Blood of the Moon Read online

  Casvir had simply gone.

  “You’re a pretty picture,” the leviathan bellowed. She suddenly felt another tentacle wrap itself around her waist, nearly engulfing her entire being in its bulk. “Let me look at you more closely.”

  Her breath failed her as the tentacle reeled her in toward the monster, bubbles trailing behind. Close now, Flowridia could see the sleek scales protecting the beast, the ferocious beak capable of consuming her whole. It held her up to its eye, an eye that easily could have ensnared three or more of her in its diameter.

  She shoved aside all thoughts of Casvir and simply kept her gaze at the black center of the eye. Shock stilled her sorrow, though her eyes threatened to seep tears—instead, she knew only survival. “What is your name?” she asked, hoping her voice did not shake.

  Beside her, another tentacle stopped within a foot of her, flaunting a small blue orb stuck in its sucker. “I am Yu’Khrall. Why do you seek my orb?”

  One last effort to secure her release, she decided, and then she’d return with all the terror an army of the dead could bring. Nox’Kartha would wish to avenge their imperator. “Do you know the stories of the Old Gods, Yu’Khrall? The God of Order has returned and is set on restoring the world to what it used to be. He will separate the planes, destroying Celestière and Sha’Demoni and causing irreparable damage to this one. He seeks the orbs. Give it to us, and we will protect it.”

  Deciphering emotions from a leviathan proved an impossible task. All she could see was that enormous, unblinking eye.

  She waited, tense as the leviathan seemed to consider her words. “I have no interest in the affairs of mortals and forgotten Gods,” Yu’Khrall said, each word near deafening. “If he comes, I will slay him as I slew your imperator.”

  Flowridia didn’t doubt this beast would make a formidable foe for Soliel, but he had slain a dragon more ancient than Yu’Khrall—and with three orbs, Flowridia wondered if any force on earth could stop him.

  Now was not the time to consider defeat. Casvir had led her this far, and she would complete it on her own.

  Flowridia let her thoughts mellow, even as she felt the pressure on her body increase from the leviathan’s grasp. Months of practice slowed her heartbeat, for necromancy rose from pain—rather, to set aside that pain and grasp onto the void of nothing within.

  A crackling, purple aura seeped from her pores. Strength surged into her being, quickly overwhelming her. Yu’Khrall’s life force proved to be too much, threatening to split her in two.

  Yu’Khrall released her. Sinking now, Flowridia saw the purple mist swirling from burns in the leviathan’s tentacle. Thick green liquid seeped from the maimed flesh. The tentacle shot back toward its master, the force sending Flowridia tumbling farther away.

  Though her stomach churned, she finally touched the ground. As the leviathan cried out in agony, Flowridia’s gaze landed on the orb. With all her strength, she lifted her weighted feet, finding the boots cumbersome. Biting back panicked curses, she forced them off her feet, swearing she tore her skin with it, and flailed her arms about, slowly propelling toward the ensnared artifact. Flowridia had never learned to swim. Every awkward motion rose from both pure instinct and the realization that grabbing the orb might be her only hope for survival.

  When the leviathan’s tentacle darted away, with it dashed her hopes.

  Another painful cry suddenly ripped from Yu’Khrall’s being. He began contorting, then violently flailing, and Flowridia swam away for fear of being crushed. His tentacles beat upon his own body as he released a deafening screech.

  His eye split down the middle, a distinct purple glow cutting straight down. Casvir burst through the center of the eye in a grotesque fog of sticky, green ichor and dropped straight down from the weight of his armor. Upon hitting the ground, he slashed his summoned sword at the leviathan’s body, dismembering tentacles that wriggled even after being severed.

  One of those tentacles held the orb. The awkward waving of her arms slowly moved her forward. With as much speed as she could muster—it wasn’t much—Flowridia floundered toward the gently falling limb, ignoring the agonized roar of the beast and shoving away the relief she felt at Casvir’s return. Closer, closer, the orb glowed bright as she approached, still suctioned to the brutalized tentacle.

  She touched the orb.

