Chapter Text
Chapter One
Theodore
Death has a sound. Static, like the wings of cicadas beating against a glass jar, the soul prying itself free from its cage. It hums in every trickling cough and missed step, in the space between one stubborn heartbeat and the next. A persistent noise, easy to ignore until you identify its source—until you are its source.
I don't want to kill the boy. This, repeated, is a plea, seeking confirmation that I’m not the villain I’ve been named. I’m an amalgamation of terrible decisions, the latest leading me into this stranger’s house, on this stranger’s bathroom floor, holding this boy who I do not want to kill.
He’s younger than I was when I died, round cheeks sapped of color, lips trembling around words he can no longer speak. I don’t know his name. It doesn’t matter. Death has a face, and it is the face of my mother seeking obedience, and it is my face in the mirror, seeking absolution. I was a fool to think that I could escape her. I’d be a fool to think that this act would satiate her.
If it were my own existence being threatened, I’d welcome the destruction. I’m not a coward. But Death does not want me except by her side, and she will not hesitate to raze the life I’ve built for myself to force me to heel. She allowed me a taste of freedom, and now she’s dragging me back. Death is fickle like that, and greedy, and cruel.
The boy tries to speak, but only a garbled cry escapes. This, too, is a sound I recognize. Survival is not the default state of being, stubborn as mortals may be to protest its absence. I place my hands over his, slippery with blood. His back is pressed against my chest, his head lolling onto my shoulder, auburn hair scratching the skin of my neck. The wounds on his arms weep with every slight shift of our intertwined bodies.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, but the terror doesn’t ebb. My terror, his terror, pulsing together in the slowing heartbeat that echoes between us.
I don’t want to kill the boy.
Memories lap just beneath my fingertips, eager to be free of flesh: a girl with her hair wet from the rain, a bleeding thumb, a loosened tie, a name repeated over and over like a prayer.
“I’ll take care of her,” I lie, if only to halt his rising panic. “I promise.”
He settles into me, shoulders dropping, eyes finally drifting closed.
I reach for him, wrapping my essence around his, and tug. The soul flows into me, and I absorb everything kind and good and transform it into energy I can use, power that would make Death proud.
The boy sighs, and his chest does not rise again.
I take the long way home, winding through crowded streets, clothes and skin still stained with blood. I’ll have to throw this shirt away. Burn it, maybe. The smell will never come out. I’m no stranger to blood; I’ve been a witness to many deaths before. Peaceful deaths, untimely deaths, gruesome deaths. Murders, some of them, by human or Mortae hands but never my own. Almost never my own.
The oldest soul within me rises as if summoned by the mere thought of him. We’ve been entwined for nearly three hundred years, but I still haven’t gotten used to the weight of him. He killed me first, but a sin for a sin is hardly justification. I seek atonement in other deaths, ones that I’m present for but didn’t cause: an elderly man lying sick and alone, a woman with a twisted neck at the bottom of a staircase, an infant’s struggling breaths in the night. All of them want the same comfort at the end, someone to witness their departure, to remember that they existed long after their muscles lock and their skin turns cold. It’s what I wanted in the moments between my final heartbeat and my mother’s hands lifting me into a new current. I don’t need to keep their souls. I have a keen memory.
As I walk, nobody pays me any mind because nobody can see me. I consider, only briefly and without much weight, making myself visible to the passing humans. Let them see me for what I am. Give me their honesty in terror and disgust. It's a selfish thought, I admit. It would do nothing but confirm their nightmares.
I drift between a couple holding hands and around a woman pushing a stroller, settling into a measured pace beside a man barking into his cell phone. A missed deadline, a delayed shipment, an irate boss; it’s an old and inconsequential story. Humans are always in a rush, always hurrying somewhere to do something else. A mortal urgency, and one I envy. I don’t age, or sweat, or bleed. Even now, filthy and weary, I yearn for the small ache of sore muscles. I miss the physical confirmation of exertion the way I miss most things about being alive: incessantly, like a dull headache that fades until I focus on it for a moment too long.
I miss headaches, too.
It’s mid-morning by the time I reach the estate. The landscapers lift their heads at my approach but quickly avert their eyes. They’re preparing for the new season, tearing up the autumn flowers that surround the circular fountain in the driveway. A tremendous waste of effort, but the abundance of ever-changing colors pleases my mentor. The stones of the walkway leading to the pillar-lined porch are spotless despite the heavy foot traffic, though I’m not usually awake to see them scrubbed and polished. I wonder if the meticulous upkeep is a source of pride for the humans that work so diligently to meet Azmaveth’s standards or if they operate under the fear that failing would lead to their untimely demise.
