Chapter Fourteen: Goddess of the Night...Primordial Deity or Prostitute?

A/N: Long chapter to thank you all for your great feedback on the title of this work. Overall majority thought that I should keep the title as it is, and that if it ever did change it should fit better to the story than the ones I suggested. I'm really grateful, thank you!!

Media is an artwork by arabeske-art.deviantart.com, I think it encompasses this chapter's events quite well, and if you look closely, Hades is pulling winter in as he kisses Persephone. Adorbs.

I would face my husband, yes-- if only I could find him.

Bella slept through the night on my bed, snoring away like a princess whilst I huddled on the chair, occasionally flicking through the library books when I couldn't snooze. I learned little, perhaps due to my dazed state. When the first beginnings of a grey dawn grace my curtains, I sigh with relief. Dressing quickly in the plainest gown I could find within the wardrobe and pinning my unruly brown hair, I stride with purpose towards the door in my satin slippers. I fling it open, causing the maid to stumble who had been on her way into my room.

She stares at me, uncertain what to do. As if her mistress has never woken herself before. My gaze tries hard not to look guilty, as I feel as if I'm sneaky around here, when in reality, I'm only plotting against my husband, who ordered the sacrifice of young maidens for hundreds of years in order to find one missing one.

She stutters. 'My lady, what are you doing awake? And dressed in such a solemn gown, indeed, and your hair is awry! Hell, is everything okay?' Something flashes across her face, like an understanding, and she glances conspiratorially left and right. 'I won't tell my lady, promise. They were all saying that he would come to you of a night, but I never spread it, and I won't now--'

What is she talking about? I wonder. But when I hear the telltale snore, and the maid's blush, I realise what she's thinking. Bella's snores are so loud, it's clear there's someone else in my room: just not who this girl thinks is in there. And not for the same reasons.

'I...' I can't even think whether I want to contradict her or not. She winks and bustles away, telling me she'll come back when I call her, and that I should ask for Eryn. I don't tell her that I will never willingly call her.

Sighing, I slip my room key into the pocket of my gown, before shutting the door on the sleeping Sybella. I catch a glimpse of the girl as I shut the door; head lolling, mouth open, odd snorting sounds coming from her throat.

Shaking my head, I make my way down the stairway, each spiral counting down to the bottom of the steps. The hallways are silent once more, unsettling. I bite my lip from making any noise, and sneak unseen through the palace, down to Hadrian's basement.

The air grows cooler the closer I get, until I reach the big brass doors. On them is a small piece of paper, folded and tagged with the name "Nerissa", wedged carefully in the crack. I pull it out, quickly opening the precise folds and reading the message within.

To my little wife,

I regret to tell you that once again I will not be able to take you reaping, my work demands my attention once more. Rest assured that I am thinking of you, and will take you out before the week is out.

Yours,

Hadrian

Crushing the message, I scowl. He's busy again, busy with what? He doesn't appear to be in the palace. And if he isn't reaping, perhaps...

Perhaps he left the mask behind? Along with all those books to tell me how to use his power?

And, if he'd been extra nice, maybe he left his chamber door unlocked?

I try pushing it, but I'm disappointed. It doesn't move. I hiss air through clenched teeth, my brain trying to decide on how best to break into the King's chambers. If they were locked, they were worth looking into.

Putting my hands on my hips, I inspect the lock upon the door. It doesn't look that secure; an average security, at best. I kneel to the floor, sweeping a pin from my hair that had been holding a stray lock in place. A brown tangle flickers over my concentrating face. I push it away, pretending I know what I'm doing.

I don't. After several seconds of waggling my hairpin in the lock, I give up. I'm no spy, it seems. I smack my head on that tantalising door frame, staring at my feet in frustration.

Seeing another way into the King's chambers, I sigh. I am cunning, but I have no dignity whatsoever.

I climb back up the steps to the main floor, and from there I make my way to the kitchens and inquire after Eryn. There's only a few staff, which surprises me; the kitchens are huge, filled with utensils and stoves as if there's sometimes five hundred cooks. But how could that be?

A portly man bows and gestures to me, and leads me through the kitchens, and into the rooms beyond. Hundreds of beds show me that this place is capable of holding large amounts of staff, and the bedsides all look used. But...where are they? Pushing away the questions, I find Eryn in the washrooms in the adjacent room to the dormitories. Scrubbing pans hold cloth and materials are being squeezed dry through giant presses at the front of the room. Eryn is gathering bedsheets, no doubt to change my own newlywed ones, when she sees me, and nearly drops the bundle of whites on the floor.