  At the moment of contact, Flowridia felt her senses expand. The water did nothing to obscure her sight; she saw, with absolute clarity, the scene before her—Casvir’s fury as he swung his mystical, summoned sword, the individual scales lining the leviathan’s body, each seeping wound lacerating the beast’s flesh. With effort, she managed to peel the suctioned tentacle from the orb as she sank to the floor. Her feet touched the ground, and she ran towards the scene with the same speed and control she would on land.

  Fascinating.

  Black and purple lightning suddenly danced across Casvir’s skin. Flowridia saw him pluck his own orb from his armor as he surged up to touch the maimed beast. The leviathan flailed, shriveling at the contact, horrible pustules bursting beneath its skin as it withered under Casvir’s touch.

  Flowridia focused on her new power and felt an unbearable chill surge from within her. An icy sheen appeared on the creature’s flailing body—which quickly stilled.

  A blackened, emaciated, frozen corpse settled upon the ocean floor.

  The purple aura around Casvir faded. He looked to Flowridia with interest, a grin pulling at his lips when he saw the orb in her hand. “It seems your gills no longer suit you.”

  “Casvir, I—” Ignoring his words, Flowridia studied him with concern. “You’re alive. You’re all right?”

  “I might have emerged sooner, but listening to you attempt to subdue the creature was intriguing. I wished to see if you would succeed.” He raised an eyebrow, glancing between the orb and her face. “An interesting tactic, to reason with an ancient monster.”

  Flowridia frowned. “What choice did I have?”

  “I did not say it was wrong. With the dragon, you succeeded. You did what you deemed best, and it failed. But you showed no weakness. In diplomatic situations, whatever else you do, to appear weak is to appear a fool.”

  “Casvir, I appreciate your advice,” Flowridia said, but exhaustion, both physical and emotional, weighed her down, even with the surge of power from the orb. Tears threatened to overtake her, and she set her sights to the floor. “But I thought you were dead.”

  “And you did not let that stop you. Excellent work.”

  Flowridia stepped forward, eyes squeezing shut to fight tears. What impulse drove her actions, she could not quite say—love? Concern? Fear? But she set her head against his black, weighted armor, as affectionate a gesture as she dared.

  She could feel Casvir’s eyes on her. “You are victorious. Crying is foolish—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Emboldened by her rage, she wrapped her arms around his armored form—as far as she could reach—and held him as she fought the urge to sob. The orb still rested in her hand, but she barely felt it. She found she didn’t care much for it, not when Casvir might have died.

  But Casvir was here. The clawed hand settling against her back confirmed that.

  * * *

  Down in the recesses of her library, Etolié drank to drown the fire of her rage.

  Which was a really fucking stupid plan, given that alcohol was hardly flame resistant.

  “Zoldar, you’re a damned coward!” she cried out into what she knew wasn’t a void, because that cursed bug was hiding somewhere. She saw a flash of emerald green up in the rafters, but Etolié was too tired to fly after him. “I swear if you don’t get your skittering ass down here this instant, I’ll—”

  Scuffling from the door stole her words. Etolié took a drink from her flask before barreling forward. “Zoldar—”

  Empress Alauriel Solviraes rounded the corner, and Etolié stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh. Well, fuck me, I guess.”

  “It’s nice to see
you too, Etolié,” Lara said, and when she smiled, Etolié didn’t see a grown woman with a crown and an empire. She saw a little toddler gleefully embracing her any time she visited. “Not meshing well with your bookkeeper?”

  “I love Zoldar, and I would die for him.” Etolié took another sip and offered the flask forward—Lara, of course, accepted. “Unless he dies by my hands first.”

  Lara, Empress of Solvira and likely an alcoholic, took several gulps from the bottomless flask before responding. “And what did our Skalmite friend do this time?”

  “He’s a passive aggressive little shit, is what he is. Dropped bacon at my feet and said he wouldn’t work until I ate it.”

  “I’d say he’s doing his job perfectly well, then.”

  Etolié frowned and plucked her flask back from Lara out of spite. “I thought you were busy investigating our orb-stealing friend.”

