Jezebel’s depravity struck her then like a scorpion’s tail. Light-headedness swept over her as the full bleak truth of her situation was finally unveiled.
Jezebel fully intended to sacrifice Mila today. She knew this, and Mila knew this. But she was pretending to offer Mila a chance to save herself, and the cost of it was watching the deaths of all the other demons first.
It was beyond cruel, and she realised in that heartbeat that she’d been wrong about Jezebel ever having any kind of regard for her. The months of her hard work to earn the princess’s trust, to make her laugh, to hold her while she cried…meant nothing. Mila was nothing to her, had never been anything other than an unusual form of entertainment.
Mila couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It couldn’t be happening like this. She couldn’t sit here and watch the deaths of her people without being distressed. She’d rather die than try.
She felt the panic rising in her chest. Her breathing became ragged, and she could feel it emitting loudly from her mouth like a panting, injured animal.
The Sacrament was about to begin. It was all happening too fast .
“I’d fix that breathing immediately,” Jezebel tutted as she pulled the lead and forced Mila down onto the chair. “Not starting out well.”
The priests and acolytes who lined the walls below began humming low and hypnotically. The incense was already thick in the air, making Mila’s eyes water as she blinked dumbly at Jezebel, fighting for control of herself, fighting to breathe against the dizzying wave of horror and disbelief. Jezebel stared back, the wicked curve of her beautiful mouth unyielding, and the energy of her amusement shrouded in cruelty.
For a moment, Mila considered what few options remained to her, and seriously contemplated attempting to strangle Jezebel. Perhaps wrestling her off the balcony, as a final act of defiance.
But before her brain committed to this decision, an unexpected arm reached between them and broke the spell of her panic.
It was Culis’s arm, and he was turning Jezebel’s face towards his, in what was the most intimate touch he had ever shown her. Jezebel was immediately transfixed, and her viperous energy drew away from Mila, transforming into openness and wonder for the man.
“Princess.” His voice was like rough velvet. “My feet are in dire need of a wash. I don’t suppose your pet could assist me?”
“Oh…but of course she can,” Jezebel acquiesced immediately. The promise of earning Culis’s favour seemed to instantly wipe away all desire to play this tantalising game she’d planned for Mila.
“Shall I get a washcloth, sir?” Mila whispered to him, uncertain how her mouth was even forming words right now.
Behind her, she could hear the heavy curtain of the waiting wings draw open. The chanting of the priests stopped, allowing the High Priest Abbott to recite the official damnation. Mila heard a low groan as an ikarei, a young woman by the sounds of it, was led into the hall. It took all of her self-control to keep her eyes fixed on Christopher Culis’s face, and his beautiful, cold green ones did not leave hers either .
“Too late now for a cloth, I think. The ceremony has begun.” His grin was playful, but his eyes remained calculating. “Your tongue will suffice.”
Jezebel’s delighted giggle was accompanied by the background sound of clinking chains. The sacrifice was led forward and down the hall, her terrified, hysterical energy pulsed like a thick, syrupy wave at Mila, threatening to drag her down into her torment. She fought against it, fought to remain present in her own body.
She knelt, still staring at Culis, who continued to boldly meet her eyes. That infuriated her. She refused to be the one who looked away first. There was something inside her now that was burning, a fury that she could not dampen, and he knew it, was watching it. A spectator.
He slipped off his sandals and made a pointed gesture down with his eyebrows. “Well?”
She was finally forced to look down.
His feet were clean and had been adorned with a scented oil that was vaguely reminiscent of rosemayne. There was a thick silver ring around one of his thin toes.
Mila dutifully, angrily, dipped her head and began to lick.
The moment her tongue touched his skin, she was struck by Culis’s evasive energy.
Ah, she realised. This was the answer. She could only read him through physical touch. How bizarre.
She flung her power into him, reading everything she could, searching for any indication that he was going to save her, have sympathy for her. His response boiled through her like a hot pot of water.
Power, control, manipulation.
There was no salvation to be found here. He was focused entirely on Jezebel, deliberately ignoring Mila .
She heard Jezebel gasp with glee at the same time she heard the cries of the sacrifice, now being forced to her knees and presented to the God-King.
The priests continued to hum, low and rhythmically, and her own heart hammered in her chest with hatred and fury for them all.
But, in that moment, most especially for Jezebel and Christopher Culis.
As she licked obediently, she heard the woman below sob in fear. As her sob was abruptly cut off, Mila fought back a choke of vomit.
Just like that, the woman’s life had been ended by the touch of the God-King’s hand. Interestingly, she also felt Culis’s energy waver in distaste, and his foot twitched under her administrations. He didn’t like witnessing this either.
She heard the clink of another set of chains being hauled forward now. No accompanying sounds of protest or fear. Perhaps this ikarei had seen how useless it was to struggle. Perhaps they were petrified and unable to make a sound.
“Come visit me tonight,” Mila heard Jezebel say to Culis from above. It was the first time she’d been brave enough to command it of him so directly.
“Of course,” Culis replied without hesitation. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Mila sensed a bubble of joy rise within Jezebel, a deep energy of satisfaction.
Culis then added something unexpected. “I’d like the demon present as well.”
Mila’s stomach clenched, and Jezebel’s energy instantly shifted into suspicion and stress.
“Why? ”
“It’ll be more fun with an audience,” Culis said easily, not rising to her tension.
Mila could feel both longing and outrage pulsing from Jezebel. She wanted Culis desperately, but her jealousy was hard to overcome.
From her contact with his foot, Mila sensed that Culis knew this, but that he didn’t care. She felt him smile above her in response to Jezebel’s displeasure.
“Trust me. There’s something about having an audience that adds… more to the experience.”
“I think the idea sounds quite fun,” Jezebel said with a pout, “but can’t it be anyone else? I promised Abbott she’d be sacrificed today.”
Mila’s whole body went cold, and she tensed in anger at those words.
“Precisely,” Culis continued. “There’s no one else in your staff I’d invite into the parlour with us. No one else is as easily disposable afterwards.”
Begrudgingly, Jezebel saw the logic to this and agreed. Culis rewarded her for it with a kiss on the neck, then placed one foot on Mila’s back, which had been rising slowly as she’d listened to their conversation in horror. He forced her back down to attend to his other foot, and the contact pulsed his energy through her again.
To Mila’s surprise, it was not full of lust or desire, despite the conversation that had just occurred. Instead, it was now an energy of cold pragmatism. Whatever his plan for the evening, there was more in this for him than just sex.
Mila was grateful, at least, that she was facing the floor, so no one could see her tears of rage and humiliation. She warred bitterly for control of herself, forcing the tears back, so that, when the Sacrament finished and Culis finally permitted her to rise, her face was nothing but the epitome of calm neutrality .
She made sure to glare at him, desperate to wordlessly impart to him that, while he might do everything in his power to shock and humiliate her, ultimately, he could not touch her inner strength.
Culis met her gaze with cool interest, and then, as Jezebel rose to leave, he leaned forward and softly whispered to Mila, “You’re welcome, little demon.”
She pondered his words as she was pulled away by the golden collar, and as she caught a glimpse of his grimly satisfied expression, it dawned on her that, despicable as his actions had been today, he’d just saved her life.