He wouldn’t kill anyone for leaving streaks on the windows, but pleasing the immortal being that owns their souls is in their best interest. Az has a nasty temper.
I drag my feet up the porch stairs, not bothering to knock before turning the knob and pressing a shoulder against the heavy door. It is, of course, unlocked.
Marcella is lounging on the chaise in the sitting room past the foyer. Her blonde hair is tied back in a hasty knot, strands slipping out along the nape of her neck, not quite reaching her shoulders. Judging by the wrinkle between her manicured brows and the even pitch of her breathing, she’s likely been in this exact spot all morning. There are many things that I fault her for, but commandeering this room to read is not one of them. It has the best light, especially when the windows are open. They usually are.
She flexes a slipper-covered foot, entranced in whatever filthy romance she’s chosen today. Her legs are bare, muscles concealed by soft skin until they’re taut. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might feel a twinge of lust at the sight. Some of the humans certainly do, sneaking glances at her when they think she can’t see. She revels in it, or maybe she just enjoys the sight of them scurrying away when she catches them staring. I don’t pity them. They’re not in any real danger, not while Azmaveth holds their souls. Even Marcella isn’t reckless enough to break that rule. Still, I know enough about the cruelty of men to keep that information to myself.
Her emerald eyes flick towards me. She scowls, a familiar sight on her unpainted lips. “You smell like blood.” It’s a friendly greeting compared to the ones she usually gives me.
I pick at the aforementioned blood flaking off of my arms and shove past her without a word, aiming for the stairs. If I can disappear into my room before Az spots me, I just might start believing in a merciful god.
She calls after me, “Morrigan was asking about you.”
I pause with a hand on the stair railing. My mother’s name falls from her lips like a curse. Marcella isn’t as good of an actress as she thinks she is. “I’m not in the mood.”
The book snaps closed. “You’ll make a fine soldier for Her Majesty. Or does she want you at her feet instead of her front lines?”
I know her well enough to recognize that she’s baiting me. She knows me well enough for it to work. I turn to her, slow, and survey the title of the book. A smirk curls my lips like an ill-fitted breastplate. “A bit early for smut, sorcière. Do your lovers not leave you sated?”
“Are you propositioning me? I let you down so gently last time.”
I move towards her, gait steady despite my leaden feet. “I’m only concerned about what your poor Tomas would think. If he could see you now…” I click my tongue and shake my head. “Shameless.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Her sly grin dips into hurt, then fury. She whips the book at me. I duck to the right, but it grazes the skin of my ear as it whizzes past and smashes into the vase behind me. Glass and soil clatter on the hardwood floor. I flinch at the sound, but Marcella doesn’t relent.
“Keep his name,” she snarls, stalking towards me with an ire I’ve only ever seen in the mirror, “out of your mouth.”
My stomach sinks at the barely-contained tremor in her voice, but I raise my chin. “Or what?”
“Enough.” Azmaveth’s voice booms down from where he stands at the top of the stairs. Both of us straighten at the command. “You two bicker like children.”
“He is a child,” Marcella snaps.
I roll my eyes. “Technically, I’m older than you.”
“Technically, you’re a self-righteous asshole with a victim complex.”
“Enough!” I look up to find Az already watching me. “My study. Now.”
I wince at the impatience in his voice, then again at the blood still caked on my skin. “Can I at least bathe before you—”
“Now.” He turns and starts down the hallway.
There’s no arguing with him when he gets like this, so I begrudgingly follow. Marcella mutters something about obedient dogs. I flip her off behind my back.
I rock on the balls of my feet as Az takes his seat at the long oak desk, casting my eyes towards the large bookshelf that covers the entirety of one of the walls to avoid his disappointed stare. The books themselves are remnants of history much like their owner, ranging from war theory to retellings of political events to theories about the human psyche. I’ve spent countless nights here with Az, lounging on the deep purple velvet chaise pressed against the opposite wall. On the worst nights, when my mind wanders to the camp I called home and the motel I called hell, I peer at him from behind an open book and wonder what promises he made to get me here—and whether he intends to keep them. Az is always happy to host me when I need company outside of my own head, even if we sit in silence while I read and Az sorts through whatever paperwork is always scattered on his desk.
A few trinkets are interspersed on that desk including the Christmas present I bought him a few years back: a bobble-head of a duck wearing a gold chain and smoking a cigar. When Az unwrapped it, he filled the house with rare, unsuppressed laughter.
That laughter is absent from the man before me. He sits with refined grace, shoulders back and dark hair slicked into a low bun. Despite the fact that he’s likely been at the house all morning, he wears a fitted white shirt beneath a crimson vest, a matching cravat tied neatly around his neck. His coat is discarded on the chaise, a testament to his turmoil.