  “I came because I became privy to the guest list for Marielle’s wedding,” Lara continued, clutching her hands behind her back—her default pose when stressed. “Nox’Kartha has invited the Theocracy of Sol Kareena, and I cannot say I approve.”

  “Take it up with the viceroy. I haven’t lifted a finger for this endeavor and thank Alystra’s Fine Ass for that.”

  Lara shook her head. “No, the deed is done, and we cannot uninvite them. But I wanted to know what measures have been taken to prevent any friction.”

  “Lara, when I say Viceroy Murishani said he would take care of everything, according to the inspirationally long list of things to not worry about he sent, he meant it. I need only provide space.”

  Lara nodded, lips pursed and quickly losing color. They’d match her eyes in general pale-ness at this rate, though that was hardly a failing. Quite the opposite—Lara’s silver eyes were both reminiscent of her heritage and a token of unparalleled beauty. “Etolié, to be perfectly honest, this entire event has my stomach in knots, and I am sorely tempted to put a stop to it, diplomacy be damned. The costs threaten to outweigh what we would gain, if insults are passed between the Theocracy and Nox’Kartha.”

  “You’d be facing Marielle’s wrath, but I’d be relieved.”

  “Etolié, I need your promise of support, to take watch with me and stand as a barrier between the two countries if needs be. I won’t stop the wedding, but I will need help in navigating these waters.”

  Etolié took a sip, then tossed the flask aside, letting it fall back into the pocket dimension from which it came. “Of course I’ll help.”

  “Can you, though?”

  Etolié frowned, debating whether or not to be offended. “You know that I-”

  “Have been absolutely falling apart.”

  The statement lingered. Etolié felt a rise of some uncomfortable thing in her throat, the thing she couldn’t name, but whatever it was it made her blood boil and her stomach want to vomit. “I’m fine,” she said curtly, but Lara, damn her, knew better. She looked away, uncomfortable beneath the empress’ scrutinizing gaze.

  “I had hoped with Khastra’s apparent return that you would be able to pick yourself back up, but it’s been months since your visit to Nox’Kartha, and you’re still in shambles.”

  Etolié smacked her lips, the popping sound not serving its purpose of distracting from the point. “Rude.”

  “I need you to be at your best, but to be perfectly honest, you look three degrees away from death and it worries me more than even this political cesspool we’ll be dipping into.”

  Etolié wrapped her arms around her body, as though it would hide her bony frame. Whatever illusions she cast to hide her frailty, it seemed Lara knew her better. “I think you’re conveniently overlooking all the work I’ve accomplished in my apparent depression—like my research into the Old Gods, or my seventeen dissertations to the Theocracy on why the orb is safer with Solvira, or the restructuring of taxes that even Thalmus had to begrudgingly agree was brilliant, and—”

  “Etolié . . .” Lara smiled, but it held no joy. “Perhaps you should take a few days for yourself,” she continued, gentler than before. “The guests will be here in a week. Take some time away. When’s the last time you visited home? Celestière would do you well.”

  Etolié shook her head, the notion making her head swim.

  “Then at least talk to someone. Eionei, perhaps?”

  “Grandpa would only worry.”

  “I’m worried, Etolié.”

  “Then let’s reduce the collateral damage, eh?”

  Lara stepped forward; Etolié stared at the ground. “I don’t ask this as your empress, but as the girl you helped to raise—Etolié, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was no lie in the words. Etolié hurt like a held breath, one she couldn’t release no matter how hard she tried.

  Lara approached, shorter than Etolié by far though she held herself like the monarch she was. In an unregal gesture, she pulled Etolié into a hug, no doubt feeling her ribs. Etolié resisted the urge to cringe, because touch itched like a gods-damned mosquito, but she loved Lara enough to swallow it.

  “You can always talk to me.” Lara released her, but her touch lingered, prickling at Etolié’s sensitive skin.

  “Can we talk about literally anything else but this, please?”

  Lara nodded. “Perhaps we can coax Zoldar down from the rafters.” She looked up, and when Etolié followed her gaze, she saw the barest hints of movement. A flash of emerald, but nothing more.

  Between herself and Zoldar, Etolié couldn’t say who the bigger drama queen was.

