Lillandyr flinched at the spontaneous, earnestly delivered affection. She had become soil so dry it was hydrophobic, rejecting the much needed rain. It had become spiked armor. She didn’t need love. She didn’t need to be held. She didn’t need anyone. Because she wasn’t weak. She was a nasty little rat who would do whatever she had to to get the boot off her neck and if you started craving the boot’s affection then you were a fucking idiot.
For a moment, just the span of a handful of excited heartbeats, Leonardo would see her. A mountain of hurt under the smirking mask. An angry, terrified girl who just wanted someone to know her. A soft vulnerability made possible by praise and his boyish enthusiasm delivered with a kiss and gentle pets. It broke open an ironclad heart.
Until he ruined it, of course.
Like the pall of winter’s last gasp over crocus, he wilted her bloom and her expression shuttered behind vanity and smug confidence at the mention of hunger. She had been, briefly, so enamored and charmed, she hadn’t wanted to bring the magistrate to be a third wheel. She’d wanted a fucking real kiss under the bridge in the moonlit garden. But she couldn’t have that.
Friends.
Friends didn’t look at her like that and once again, some ruddy mysterious undead man made her feel embarrassed stung pride for wanting something more. Apparently, she was food and what was worse was how she felt her cheeks get hot at the prospect of being…useful. That her hurt and mild humiliation had to twist erotically in her gut.
She wanted to snarl in his face like a fox with her leg in a trap. Lillandyr wanted to bite him first, sink her teeth tight in that bleeding heart of his until he hurt worse than she did. But then he’d know. He’d know he wounded her a little. He’d scent the trail of blood in the water and she’d nurse another broken heart.
Instead of biting him, she leaned in, giving him a view of what he restrained himself from. “Friends?” She said, voice edged in smoky mockery. “Tell you what. Let’s make a wager. A game of it. If you can go an entire night without kissing me…I’ll be your very best friend.” She leaned back and lit a smoke. “Forever,” she said on the exhale.
“Now,” she said with an impatient huff, “abduct me already.”
Tw: explicit sexual content, brief description of gore/death
With Leonardo and Seralah’s rescue from Kazimir Dawnfire’s insidious grasp, the entire castle was alive with activity. Especially with the discovery of a lost Dracone relation who now convalesced in the laboratory. Lillandyr felt a little lost in the shuffle.
She lingered in the lab a little, but felt too jittery under her skin to remain in one place. Excusing herself she thought to change out of the clothes she’d killed seven people in. The stench of death clung to the conjured silk of her blouse or maybe she was imagining it. The sounds of burst skulls, the splatter of intestines falling to marble…the groans and the slice of flesh parting open, blooming red…all of it was making her…feel very strange.
A monstrous appetite rose inside her as she paced the room she shared with Heathcliff, wringing her hands. All of her tingled and ached. She shouldn’t want…that…after what she’d done. She should have been weeping or wrestling with her conscience. Instead, her eyes were dry and wide, sparkling with heat and she reveled in the death she’d brought to Dawnfire’s house.
Again, the magic she’d been gifted rose up inside her, stoked by the fire of her lusts. Her greed. Her endless hunger. She felt starved, especially after Leonardo’s teasing. The pads of her fingers lingered on the raised bite marks on her throat. Another thing to hide. It would scar.
That cunt.
She shook out her hands at her sides, trying to loosen all the tension in her…everything. Her breath came in little huffy pants as her heart continued to race, magic alive and effervescent, rising in her chest like bright, champagne bubbles. Lillandyr felt…wild. Possessive and hungry. Even as she struggled to contain all the new power buzzing inside her, she wanted….
More.
Taking in a shuddering breath, she decided she needed to calm down. What she really wanted was whiskey and a smoke. And if her thoughts were wishes the universe longed to grant, these things appeared with a soft clink on a little side table.
”Shit,” she hissed, shocked. “That was me. I did that,” she murmured, picking up the tumbler of whiskey. She took a cautious sip. It tasted so good. Smooth. Smoky. Top shelf.
A hysterical little laugh bubbled past her lips as she plucked up a hand rolled black cigarillo with a golden filter that tasted so very sweet on her lips. She lit it with her mind and groaned in pleasure at her own power.