The light filtering through the window beside him casts shadows across the sharp planes of his thin face. This must be how his humans see him: mouth a thin line, jaw tense. There’s a spark of pity in his deep brown eyes that is reserved for me, though. I detest it.
I let my eyes wander to the painting of a woman that looms behind his desk. She’s not smiling, but there’s a flicker of amusement in the crinkle of those eyes as if she and the painter were in on some elaborate inside joke. The first time I set foot in this study, I remarked that she was beautiful. Azmaveth’s eyes filled with such longing that I was inclined to never mention anything about her again.
But this is his personal study. Most people don’t have the pleasure of meeting him in this space. The room at the end of the hall has no personal effects or any indication that the demon they meet there had been human once. I try not to think too hard about what happens in that room.
“You missed dinner,” Az says.
“I was preoccupied.” He motions for me to sit. I don’t. “You spoke with my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about the… ultimatum?”
His hesitation is brief, but I mark it. “Only the vaguest details.” A pause. He lowers his voice. “It was Elias, wasn’t it?”
I do not want his name spoken here. I don’t want his name spoken at all lest she hear it and decide that the trade was not adequate. “Does it matter? I—” Killed someone. “Fulfilled my end. Is she going to leave me alone?”
He frowns. I wish he’d be angry. I wish he’d give me an excuse to be angry. “Do you want an honest answer?”
I close my eyes. Exhale. Scratch at the blood on my bicep. I should know better by now.
“My influence only goes so far.” If it were anyone else, it might’ve been a plea. “I’m trying.”
“Am I dismissed?”
The chair creaks as he leans back. “Anya came to the house early to make you breakfast.”
I frown. “You shouldn’t have asked her to do that.”
“I didn’t ask her to do anything. Some of the people I employ actually care about us, Theodore.”
Employ. That’s a pretty word for it. “They know what we are.”
The sentiment is one that he has heard before, but his answering silence thickens my shame. I’m laid bare before him, blind and weeping. I’m a child as I have been a child, as I will always be a child— and he is trying.
“Go eat,” he says. “Bathe. Apologize to Marcella. I’ll expect you at dinner tonight, on time.”
After scrubbing my skin raw in a scalding bath, I meander downstairs. The smell of warm butter and sickly sweet frosting reaches me well before I make it to the dining room. I don’t need to eat to survive, but it would be inhumane to deny myself the pleasure, especially when Anya is cooking.
She shakes her head at me when I walk in. I wink at her and take a seat. A tray of still steaming cinnamon rolls sits near the center of the table next to a plate stacked with pancakes. “I made herb-roasted lamb last night,” she says, resting her hands on the back of my chair and leaning in close. “Imagine my disappointment when you weren’t there to tell me how talented I am.”
I shoot her a sheepish grin. “Liam ate well, then?”
“Liam has refused to eat anything except cheesy pasta for the past three days. Stubborn as a bull, that one.”
“He gets it from his mother.” She swats my shoulder. I laugh, the sound lighter than I feel. “If anyone can convince him of the wonders of diverse cuisine, it would be you.”
“I hope that’s the truth.” She puts her hands on her hips and jerks her chin towards Marcella, still reading on the chaise. “Someday I’ll make something so delicious that even she won’t be able to resist.”
Marcella snorts, but I catch the bob of her hair as she peeks at the tray in the center of the table.
Tempting another projectile launched at my head, I shout, “You won’t be any less of a succubus if you eat a cinnamon roll.”
Said succubus doesn’t reply.
Anya lays a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Shout if you need anything.”
I nod my thanks, shoveling a forkful of pancake into my mouth. Anya sweeps through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Soft footsteps pad on the floor as I reach for a cinnamon roll, coating my fingers in the frosting. I lick them clean after putting the warm roll on my plate.
“What’s your plan?” Marcella asks, bent over to rest her elbows on the table across from me. Her hair is unbound and mussed from lounging, a sight reserved for the residents of this house. Though she alters her appearance so often that her lovers—victims?—never see her true face, she always stays in this skin when she’s here, just as she kept the name that was given to her at birth. It’s perhaps the one thing we have in common.
I speak through a mouthful of food. “Enjoy my breakfast.” Swallow. “Lay out in the sun for a while. Maybe go for a run.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
“She’s going to keep pushing you.”
“Sweet of you to worry about me.”
Her lip curls. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only worried about Az sticking out his neck to protect you.”
I set down my fork. Her words sit heavy in my gut, as thick as the syrup that coats my tongue. He would. He had. “I’ll deal with it.”
She runs her finger over the cinnamon roll on my plate and then raises it to study the frosting. “The rebellion is getting rowdy. Some rogues are trying to amass power to rival Morrigan’s, collecting debts that don’t belong to them. Word is, they’re waiting for a conduit to consolidate the power. They want to Yield.”