  * * *

  Flowridia’s talents lay in coaxing plants to grow and occasionally controlling dead things—water was something very different.

  How strange it was, to sit beneath the pond’s surface in absolute serenity, feeling the gentle pull and tug of the water at her beckoning. So different than the divinity she wielded at her fingertips, and nothing like the void it took to summon death. The orb glowed in her hands, casting her face and the earthen slopes in vibrant hues of blue and white. How beautiful it was, and as Flowridia cupped it in her hands, she felt the depthless well of power.

  With more study, it might be a formidable weapon. For now, it was the most practical orb she had discovered, by far. In peaceful motions, as simple as walking, Flowridia floated to the surface of the pond, letting the water cushion her back. Her hair billowed around her, a pillow upon her watery bed. Listening to the whistling birds, the rustling trees, she forgot the whole world.

  Demitri’s voice whispered in her head. Someone’s coming. Smells dead.

  That description hardly narrowed it down in the city of the dead, but Flowridia looked up and saw a familiar face stepping down the garden path. Surprised, she floated to the water’s edge, and as she left the pond’s embrace, the water fell from her clothing and body in a large puddle.

  If anything, the orb’s capacity to dry her hair made it her favorite. “Khastra!”

  The dead half-demon never moved idly, instead surveying every path like a battlefield—the peaceful Nox’Karthan garden included. As she approached, their size difference became starkly apparent, given that Flowridia’s head reached her diaphragm if she stood straight. With sweeping, elegant horns and hooves, Khastra was in no way human, though her half-elven features showed in her delicate cheekbones and pointed ears. But the silver tattoos etched into her blue, muscled skin were likely an anomaly no matter where she went. Khastra was the most unique person Flowridia had ever met.

  The undead general looked at the orb in Flowridia’s hands as she stopped. “It is true, then. You and Imperator Casvir were successful.”

  Flowridia offered the orb up, unsurprised when Khastra merely stared. “I don’t know that anyone could have gotten it without his help.”

  “Staelash will be pleased.”

  The reminder of home brought an unpleasant sinking in her stomach. “Only a day more, and we’ll know for certain.”

  Tomorrow, the Nox’Karthan caravan
would arrive in Staelash for Queen Marielle’s wedding. Tomorrow, Flowridia and Casvir would join them at the gates. She would return to her chosen family with honor, successful in her quest. With the orb, Etolié and Empress Alauriel would have a chance to find the rest—before the God of Order could claim them for himself.

  Empress Alauriel . . . the mere name caused Flowridia’s blood to run cold.

  “I must admit, I am not yet sure if I will go.”

  Flowridia frowned. “Why?”

  “I never cared much for Marielle,” Khastra replied, and her sharp, glowing eyes gazed upon the garden landscape, studying the beloved plot of land Flowridia had been all but gifted. “She was charming as a child, but she returned from finishing school as a woman I found annoying. I have no purpose being at her wedding.”

  “It’s not about her—it’s about visiting . . . everyone else.” Flowridia had very nearly said a rather damning name and hoped Khastra thought nothing of it. “All of Staelash loved you.”

  “All the more reason to let my memory there rest in peace.”

  Khastra’s new position had been publically announced some two months ago, once the mechanical heart in her chest had proven its worth. Beneath the woven shirt she wore, Flowridia could just see the unnatural protrusion of metal.

  “I won’t tell you what to do,” Flowridia said softly, her friendship with the half-demon still tentative at best, “but I know Etolié would miss you.”

  The reveal of Khastra’s amorous affection toward her Celestial friend to Flowridia had been accidental, but not surprising. The half-demon’s countenance revealed nothing of her feelings, aside from the faint and broken smile tugging at her lip. “I have heard nothing from her in months. Not since her visit. Etolié has to move forward with her life, as do I.”

  Their reunion had been touching, but still stained with the pain of their inevitable parting. Etolié’s affection for Khastra was merely friendly, but Flowridia recalled her final words.

  Etolié had been remiss to leave, not-so-subtly coaxing Flowridia to convince her to set up at a tavern in the city. “Etolié, your home needs you much more than I do.”