Chapter Twelve: FYI Pillows Don't Talk

Art is by Rebecca Guay. Her work is amazing, and features a lot of mythology with passionate lovers...I love this one of Hades and Persephone!

The next morning-- apparently it was technically morning, but it's always dull here-- I awake with a dark laugh emitting in my left ear.

Gods, do I leap.

I am out of my large canopy bed and onto plush carpet, whilst spinning in midair to view my assailant, all within seconds. Landing with a short huff as my butt hits the floor on all the bony bits, I glare up at the smirk of my husband-in-name-only.

He's so smug it's unreal.

Like a preening cat, he's curled up in my duvet, shirtless and wearing only underwear, so that I get the best view of his bulky frame. He also makes my bed look damn small as he proceeds to spread like a starfish.

I stare at him, the previous evening's miscreant activities flooding back into my mind. The ball. The reveal. The kiss. The Hadrian.

The if-you-sleep-with-me-you-stay-with-me possessive pact. Hadrian the jealous lover.

The fact that he'd dismissed me like a servant once we had established our agreement, and after cursing him in as many languages as I knew, I had stormed off to sleep. Fitful sleep filled with dreams of belly-lurching kisses, and sneaking into a certain someone's bed.

I will never speak of such dreams again.

'I think I prefer this bed to my own,' he says with an air on nonchalance, 'Mind if I move in?'

He's teasing me again, and not even bothering to hide it. What is he even doing in my bedroom, and how did he get in here?

And, worse...why am I so drawn towards his thighs, draped artistically across my white virgin sheets?

He looks like he cycles everyday, I think. Is it hot in here? Or is it just my hormones flaring?

Back when I was working on the streets, I had heard talk of different attractive features of men. Typically, I overheard far too much information about some man's bottom, chest hair, abs, jawline, shoulders-- once, I heard a girl gushing over her boyfriend's forehead. Apparently, it was nice to rub against, whatever that meant. I had hummed a tune to block out the conversation, feeling scarred at even knowing bits of a sex life I couldn't comprehend.

Oh, I'd been tempted, yes. Far too many men and women had tried to crack my resolve, and other times I'd been caught alone and had to fend for myself. Before I could fight had been dark, dangerous days, most of which I survived because of Nate.

But because of such a history, I'd never allowed myself to really look at a man's body before. And then, one just pops in front of me, like a beautiful painting wanting to be examined.

And, now I know. I'm a thigh-girl.

'My love...this is all moving so--- fast!' I grunt, heaving a nearby pillow towards him. I can feel my cheeks are flushed from my internal monologue, and the thought of getting any closer to Hadrian's body.

He bats the pillow away with ease, smirking all the more. 'You tried that last night, wifey. You can't get me with the same trick twice.'

He rolls onto his front, propped up on my pillows that haven't been directed at his head. He adds the latest throw to the collection, giving me a satisfied smirk.

'Lucky for you,' I hiss. My damn cheeks wouldn't cool down, and the way he'd rolled...was that gluteal muscle...? 'What do you want? I need to get dressed.'

I gesture down at my attire; a cotton billowy shirt and shorts, exposing my bare, pale legs (still neatly shaved from my wedding preparations, but with the beginnings of stubble returning) and the hint of a feminine outline among all the swathed clothes. Hadrian looks up and down at me in an appraising manner, thoughtfully thumbing his lower lip.

'White isn't your colour, love,' he says decidedly, 'I forgot to tell you that when I last saw you half naked, but you attacking me got between our conversation.'

'Fine,' I snap, crossing over to my wardrobe and yanking it open. Inside, layers of frills and trims give the impression of a bakery, not a wardrobe. Everything was ankle length and smothering, and snow white. I thrust a hand in their direction.

'I do not want you dressing me,' I say bluntly. 'I might be married to you, but that doesn't make me yours. Where are the normal clothes?'

Hadrian raises an eyebrow. 'You were wearing something similar before you shredded it.'

'You think I chose that? Good lord, no wonder you're a virgin too. Your presents on Erostine's must be awful.'

At my mention of the God of Love and his namesake's day, celebrated once a year, Hadrian's eyes darken. 'You had better pray you never meet that God himself, or you won't have any clothes.'

'At least someone will want to,' I snap back, and Hadrian smirks.

'I have plenty of choice, little wife,' he says, 'because I can't sleep with a human, doesn't mean I can't sleep with a goddess.'

For some reason, the image of the redhead flutters before my eyes, and I quell the intense anger the image conjures up. I want to question such a loophole, but I count to three and remind myself that I'm not here for Hadrian to be monogamous.