Closing her eyes as she inhaled the caustic, spiced smoke, she willed the bathtub in the adjoining room to fill…nice and hot. Too hot so she’d emerge all pink. Just shy of scalding and graced with rose petals and jasmine bubble bath. She could hear the rush of water, scent the perfume on the suddenly humid air.
Smoking, she tugged off her clothes, willing them to vanish. She watched, standing naked over the pile of things Manus had conjured, watching her will take it apart, molecule by molecule. She absorbed the energy from this. Waste not…want not.
What a terrible power, she thought, giddy. More whiskey filled her glass as she smoked and strode into the bathroom to slip into a perfectly conjured bath. With a big sigh, she leaned back in the steaming water, closing her eyes. She expected to relax, for all her muscles to go lax with the warmth and whiskey.
Instead, she felt even more flustered. Pent up. Needy. Lillandyr pouted sourly, wishing Heathcliff would get done prodding and poking the injured Dracone bastard in the lab. He wasn’t dying (she didn’t think, anyway). She desperately needed attention. She knew it was selfish. But why couldn’t she be after the night she’d had?
She deserved to be selfish as a little treat.
But she knew it would be late before Heathcliff came to bed. If he did at all. She wasn’t sour at him. Leonardo on the other hand…
All of this was his fault. He was a bumbling, worthless…tease. He’d teased her. Gotten her to this state and gave her no satisfaction. She could feel him in the castle, lingering like a bad smell. She thought of tormenting him, sending naughty little visions into his thick skull of what she’d never allow. Maybe a dream of her submissive and eager on her knees.
Her lips curled into a mean smile as she envisioned this until she realized it was getting her very hot. Her own arousal soured her mood and she nastily slung her tumbler the wall with a growl of frustration and disgust. It was satisfying to watch the glass explode and fall to the ground in glittering, tinkling shards. But it wasn’t satisfying enough.
She wanted to wrap her hands around Leo’s throat and choke the life out of him. Her nostrils flared and she huffed, bothered that the desire to do great violence and her arousal seemed to be holding hands.
Lillandyr was not a soldier. She could wield terrible magic but the only causes she believed worth fighting for were her own. Had she been a soldier, however, she would have known it was common to feel excited after a fight and victory. Instead, she just thought she was a monster with aberrant, foul lusts.
Thinking to take care of herself, release the tension, Lillandyr wanted to pleasure herself in the most utilitarian fashion ever. She wouldn’t fantasize about anything or…anyone. Her hand slid between her legs and she felt how wet she was even submerged in the bath. Just the barest brush of her fingers and her head fell back against the rim of the tub and she groaned.
With Manus’s power inside her, she could feel where his attention was within the castle. He’d been very curious about the long, lost Dracone in the laboratory, but she found his ‘eye’ turned. To her, of course it was. She couldn’t have a moment of privacy.
“Always watching aren’t you?” She accused the air, not stopping, panting in between snarling at Manus.
Maybe it was the magic in her, or maybe it was her strange mood, but she felt possessive over him suddenly. The castle. The Dracones. Manus. All of them were hers. To do with as she pleased.
It drew a whimper from her lips as she hooked one, shapely leg over the tub to spread herself. If Manus was going to be nasty and watch, she’d give him something worth watching.
“For a being without flesh you certainly seem to enjoy it,” she taunted, “even with the dreams, it’s not quite the real thing is it, Manus? You don’t know what I feel like right now…so hot…so wet. A pity you’re not a man of flesh and blood because-“
Her words strangled to death in her throat as she felt something slither up her leg, coiling around it like a cool serpent, a ribbon of pressure sliding ever closer to the apex of her thighs. Then, this nothing, this movement of matter she couldn’t see, stroked and lapped at her sex. It made her hiss between her teeth. It felt so good it hurt.
Unseen fingers slid over her ribs, her hips, gripped the pillowy flesh of her ass, coiled around her throat, plucked at her nipples. What felt like lips brushed over her temple, her throat. No part of her went untouched.
