Chapter One #2
“It has been miles!” she near shrieks, her tone bewildered as she throws an arm behind her.
I don’t bother looking. I know exactly how far we’ve come. A mile for sure, perhaps two. Nothing to be so dramatic over.
“You’d make a poor General, Eve,” I continue teasing, earning myself a playful bump of her hip. She snatches my bicep to ensure I don’t tumble over the ledge, laughing.
Her laughter’s infectious and I find myself laughing with her.
“Start a House and let me prove you wrong,” she counters, brandishing her jesting challenge with an arched brow.
If it were possible, I would make Eve the First General of my House. She’s more than capable. I trust her, and selfishly, it would mean she’s bound to me until I determine otherwise. But me? Starting a House?
It’ll never happen.
Matriarch-led Houses don’t exist.
I don’t even understand what’s required to start a House—aside from proclaiming it exists and presenting it before the god of death. The latter I certainly will not be doing.
“You could add it to the list of shit you’ve done this summer to irritate your Sovereign King,” she gives my arm a small, affectionate squeeze before releasing me. “You have made this last season quite entertaining.”
My laughter grows louder. “Eve, I—”
“The kitchens,” she says, arching a brow.
“Okay, but—”
“The cloak,” she adds, raising a silencing finger.
“Are you really—”
“Your lessons,” she drawls as her ice blue eyes slide in my direction.
I huff a sigh and keep my mouth shut.
Both the kitchens and the cloak were accidents.
And I’ll admit, the last few months have been rife with them. I may or may not be the common factor in each instance. But so was Eve, so who’s to say?
A pair of curtains in the kitchens may have caught fire. Whether it was the result of my sudden, and short-lived, interest in learning to cook or Eve’s distraction, I’ll never know.
There were no injuries or deaths… aside from the curtains themselves.
A sleeping wraith may have found its way into Ollora. Whether it was because I mistakenly thought it an abandoned cloak left near the city walls—debatable. Eve is the one who noticed it first.
Clearly it was friendly… toward me.
My lessons on the other hand, those are pure neglect—on no one’s account but my own. I would much rather hang myself by my toes from a tree and be left through the night than listen to Lilith lecture me on yet another fae holiday.
Just a few weeks ago it was the summer solstice. Now in a week it’s the autumnal equinox. It’s like fae cling to whatever reason they can contrive to celebrate something. Is there truly that much to celebrate? Do people have to congregate every few weeks?
I think not.
“Gods, you make me sound like a demon,” I reply with a curling grin as I link my arm with hers.
She glances around, taking in our surroundings with an emphasized swing of her head before pinning her eyes against mine. I can already tell she’s about to give me sass and my grin grows.
“I’m not sure if you know this,” she says in a low whisper despite us being alone. “But you’re not a demon.”
My brows furrow as I start to laugh.
“You’re a terror,” she says, smiling. “An often well-intentioned terror, but a terror nonetheless. A terror that sneaks from the castle before nightfall to watch stupid ships come into their stupid port, after a stupid miles-long run when all her stupid mate wants is to keep her hidden. A stupid terror with the stupid audacity of dragging her friend around through it all because she, too, is stupid.”
Laughing to the point of tears, I wipe at my face with the heel of my palm.
“Then you admit you’re stupid,” I manage through my laughter.
Again, her glare turns venomous, but lasts mere seconds as she tries, and fails, to suppress her own laughter.
Loud chatter and laughter from below draw my attention to the street.
A few merchants walk in the opposite direction, their conversation as unbridled as our own.
Carrying large sacks or pulling small carts, they leave behind stalls devoid of wares and goods.
They breeze past shops doing the same—signs flip in windows, shopkeepers close and lock doors behind them, and everyone moves south—away from the North Docks.
Lights begin flicking on in second- and third-story windows.
Most of Ollora doesn’t venture out past sunset anymore.
Not since the night of the eclipse.
Night has never been safe in the living realm. Too many creatures lurk in the dark. Within cities like Ollora, there are protections in place, but even those have been put to the test lately.
Following Netharis’ assault, the veil lies weakened. It’s easier for souls to slip through and creep among the living. With the abundance of fresh corpses, undead constructs plagued the city until new wards were put into place.
Ryc established gravewardens—a special sector of Royal Guard posted at each cemetery, graveyard, and mausoleum within the city. Wards were raised around them and a nightly curfew went into effect. Gravewardens ensure both the wards and the living remain standing.