I just need his power. To avenge Nate. I don't need him personally.

'When do you go out hunting souls?' I ask soberly.

If Hadrian is surprised at my self-control at not rising to the bait, he hides it well. He gives me a grin, and then casts me aside.

'I have meetings all of today. We'll go out together tomorrow.'

Huh, I think. Not even a "sorry"?  I nod in response, and Hadrian looks satisfied.

'Right, well, see you tomorrow!' the King of the Underworld stands, all of his pelvic glory on show, held in a pair of tight fitted boxer shorts. My poor heart nearly gives as my eyes shoot towards the ceiling. From the floor, Hadrian scoops up a black dressing robe that rests over his shoulders like an evil crow. From his dark hair, dark underwear, dark morning attire and dark bags beneath his eyes, I see how he resembles Death.

But I don't tell him that-- I hide my smile.

A pillow comes flying towards me, and I duck, rolling my eyes at the immaturity. He did want to get me back, after all.

When I glance back up, ready to fire a retort, my bedroom is empty.

---

Placing my hands on my hips, I sigh. For the past few hours, I had taken it upon myself to grow acquainted with my new home. From my wanderings, I had begun to make a mental map of the palace.

The place was dark and large, and despite appearances of last night's ball, very empty. On leaving my tower, I came across very few servants in the hallways, scurrying by with trays and boxes. Whenever I tried to speak to them, they would bow and hurry on their way. Jefferson had been missing all morning, and only dusty corridors were my companions.

Now I'm back to where I started, in the middle of the foyer of the entrance hall. Here, on the ground floor, is the ballroom, the dining room, the kitchens, the connecting stairwells, and an armory. Second floor contains a desolate music room, a library, a council room-- locked, I assumed, for whatever meeting Hadrian was in-- and Jefferson's room, among guest rooms and more comfy lounges. I had avoided the end of the floor where Jefferson might be, in case he realised that I had a Hadrian-free day and wanted to offer me a tour. On the third floor, more rooms and a large gallery of paintings.

The paintings had been a fascinating find. They occupy all of the dusty upper floors of the palace, each picture seemingly following chronologically from the other, but without any words to depict the scenes. I had followed them all the way to both ends; on one, a blank canvas awaited the story to continue. I wondered whether the artist was still around to paint what happened next.

Not that I understood the story. I'd stared at the first picture for ages; three figures, close together, with one distinctly male. As the story carried on, the art became more complex; whole scenes were spread apart, and emotion alone pulled me through the majority. These three figures had been allies, and something had split them up. The man mourned one of the others, whilst the other ally appeared angry at the man. Zigzagging lines and swirls seemed to indicate a spell being cast, and the man became alone, surrounded by a throne and shadows.

I frown, recollecting that picture of the man vividly after all had left him. Is it supposed to represent Hadrian? I thought. The pictures had then jumped to two women, and I was lost once more.

I sigh again, unable to figure out the cryptic lines of art still floating around inside my head. Where's Mercer? Perhaps he would be useful, for once.

Locating Mercer takes about another hour.

He's in the library when I storm in, legs aching from all the stairs. The library had been the last place I'd thought to look, and when I had, I'd missed Mercer-- he was sitting reading behind bookshelves. I'd only found out where he was by bumping into Jefferson, and enduring his infuriating puns in order to find my so-called bodyguard.

'I've been looking all over for you!' I flop beside the blond boy, groaning as my knees flex. 'Have you been in here, all this time?'

Mercer gives me a sheepish look. 'Yes...I've been researching.'

'Researching? Researching what?' I lean over to grab the book, but he shuffles away.

'You already know this,' Mercer says, 'I'm just catching up, okay? This library has a lot on King Hadrian's court. I figured I needed to know that much...'

I open my mouth in shock. Perhaps Mercer would prove useful yet. 'No, the books I found above didn't have much detail. They were mostly religious texts of worship, not facts. Can I see?'

'I can teach you the basics,' he suggests uncomfortably-- my kindness, and lack of insult, has probably made him question life. I nod, eyes glowing with eagerness.

'Alright...' Mercer thumbs through the book he's reading, and I can see bits of paper crammed inside, like he's written notes on each section. I admire his thorough approach. He turns to the front of the book, showing me the title.

The Court of the Underworld, and its Politics.

'Politics?' I repeat, 'There's politics? Over death? How?'

For once, Mercer's at an advantage, and the destructive retort is on the tip of his tongue. He quells it, however, and instead gently points out, 'The Underworld isn't the only court, Nerissa, and Hadrian can be overthrown like any other leader.'

I pause. In my research, I had only focused on the Underworld, neglecting any mention of other sects of the religion. 'Where are the other courts?'