The pleasure became overwhelming swiftly and wrestled with her guilt…shame. But why? Why should she feel ashamed of anything? These seemed like emotions for lesser creatures. The sudden, bright arrogance sliced through her mind. These things, these men, these experiences…they belonged to her and it would be an insult to herself not to enjoy them. Fully.
“Yes,” she sighed, arching into the invisible touches. “Make me come,” she commanded, letting images of Manus from her dreams populate her racing, erotic thoughts. “You insufferable beast…appearing to me like that in dreams. I should make you suffer for it. Maybe I will,” she threatened. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”
It surprised her that this was true as the fingers and lips continued to pleasure her until she quaked and trembled, hips rolling forward as her clit was suckled and her clutching channel was filled. That she could have been having THIS the entire time she’d lived here? Annoyed her that she’d not taken advantage of it sooner. Whose fucking permission did she need anyway?
She came with a great rush of joy and a cry of pure, giddy pleasure. She laughed as she came, water sloshing out of the tub. The touches didn’t stop, even as she writhed and giggled, even as she gasped and didn’t think she could take anymore. The first orgasm hadn’t even ended when she rolled into another, flinging out her arm, sending bottles of potions, elixirs and unguents, to the ground to shatter. Her eyes rolled back and a wave of dizziness nearly made her faint.
“Enough!” She gasped out, unable to push away hands that weren’t really there.
But Manus was clearly satisfied and relented. He never spoke a word to her and she felt how he had weakened himself, not only with his gift to her, but the rescue itself. He would recover, she knew this too, but it made her narrow her eyes.
He could weaken.
A slow smile curled her lips as she splashed water on her face and willed the mess she’d made to simply vanish. How interesting, she thought.
Her wicked thoughts screeched to a halt as Heathcliff peeked into the bathroom, stripped out of his bloody shirt, just in his trousers. She crooked her finger at him. “Come have a bath,” she murmured. “I’ll wash your back,” she offered.
Guilt and shame did not rear their ugly heads as she decided she wanted dessert after that full course meal.
Would it always be this way? Lillandyr wondered, breathless in silk sheets, lips sore from kissing. Insatiable for him, she teased Heathcliff again, fingers being naughty things, pinching and then coaxing moans instead. He managed to be a temptation even though he’d exhausted her.
Once they were both too spent to even talk anymore, she half dozed, head on his chest, dreaming of how she’d like to get married. At first, she didn’t know what to picture. She’d not been a conventional child. She’d never dressed in her mother’s white slips to clutch a fistful of wildflowers, pretending to marry some handsome, dashing lord or gallant knight. Little Anya dreamed of being alone in a world that belonged to her and would have balked at the idea of sharing this world with anyone. Now, she found herself cutting herself open happily, bleeding and vulnerable and giving away all her secrets. Well…most of them.
Lillandyr frowned sleepily. She’d never even been to a wedding. Not a proper one. How did they go exactly? Would she have to marry in some stuffy temple? Who would be the guests? She had no family and all her friends were whores and criminals, or lived in the Castle and it seemed wildly inappropriate to invite…any of them.
Her mind drifted with gauzy visions of white silk and black roses. Of how fine Heathcliff would look in a suit with tails. Of a tall, tiered sugary cake that would be too sweet to enjoy, but so beautiful to look at. Would they dance together after they said their vows? And the vows…would they recite something old and traditional? She thought she’d rather write her own. To give him poetry and her heart in one moment.
It all seemed too intimate to share with others.
He was her whisper in shells on the sand that coaxed her away from the siren call of scheme and ambition. Heathcliff was the wine dark sea that gave her the pearl of his heart even though she didn’t deserve it. Lillandyr felt wildly possessive of this love suddenly. She saw it as the rare treasure it was. Undeserved though it may be, it was still hers and she wanted sacred, wild ritual, something more ancient than a wedding with its false sentiment and performance of sanitized love. How could she give herself to him that way when she wanted to scream and writhe and dance under silvery moon by the ocean and spill her poems and vows?