'My lady!' she screeches, dropping so low that I almost think she's fallen over. Then the girl rises, and I take a better look at her than I had done, fifteen minutes previously.

She has a rosy face, and a bosom figure. Her lips are rounded, her breasts are rounded, and her bottom is rounded, giving her a very cuddly appearance. Chocolate brown hair, similar in colour but lighter in shade to my own, dips around her ears, and becoming to pigtails over her shoulders. She's young, perhaps thirteen human years. She nibbles her lower lip as she blinks huge, dark brown eyes at me.

'May I ask you for a favour, Eryn?' I ask, and I see her blush once more. She bobs excitedly. I ask the previous man for some privacy, and he bows and moves away, expression unreadable. Eryn is dancing on her tiptoes she feels so important, and I continue to let her think that way.

'I'm sorry you had to see me like that this morning,' I say, tipping her a look that said a thousand words about "last night". The girl's face turns pink, but she grins.

'Oh no, miss, it's only natural!' she exclaims, gripping her hands together until they turned white. 'The old servants haven't seen a baby here since the master was young, before his parents...well, it's been many years. When are you due?'

I give her a sly look. 'I'll tell you...if I can request a key.'

'A key, my lady?'

'A key...to my husband's chambers,' I whisper.

Eryn's eyes turn into black pools of gossip, and I see her elation. 'A k-key, my lady? Of course! Yes! Right away!'

'Right away?' I say with a grin, and the girl looks a little flustered. 'That would be wonderful, Eryn. Shall I wait for you by Hadrian's rooms?'

Praying that she could get what I asked, the girl nods. 'I'll be there as soon as I can, my lady...'

And that's how, twenty minutes later, I stand triumphant with a small silver key in my hand, and Eryn is scurrying away to tell her friends that the bride had begun to sneak into her husband's bed, as well as vice versa. I shrug it off, knowing I wouldn't be here long enough for any rumours to harm me.

After she's gone and her steps have stopped echoing, I slide the key in the lock and hear a satisfying click. The door rolls open, and as I pull the key out and slip it down my bra (not to confuse it with my room key, of course, and for safe keeping), cool air hits my face.

Back in Hadrian's room, I look around once more. His bed is unmade, and his clothes are strewn across the floor like he'd had an impromptu romp, starting from the edge of the waterfall. I look beyond his red satin sheets-- how pretentious-- and wander instead to his cupboards, his desks, scanning for a hint of power.

The room is quiet, save for the gentle roar of the waterfall at the end of the cavern. There's no damp from the water, I realise, nor is there any spray. Some kind of magic is at work here, to protect the King's chamber.

Distracted, I wander to the edge of the room, feeling how dry my slippers were despite being stood a metre away from swift water. I tentatively stretch out a hand to the water, surprised as not only do I touch it, but it splashes me clear across the cheek.

'What in hell's fires...' I curse, peering at the water. It was soft and clear. If my thoughts were correct, this waterfall carries souls of the dead onto the next life; but I could see no souls, or bodies, dead or otherwise. Sticking my head as far over the edge as I could without taking a cold shower, I peer down at the tumbling water. It plunges fifty metres or so before I lose sight of it, in a dark blackness.

I shiver and step away.

His power, I remind myself. Gather information.

I return to his study area, filled with vials of bright liquids and others empty, and litters of handwritten notes and textbooks with ten or twenty leather bookmarks beaming out the edges.

On his desk is a very old, bound book, similar to one that Mercer would love to stick his nose into. Reading the front cover, however, I realise the subject is something Mercer would tremble to think of.

NECROMANCY: taking control over death.

I blink. Controlling death? Had I read correctly? It sounds like my father's old Poker For Dummies book that he'd read like his bible; promising many things, but returns were questionable. Death, like gambling, was intended to be beyond human capabilities of controlling.

But these people aren't human, I remember. Hadrian's gorgeous, but he's also not your species.

Put like that it sounds vulgar.

I flick open the book to discover what necromancy was.

"Necromancy is the ancient and revered art of manipulating the dead. A skillful necromancer can see death, speak the words of the dead, travel through the Underworld and control the dead. Only one necromancer, however, has the power to see and cut lifelines of the living, and this necromancer is granted the nickname of the Grim Reaper."