'There are hundreds. Wherever there's a large elemental power, there's normally a God or Goddess ruling it, surrounded by their court. The sea, the sky, the forest, the desert--'

'Alright, alright...so, how do they relate to us?'

'Like any political party, the Underworld has allies...and enemies.'

I snort. Who would make an enemy of Death? They were surely fools. Mercer, however, proceeds to hand me his notes as if to emphasize his points.

Underworld's Court is the third largest, consisting of many Shades that form the ruler's retinue. Shades consist of lesser gods and human souls that, rather than pass through to the next life, have remained to devote themselves to the Death Lord. Shades are ranked on their ability to maintain the borders of life and death, and collect souls of the dead to transport to the Underworld to pass on. Unlike Shades, the Death Lord's camarilla consist of gods and goddesses and other spirits who can exist during daytime. Whilst keeping check on court, they are the ruler's most loyal companions.

'So...' I reread bits of the text, Mercer's handwriting a scrawl difficult to decipher. 'So, the people at the ball...they were Shades. And his close allies must have been there.'

'Camarilla,' Mercer says with a nod. 'The household is large, and very influential. Even a few guests from other courts were at the ball last night, you know. I investigated, after you disappeared.'

He looked at me suggestively.

I look back at him flatly.

'What?' he whispers.

'I'm still a virgin,' I hiss back, my voice no louder than his, but with double the venom.

Surprise etches the young man's face. 'What did you do? Weren't you any good?'

'Lord, I will kill you! It's not that!'

'Then what?' Mercer leans closer, conspiratorially. 'Why didn't he...? With a beautiful girl like you, sacrificed for him...is he ga--?'

'He's cursed,' I mutter, flicking through the book. It's less of a book, and more of a tome, heavier and larger than any book I've ever seen. Each page is hand inked on crusty brown parchment, and bound by gold string. Despite its worn leather cover, it hardly seems read.

'Like, he's got the pox down there? Oh, that's terrible. My cousin died of--' Mercer trails away as I flick his nose.

'He's not got a disease, either! Can Death even get ill?'

'Even if he does, I bet he just cheats...oh!' Mercer stops talking as I find the chapter I'm looking for in the book.

The most well known secret of the Underworld Court is the spell placed upon the Death Lord by his fiancee of the Winter Court. In order to bind together the two largest powers of the Dark, the King of the Underworld agreed to wed his son to the Queen of Winter's daughter. Their names were Hadrian and Hecate.

'It says Hadrian!' I exclaim in a low voice. 'This is it!'

However, the Prince Hadrian courted another, falling madly in love with a young goddess of the Spring Court, a renowned enemy of the Winter Court. Each year, after harvest, Winter and the Underworld claims the life and fertility of the spring for their own barren winter, thus creating a natural tension between the three courts.

Prince Hadrian and the Daughter of Spring planned to run away together, and live on Earth as humans, away from the political life of court. A union between the Underworld and Spring could never happen, and the Court of Winter became angry that their ally had betrayed them.

The King and Queen of the Underworld set out to negotiate between Winter and Spring, but never returned.

Legend tells Hecate lured the Daughter of Spring to the mortal world, where she cast a spell on her to turn her human. Instead of being joined by the Prince, however, the Daughter of Spring was left alone in a body said to be unrecogniseable by her lover.

In her revenge on the Prince, Hecate bargained with him that she would grant him the ability to meet with his lover, in return for his power. The precise conditions of this power are unknown, but it is thought that Hecate weakened the Underworld Court severely. Now, the Court of Winter is the ruling court, and dictates to the Underworld of life and death.

If the Prince could gain any consolation from meeting his lover, he was severely disappointed. Hecate's bargain only allowed him a bride once every ten years, a human sacrificed for him as a chance of being his missing bride.

Mercer and I look up slowly after finishing the text, our heads bowed together over the tiny writing. We stare at each other for a full minute, our mouths open.

Neither of us want to voice that numbness that's spreading through our brains.

We're in way too deep this time.

----

A/N: I'm back! Did you like the chapter? Please let me know what you think! Did you enjoy the "backstory" of Hadrian and the Little Saint Bride?

Did you enjoy the "bedchamber" scene? ;) Nerissa being a 'thigh girl'...did you agree?

Anyway, after some convincing I'm going to try to enter the So You Think You Can Write contest. I have no idea if I'll be able to finish in time (Little Saint Bride is very new, and my word count needs to be much longer) but hey, you never know. I think I'll enter in the Nocturne category, which is like a dark paranormal romance. What do you think?

lots of loveeee

Larissa xx