”I want to marry you by the sea,” she murmured, not knowing if he was awake or asleep. “No fancy dresses or suits with tails. No cake,” she said with a little smile because it was what Anya wanted. What she wanted. “No flowers. Just you and me. Let’s run away together and say our vows to the waves and the stars so we can mean them…because those things understand what forever is.”
Pressing a lingering kiss to his chest, she let her eyes drift shut as she dreamed the poetry of her vows said under the glittering, cold light of the stars as the only witnesses.
The small, leather bound book of Asmira’s poetry, her poetry, set heavy in her purse even though it was a small thing. Just the weight of her heart.
Lillandyr had picked it up from Liber the evening after she’d dropped it off. Arcane printing presses were surprisingly fast. The automation felt entirely too cold for what was contained in the pages. As a book forger, book binding was a painstaking process. To see it reduced to mere moments felt…unnatural.
No moment to give the book to Heathcliff presented itself. She decided not to give it to him until they were back at the Castle. Until she gave it to him, Lillandyr felt they teetered on the edge of something real and something they could both so easily push down and forget…as they had dozens of times before. To confess and give him this book meant it all would be real because the words were proof of how she’d really felt all this time.
As a result, she knew she seemed withdrawn, her mood pissy and unpleasant. She snapped at him several times because he seemed so…carefree in the storm of their feelings. As if he enjoyed them in a way foreign to her. And her mercurial state only seemed to amuse him. Perhaps he was used to it. Her courage began to waver on the way…home.
Home.
She’d never had such a place. She never rested her head anywhere she’d miss. Home had become a utilitarian space to keep her out of the elements. Lillandyr struggled to contain the strange intersection of feeling shackled by the concept of home and feeling, at last, at ease. Surprised by the sudden longing and homesickness, she sighed, agitated.
Lillandyr had refused the carriage and insisted she ride with him instead. Immediately, she regretted it. He had given his assistant a ride home just this way. Only now did she feel jealous and hurt by it. And not in the fiery way she would have before. There was no anger. Just disappointment.
“I have something to give you,” she blurted, “when we…get home,” she muttered the last bit, brow furrowed, features pinched. Lillandyr told him this not to ruin the surprise, but to force herself to go through with it. He’d hold her to it now, and she needed that in the place of bravery. She reminded herself she’d lied and been unfaithful too.
It didn’t make it sting less.
There was some measure of relief once back at the Castle. Even the smell of the place, strange and full of magic, soothed her a little. She insisted on freshening up and having supper before she gave him the book, and Heathcliff indulged her without prodding.
Lillandyr lingered in the bath until her fingers were shriveled. She didn’t ask Manus for anything, didn’t speak to him. Not tonight. She couldn’t. She drank and smoked for courage until Heathcliff knocked on the door.
Finally, she dragged herself into a robe and decided not to put it off any longer. It had become only torture and it didn’t matter if she half regretted doing this, it was done.
Wordlessly, in his room…THEIR room, she pressed the small book bound in navy leather and stamped with gilded moons and stars, into his hands.
“This,” she began, holding her trembling hands behind her back, embarrassed, “is a collection of Asmira’s poetry that has never been published. You will be the first to read it…the only one to ever read it,” she said.
She felt her features go soft as her heart thrashed against her ribs and her blood rushed in her ears. He started to ask where she’d gotten it, clearly delighted, already thumbing through the pages with more reverence than she thought she deserved.
The look on his face broke her heart a little and she blinked away a hot rush of tears. She should have told him it was her a long time ago. There were many regrets. Such a little thing, she thought, pleased him so much. For a moment, she nearly snatched the book back to tear out the last page that would give it all away. Just so he could have this in an uncomplicated way. He…fucking thanked her for such a beautiful gift.
But Anya wasn’t good at giving gifts.
Again, he asked how she’d come to acquire the book.
“Well,” she said, voice quavering a little, “if you turn to the very last page…you’ll see how.” Now, she was glad she’d penned a few lines in the back. She didn’t think she had the courage to say it outloud.
He gave her a funny look, brow raised, lips thinned a little before curling into a bemused half smile. She liked that look, it always delighted her. Lillandyr held her breath as he turned to the last page. She watched him read what she’d written.
Just two lines without poetry or artifice.