I take a moment to appreciate the amount of serious shit I am in. My husband is the necromancers of necromancers. The alpha in the wolf pack. The queen bee of his hive. The metaphor of metaphors, and more.

If only I knew how powerful, so I know what I'm up against. What on Earth is a lifeline?

I carry on reading, hoping to find out.

"Inheriting the gift of necromancy is the most likely way to become a necromancer, as most necromancers are born, not made. Erebus, God of Darkness, with Nyx, Goddess of the Night, created the first and most powerful necromancer in their son, King Hadrian of the Underworld. Their other children also carried gifts of necromancy, and have spread these as far as the human population and among the court of the Underworld.

Necromancers can be created, but it is extremely risky. They must travel beyond the waterfall and return, a feat said to be impossible for all but the King. Shades or souls alike may become necromancers, but few have ever been able to do so."

'Shades? God of Darkness?' I murmur aloud as I read each one. 'Goddess of the Night? Sounds like a prostitute.' Shaking my head, without seeing any clear explanation, I delve further.

"This book will guide a young necromancer into honing his or her skill, which requires practice, discipline and inner strength. Necromancy borders between life and death, and can often harm the caster irreversibly. Each chapter outlines an individual Sense, combined to make the Six Senses of Necromancy, the Sixth only possessed by the Grim Reaper."

Yet another chill creeps along my spine. The word irreversibly has caught my eye, and I can't stop wondering what the author means by "irreversible". The rest of the page is blank, and when I turn the page, I find the contents outlined with each of the "Senses". I memorise them as quickly as I can.

First Sense: Seeing the Dead

Second Sense: The Tongue of the Dead

Third Sense: Summoning the Dead

Fourth Sense: Raising the Dead

Fifth Sense: The Puppeteer

Sixth Sense: The Scythe

None of the categories mean anything to me, but "seeing" and "scythe" seem obvious enough, as are "summoning" and "raising", albeit they appear synonymous, so I can't see why they require two senses. Brushing through the pages, I realise that each "chapter" is actually many individual chapters, and that reading Seeing the Dead alone would take me at least an hour or more to read. Hadrian would return before I could make any sort of dent in the book, let alone find anything useful.

I release a breath I hadn't realised I was holding, letting the pages rest on the last part I'd turned to ("Seeing the Dead, part Seven: Wandering Soul or Remnant?"). The book might come in handy later, but perhaps I should find the mask first.

Before I can move, a great splashing noise arises from the end of the cavern. Water is pouring across the floor as a dark mass rises through the stream, a shadowed figure against the frothing current. My mouth drops open, and I forget that I'm a trespasser and instead marvel as a masked man steps through the water.

The mask is silver and shapeless, with only a slit for a mouth and two black, cavernous holes for eyes. The figure is hooded, but gloved hands rise immediately to lower it. The dark hair underneath, arching over the mask's contours and dripping sexy droplets along it, is all too familiar, as are the strong shoulders, broad chest and long limbs. Hadrian sweeps his hair back, creating a swept, just-out-of-the-shower look that doesn't fit right with the long, dark cloak he wears, pulled in at his slim waist with brass ties. Shiny black boots over midnight blue trousers are the only other items of clothing not hidden by the huge cloak and hood.

I'm gripping the book now like a maiden threatening to swoon. Does that make me the girl that likes thighs and has shower fantasies?

Hadrian, however, isn't as lost for words as I am. 'What are you doing here, Nerissa?'

His voice is calm, cold. He's not flirting, and he doesn't look at me as he treads across to another set of brass doors, inconspicuous besides all of the clutter, and fishes out a key from around his neck. He places the key in its lock, turns it monotonously, and reveals a walk-in storeroom of sorts.

I watch as he unbuttons the cloak, and hangs it to dry. Underneath, his shirt is white but see-through, showing his defined, yet soft, muscles and brown nipples. He sheds the shirt too, and it joins the cloak. Next comes the mask, although I don't see how he removes it-- he turns away. In plain sight, he carries the mask with revere to the back wall of the closet, where he hangs it upon a hook on the wall.

I know where it is. Doesn't he mind? I wonder, trying not to show excitement across my face. Doesn't he worry about me stealing the mask? No...he carries the key on him, he doesn't worry. He has no reason to think it will ever leave his hands.

I would have to change that, if he refused to cooperate.

But Hadrian doesn't give any retort, he stomps back into his chamber, slamming the door behind him. Only a shiny gold key now adorns his chest, the rest blissfully bare. He comes to a stop before me, but his eyes skim away from my face, resting somewhere in the distance.