Yielding is a myth, but I don’t tell her that. “Friends of yours?”
“I’m not friends with stupid people.” She flicks the frosting off of her finger. A glob lands on my cheek, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of wiping it away. “Be careful. I like this house. I would hate for something to happen to it.”
I raise two fingers to my brow in a mock salute. “See you at dinner.”
Over the decades, I’ve worn a path through the garden that borders the humans’ residences, careful to avoid the newer blooms. At first, Az chastised me for adding work to the landscapers’ already overloaded schedules— it takes a lot to maintain the hordes of trees and plants that Az insists are necessary— but a few years back, when I came for my near daily run, stones had been laid to mark my usual route.
The cottages that house the humans are modest. They line the south end of the property, scattered like rice dropped on a counter top. Every person that Az makes a deal with is given a choice to stay on property for free so long as they contribute to the household in some way. Most refuse, going about their daily life knowing that when death comes, it will be in the form of a lean man with kind eyes and a vicious temper. Some, though, have nowhere else to go. Selling their soul is their last resort, so when they are offered shelter, they leap at the opportunity to earn their keep.
My attention wanders to the most familiar of those cottages. A red tricycle lays on its side near the front door. I bought it for Liam’s third birthday. He rode it around the estate for hours, whooping and squealing. I walked next to him, apologizing to the landscapers that glared as he ran over grass and flowerbeds.
Anya came directly to Azmaveth’s doorstep years ago. Her husband had just died in a brutal accident, and the doctors told her that her son would be stillborn. Az ushered her into his study, his formal study, and that was that. I’ve never asked her if she regretted her choice. The look in her eyes when she talks about her son is answer enough.
Now, that same boy bursts out of the front door hollering something fierce and swinging his arms around wildly. A man that I don’t recognize chases after him, face screwed tight in scolding and worry.
“Theodore!” Liam yells, which comes out of his mouth as “Thee-dore.” He breaks into a sprint, hurtling towards my legs.
I scoop him up with practiced ease and throw him over a shoulder. “Mon petit monstre.” He beats his tiny fists against my back. “Causing trouble?”
“No!” He wiggles enough that I set him back on the ground and ruffle his hair. Liam’s caretaker freezes in front of us, sinking into a bow when I meet his eyes.
“Apologies, sir,” he says.
I grit my teeth but force a smile. “No need. What’s your name?”
“Daniel, sir.” He straightens, carefully avoiding eye contact.
“Stop calling me that.” I mean it as a jest, but it comes out sharp. I rest my hand on Liam’s head. He squirms, pawing at my loose grip. “You can coax him back inside with chocolate-covered pretzels. Anya keeps them in the pantry, top shelf.”
“We were just about to have lunch. You could— I mean, you could join us.” His cheeks flush. “Of course you could. You own this estate—”
“Az owns this estate,” I counter, patience waning.
“Right. I meant no offense.”
“I took no offense.”
His shoulders slump. “I’m just— I’m not trying to tell you where you can and can’t go. I don’t— I wouldn’t—” He dips his chin and silences himself.
I swallow my sigh and kneel so that I’m eye-level with Liam. “You’re gonna behave, right?”
Liam shakes his head emphatically, grinning and crossing his arms.
“I can’t keep bribing you, little man. Your mom will have a fit.”
His grin widens.
“Fine,” I say. “Think really hard about what you want. I’ll buy it next time I’m in town. If,” I tap his nose, “you behave.”
Liam’s face scrunches in concentration. Wisps of energy, light and wild, float in the space between us. I decipher them easily: a play oven that cooks real food.
I nod and spin the boy back towards the house with a hand on each shoulder. “Go on. Be nice.” Then, to Daniel, “It was good to meet you.”
I watch the two of them walk back to Anya’s house, flexing my fingers to restrain myself from curling them into fists. Liam races ahead, splaying his arms wide and blowing raspberries. Daniel follows with his shoulders tense and head low. The oldest soul within me cracks open an eyelid.
It doesn’t matter that Daniel is afraid of me. I duck back into the garden and face one of the massive oak trees, struggling to control my breathing. It doesn’t matter that I can’t even pretend to be normal. Not here. Not when everyone knows what I am, what I can do. My murderer, the man that damned us both, yawns awake at my frustration, stoking the embers until I’m not sure how much of the anger is my own.
I don’t care that I can’t have one normal conversation. Really, I don’t. My vision begins to blur, tinged black around the edges. I clench my fists and strike the tree, ignoring the way it sways, ignoring the leaves that float down around me. Again. Again. Again, until my knuckles should’ve been bruised and bloody.
When I finally look down at my trembling hands, they are unmarred.