I am Asmira. And you are my muse.
Then her heart shattered.
He recoiled from what he’d read as if horrified. His eyes went wide, nostrils flared. He head shot up and he looked at her in complete devastation. She could feel her own features parroting his and she inhaled sharply, drawing back, stung.
A thousand lies perched on her tongue in a panic. Her pride lay in tatters at his feet and all the reasons she’d pushed him away and forgot their kisses rang in her head.
“Heathcliff…I-“
But she didn’t get to finish because he fled. He turned and stormed out of the room, clutching the book, his expression somewhere between shock and fury leaving her to stand there, horrified and so wounded she could barely breathe.
TW: mind control of an animal and animal injury, gambling, drinking, smoking
Many years ago…
Lillandyr and Heathcliff rarely met during the daytime hours. Their usual way was to ‘run’ into each other in one of several dive bars and seedy lounges long after the sun went down. So, this night was no different. Wordlessly, she slid into the booth next to him, sitting close because he was going to scoot closer whether she did or not so Lillandyr thought she’d just get it over with. Besides…she was going to have to be sweet this evening anyway. She needed him for something. A job.
She knew just how to earn his compliance. With a slow spreading, cagey smile, she reached up and snatched the blood thistle cigarette from between his lips and smoked it, holding half lidded eye contact as she leaned in a little to tease. Then she drained his cocktail, leaving crimson lipstick on the rim.
Sweeping her gaze over him slowly, she arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you look fine this evening,” she gushed, voice breathy.
Naturally, this made him immediately suspicious and he leaned back, brow raised, lips thinned. It was an expression she liked drawing out of him and it made her laugh.
“Can’t I pay you a compliment?” She asked, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t supposed to be so charmed in his company. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she continued to puff away on his cigarette she’d stolen.
Heathcliff gave her a flat look which only made her disintegrate into giggles. She supposed he knew her too well, after all.
“You DO look very nice,” she said, hand snaking out to smooth over his lapel. “But I suppose I was buttering you up a bit. I need you,” she said with a little pout. She could tell her antics both intrigued and annoyed him a little. She always danced out of reach. It just had to be that way.
When she had his attention, she went on, “I need you to place a high stakes bet at the hawkstrider races tomorrow. And I need to be your date because I have someone I have to meet.” She huffed when he narrowed his eyes. “It’s business! And I can’t afford to place a bet..what with the expensive renovations on my manor.” She waved a hand, his stolen smoke pinched between her fingers.
There were no renovations, of course. Manor Shadowglade was a single, charred wall. An absolute ruin. But Heathcliff didn’t know that and hadn’t ever seemed keen on details so the little lie seemed like something he asked for.
“And before you protest…you’re guaranteed to win, no matter which strider you bet on,” she told him. It was a promise she intended to keep, though she had no intention of telling him how she would manage to achieve this.
“You just need to be my arm candy,” she told him, cutting him a sly, amused look.
Naturally, he agreed. He always agreed to her terrible, often dangerous little schemes. So, she told him she would meet him outside the races.
The next day, with the sun shining brilliantly overhead, Lillandyr met him (fashionably late to make him wait. She even watched him checking the time and looking annoyed before she graced him with her presence) dressed in a slinky black dress with a wide brimmed black hat and black opera gloves. He offered his arm and they went in together.
Heathcliff placed a large enough bet that they were taken to the VIP seats under shade and given opera glasses. They were served champagne and various pastries, but Lillandyr was too busy scanning the VIP seats for the man she’d come there to see.
There were several, smaller stakes races ahead of the one Heathcliff had bet on, so there was plenty of time. Heathcliff chatted at her, but she wasn’t listening. Her gaze narrowed on an odd looking man.
He was tall and thin, wearing a kaftan of dark, red silk embroidered in gold. He had on shiny, gold slippers with bells on the toes and big, gaudy rings on every spindly finger. His long, salt and pepper hair was pulled up in an elaborate, twisted bun. He had a ridiculous mustache that he waxed and curled. Lillandyr huffed out a little breath, gave Heathcliff’s thigh an unconscious squeeze and rose from her seat to make her way to the eccentric man.