He's tired, I realise, Something's wrong.

I start forward, concerned. The man's eyes are unfocused, but as I step forward, they pool down at me like black jewels, empty and without light. No smile brushes across his lips, something I'm used to seeing. No smirk like a triumphant cat. No rousing words to rile me.

'What's wrong?' I say, but my voice comes out quiet, breaking. I'm actually worried. Why?

'Relatives,' he replies, his expression like stone. He goes back to staring into the distance, and as my eyes dart in the same direction I begin to think he's gazing at the waterfall. He gives me no indication that he wants to talk, or that he even cares I'm in his room unannounced. Anger, and slight hurt, well up within my chest.

As I'm about to turn away, my fingers twitch as they alert me to the fact I'm still clutching that damned book. And at that, I remember its own words.

"Necromancy borders life and death, and can often harm the caster irreversibly..."

My eyes shoot to Hadrian, still vacant. His skin is tinged with mottled white and blue, and I see his hands are shaking. His lips are a dull pink, leaching into purple.

My gut shouts wrong! This is wrong!

Something about the man is fading, as if his spirit is being seeped away. Scared, I race for the fluffy towels that sit pretty on his bathroom shelf, and return in a hurry. Hadrian blinks as I wrap them around him, trying to warm his shoulders and torso.

Still, he doesn't move like a normal person would. I fetch more towels, and reach up to towel off his hair. He's too tall-- I pull him over to the bed, and he walks like a child, without protestation. Hadrian sits, staring into space, as I dry his hair, take off his shoes, find him warm slippers, and then survey my handiwork.

It's working-- he looks less like death (har, har) and more like blood is returning in his face. Pink cheeks are beginning to flush against the towel turban I've piled his hair into, and layers of bed blankets are rolled around his upper body.

He's looking around, staring at me as if he wants to speak, but is too tired to. For the first time that day, I see something flicker in his eyes-- thanks, maybe.

'You look better,' I remark, mostly to myself. Something is still bugging me, but I feel so bad as I touch his trouser leg to see how wet it is.

His trousers are soaked.

Groaning, I run to find more blankets, and manage to work his trousers down without much hassle. Hadrian remains acting the doll of death, with only a strange expression in his eyes every now and again. As I'm about to place the blanket over his hips and thighs, the man stands up, an internal struggle seen only as a twitching of his lips.

He leans towards me, and a rasp hisses from his throat, deep and unearthly. 'You're not finished, are you? My undershorts are still damp.'

An odd shiver of desire and fear runs along my spine. Hadrian has cast the blankets aside, and he's coming towards me with only underwear on, and everything else bulging to the eyes. His underwear is far too tight-- did he find that comfortable?-- but also hugging his manhood and firm buttocks, something which nearly makes my heart stop its hammering alarm. His muscles are rounded, his stomach flat, and a line of dark hair descends from his bellybutton to below his pants line...

My eyes jolt elsewhere, only to be drawn to the ink across his boned hips, a tattoo of a tiger descending below his pants line...

Fervently searching for somewhere that didn't end up below the belt, I stare at him, only to find his eyes filled with an intense lust, his teeth bared, his hands running along my bare arms and shaking with desire. Somehow that acknowledgement of him, desiring me, highlighted my own terrible need...

That regardless of revenge, scheming and necromancy, I am indecently attracted to the man before me, a stranger I barely knew but had given my life to marry. That I don't question what's happening, I feel my body demand to stop thinking...

King Hadrian walks forward, but I take two steps back each time. Some warning bells are still ringing, it seems. That is, until my back hits the stone of the cavern wall in between his bookshelves, and the predator's grin widens. He licks his bottom lip, staring hard at mine. As he leans in for the kill, he whispers into my ear.

"I want you."

---

A/N: Ph--ewww! My bedroom seemed to get several degrees hotter as I tried to write that. Going back to the necromancy and some of the bits of info there, what did you think? If your brain was bamboozled as mine was by Hadrian's 'manly bulge', I'll remind you: Nyx, Erebus and Six Senses.

See what I did thar... (sorry).

What do you think will happen between N and H? Let me hear your thoughts...and please, comment, vote and add to reading lists etc, Little Saint Bride is entering the Wattys and needs your support!

And if you love fantasy and ANGELS please check out my other work Equinox, which is entering the Wattys too. #selfpromotion #noshame

lots of love,

Larissa