Even with the new protections, the occasional errant undead will find its way into the city. The numbers aren’t as staggering as they once were, a small comfort come the reports in the morning paper.
All Ollora can do is wait.
Wait for the god of death to mend the veil.
The living being at the mercy of one god or another is nothing new. But Vaelyn is a new god, and he is the one tasked with the responsibility of the veil. Netharis ensured the veil remained viable, his successor should be able to as well.
Until Vaelyn does what he’s supposed to, Ryc will do what he must to protect his people.
Eve unwinds her arm from mine and leaps across another gap before us. She turns to face me, extending a helping hand.
“It’s been a month, almost two.” The note of defeat in her voice takes me by surprise as my hand lands in hers seconds before my feet meet the rooftop.
Confusion pinches my brows. “Since what?” I ask.
She releases my hand and turns toward the docks. “Since I’ve heard from Druka.” She crests the pitch of the roof with a backward glance.
Silent, I follow in her wake.
Why would Druka sever their demonic channel?
Eve stops, balancing her boots upon the apex of the roof to stare at the docks and water. But the distant look in her eyes tells me she isn’t enjoying the view, she’s turning within—reaching for Druka.
Sitting beside her, I fold my legs beneath me, and enjoy the view for us both. It’s a view I’ve grown to adore since my return. Especially during sunset.
Eve scoffs, a dry sound. “Usually there’s something,” she says, plopping herself down beside me.
She crosses her outstretched legs at the ankle, leaning back on her palms. “A snarky comment here, teasing laughter there. But these last few weeks… nothing. Dead silent.” She purses her lips tight and shakes her head in a slow toss. “I don’t understand it.”
It’s certainly strange.
But I know Druka.
She treats her contracted like pets—they’re rewarded for good behavior, punished for bad. But nothing Eve has done—that I know of—would warrant silence. Eve would find the sudden disconnect jarring. The demonic channel is designed to foster longing.
Unless—
“Did she release you?” I ask, my head swiveling in her direction.
Eve pulls at the collar of her dark gray shirt, exposing the delicate band of Malbolge runes inked into her skin. Her demon mark remains, plain around the base of her throat.
The tiny spark of elation in my heart nosedives.
“No, then.” I loose a sigh.
Releasing the grip on her collar, her shirt springs back into place, hiding away the mark of the damned.
Of course Druka wouldn’t randomly release Eve.
As much as I adore Eve and think her worthy of the world, Druka would have to answer to Miiphirys upon releasing her, and I doubt Druka finds Eve worthy of enduring that punishment.
“I’ve grown accustomed to having her around,” Eve admits, pushing a few of her dark braids over her shoulder. “It’s weird not hearing her.”
It shouldn’t feel weird.
It should feel suspicious and worrisome.
“Be mindful of the channel’s influence, Eve,” I warn and she scoffs.
With a roll of her eyes she says, “I’m not falling in love with a succubus. I know better than that.” She shoots me a halfhearted grin.
I scoff, returning her grin with one of my own. “When she decides you’re worth speaking to again, tell her the next skill she should teach you is humor,” I retort, earning myself an amused but dismissing huff.
“Says the cretin,” she laughs, leaning back on her arms. “Also, I believe the schedule you sniped from Cyran is wrong. There isn’t a single ship on the horizon.”
Turning my gaze to the boat-less lake, I heave a sigh as the last bits of sunlight begin to sink behind the world.
“You might be right.”
“Gods, I love when I’m right,” Eve sighs contentedly. She lets her head fall back to stare above. “You didn’t check the date on the schedule, did you?”
I don’t bother giving her the pleasure of a response.
She laughs quietly as she nods, reveling in her right-ness once again.
It’s a shame really. I’ve come to enjoy watching the ships arrive at dock. A few consistent crew members have come to recognize me. They must run trade lines between Ollora and other lakeside towns, keeping them mostly local. They wave their greetings when they spot me sitting along the rooftops.
None have dared to approach though. Which, considering the general audacity of fae, is surprising. But their retained distance is preferred.
Eve picks at the slate roof tiles beside her, breaking a small piece free. With a quick whip of her arm, she launches it toward the empty dock. It vanishes for a second within the dying rays of the sun before rings appear upon the placid surface of the water, an impressive distance from shore.
“We could enjoy the last of the sunset while we’re here,” I say, knowing damn well she’ll argue.