She slid into the seat next to him and cut him a mean smile. “Well, well. Hello, Liber,” she said, pulling a black cigarillo from her golden cigarette case.
Ba’al Liber startled at her, recoiling with a hiss through his teeth. “You!” He exclaimed with clear distaste.
“Me,” she cooed, blowing smoke in his face.
The man pouted, waving at the smoke, squirming in his seat, hands curling into fists on his thighs. “They shouldn’t have let you in here,” he snapped. “What do you want? I told you I didn’t want to see you ever again. And if I did I’d—“
She gave him a flat look. “You’ll what?” She asked with a sneer, “throw a fit? Calm down. You have something I want and I’m willing to trade several, valuable first editions,” she said.
Liber sputtered. “Forgeries I’m sure! Like the last book you traded me, you insufferable harlot!”
Before she could snarl and bite back at the insult, Lillandyr noticed Heathcliff was no longer alone. Some…woman…was sitting next to him, hand on his arm, talking to him. They looked familiar.
By and large, she wasn’t a particularly jealous person. When she wanted something she didn’t have, she just got it by whatever means necessary. She’d already decided, years ago, that her and Heathcliff simply wouldn’t work out. So, it shouldn’t have bothered her.
But oh…it did.
A red tide of jealous rage rose in her so sharp and sudden that she made a funny, little strangled noise in her throat. What she did next took very little thought. She viciously stomped on Liber’s foot with her stiletto heel. This caused the rare book dealer to howl in pain and shock. Loudly. In turn, this made Heathcliff look over to where the noise had come from. When he did, Lillandyr grabbed Liber by the face and kissed him.
Liber did not recoil, though he did stiffen. At first. Then he sank into the mean, rough kiss, his bejeweled hands on her bare arms. When she broke the kiss, grimacing, her lipstick smeared, Lillandyr saw the woman was gone and Heathcliff had pointedly turned away.
Good.
“Well…ah. Lady Shadowglade…er…I suppose…I mean, if you truly have the originals and they are not forgeries…,” Liber stammered, “then a trade could be made. Certainly. We can discuss the terms over dinner?” He smiled at her, her rouge on his lips.
Rolling her eyes, she huffed out a sigh. “Yes, fine. Whatever. Dinner,” she muttered, watching the race Heathcliff had bet on.
His strider, Black Caviar, was in fourth place. She’d been distracted and Heathcliff was set to lose more money than she was comfortable with. Quickly rising to her feet, she focused on the jockey of the leading strider. It was easy to sink her magic into his head and make him sharply yank on the reins, causing his strider to skid to a confused halt.
Light perspiration dotting her brow, Lillandyr turned her attention to the next two leading hawkstriders. She couldn’t use the same trick twice or it would be clear that the race had been rigged by someone. Frowning, she decided to try something she’d never attempted that should theoretically be possible.
Her shadow sunk into the head of one of the leading striders. Its mind was simple. But not stupid. Animals were not brainless and birds were quite clever. It took a lot of nudging and pushing, but at last the strider squawked loudly and attacked the one racing next to it.
The birds fought violently, using the spurs on their legs and harsh pecks of their beaks, tearing into each other until the track was smeared with bright feathers and blood. Lillandyr winced. It was regrettable and she’d not meant it to go that far. The jockeys messily dismounted and tried to calm their beasts.
As Heathcliff’s Black Caviar pulled ahead, she slipped back to sit next to him. He wouldn’t look at her and his jaw was tight. Just another kiss they weren’t going to talk about, she thought sourly. For a moment, she wanted to say something. Maybe even apologize. Protest that Liber was just…this eccentric jerk she’d pissed off, but the angry, brooding look on Heathcliff’s face silenced her.
They didn’t cheer when his strider won. Heathcliff rose from his seat, movements measured and precise. He crumpled the betting ticket and dropped it at her feet before he left without a word.
She sat there, looking at the ticket that would mean more money than she’d ever seen and she couldn’t bring herself to take it and cash it in. Lillandyr sat there until she was the only one left in the stands…then she went home alone, leaving the crumpled ticket where he’d dropped it.
