The Hinterland Veil: The House of Crimson & Clover, #9

1

NICOLAS

Nicolas Deschanel negotiated the cavernous central hall at The Gardens, his footfalls echoing across a valley of ancient marble. The assuming rows of Corinthian columns, to his left and right, provided both vital supports to this generations-old manor, as well as serving a reminder of its colossal authority.

No matter the number of times he’d traversed the main connector of his aunt’s home, Nicolas always paused, momentarily, questioning whether he was headed in the correct direction. Even among the looming Victorians and Greek Revivals of the Garden District, The Gardens felt excessive. Garish, and out of place. As if Zeus had thrust his palace on Mount Olympus down to earth, and it landed in the heart of Uptown New Orleans.

Of course, the Deschanels never did anything halfway. Not architecture, not love. Halfway-loving got Nicolas into this situation. All-the-way, soul-deep love is what brought him to The Gardens, desperate for answers, and as yet unsure if he would ever find them.

Aunt Colleen hadn’t hesitated when he’d called, weeks ago, asking for help, a weakness until now he’d prided himself on rarely indulging. She had two rooms waiting for him when he showed up with a dazed Mercy on his arm. Of course, darling, you’re welcome to share a room as often as you’d like. I imagine you’ll each want your privacy at times, though.

As with all things that mattered, Colleen was strides ahead, thinking through logistics Nicolas couldn’t comprehend because he was so rooted in the terrifying present. She’d been right, unsurprisingly. During their tenure at The Gardens, Nicolas and Mercy had slept apart far more than together, a statistic that caused him as much relief as distress.

Nicolas wasn’t equipped for this. To love Mercy as he did had changed him. To ease her through an apparent mental breakdown, culminating in her soul-deep belief she carried the child of her god, Emyr, placed him so far from his element he sometimes longed for the easiness of his debaucherous youth.

Not enough for him to turn from Mercy. Adoration turned to affection, eventually to love, and despite his best efforts to fuck it up, he’d breached a critical precipice in his reasoning. He’d committed himself to her, to the bitter end, or the beautiful one… fate deciding.

His lover’s delusions seemed a small consequence compared to the other events recently striking the family. The arrival of the necromancer, the starlight awakeners, and the near-fulfillment of the myths of midwinter had thrown every other priority into a tailspin. Three Deschanel Magi Collective Council meetings had been called since he and Mercy arrived. The immediate danger had been tempered, but their crazed ancestor, Margarethe, was still on the run, somewhere, and one of Katja’s twins was also missing. Until both could be located, the family remained in peril again.

And when were they not? He couldn’t recall a time where talk of the Curse wasn’t front and center at every family event. And now the problem had evolved to include another adversary.

Personally amazed at his willpower to even drag himself to attendance of the Council sessions, Colleen quickly brought him back to reality, finally chastising him for his daydreaming at the end of the massive oaken slab that passed for a table. He’d jokingly asked her once if they imported the thing from the mammoth dining hall at Windsor. She hadn’t laughed, but she also hadn’t denied it. You are my eldest brother’s only son, and in need of aid, but that does make all your behavior beyond reproach.

Colleen found him gazing up the double staircase. Most things, whether it be flora or people, thrive while visiting The Gardens. You’ve done nothing but wilt, dear nephew.

Nicolas stared down at his shuffling feet, unable to muster the smartass retort she’d always expected from him. "I can’t go back to Ophélie."

Indeed, he’d done everything to avoid returning, even paying Oz’s full attorney salary to reside there and replace him as master until he could sort himself out. His kind best friend had gone as far as pulling his children out of their school, enrolling them in a homeschool program.

He sighed, casting a glance toward the oiled portrait of his grandfather, August. Nicolas often wondered what his grandfather would think of him if he’d lived to see the family now; of all August’s grandchildren, only one male had been born bearing the name Deschanel, and Nicolas had done everything in his power, sometimes intentionally, often not, to squander that honor. Bestowing the right of heirdom on Aleksandr had been the closest thing he could muster to a course correction. Hopefully, Ana’s son would do better with the privilege than he had.

A family full of goddamn healers, and not a one can help her.

Colleen rested a hand on his mid-back, and walked with him, steering him toward the rear of the house. "Nicolas, in all my travels and studies, I’ve met few who could heal a troubled mind. Understand, the ones I have met did so by transferring the pain to themselves. You can imagine the sacrifice in such an act."

Anyone can be bought for the right price, Nicolas grumbled with a sneer he didn’t feel. The harsh expression faded to a frown. You know you can kick us out whenever you want.

His aunt stepped out onto the back porch, as broad as the dining room. Don’t be silly. If I had it my way, my children, my nieces, and nephews, would all be under one roof. She evidently caught his bewilderment in her peripheral. You’re the Deschanel anomaly, Nicolas, craving solitude and isolation. The rest of us feel greater in the presence of more of us. Even when gathering for wakes and funerals, which we’ve done far too often of late, I draw strength from our masses. Her smile was aimed away, almost separate of the two of them. I digress. No, my words weren’t meant to drive you away. Rather, I was hoping to motivate you. I know you came here seeking answers, but have you found any?

With a brief hesitation, Nicolas shook his head. I’m more and more convinced she’s gone completely insane. And that, even knowing this, I love her more every day. Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

Her state of mind or your feelings for her?

Nicolas sighed, then half-grinned. Both.

Colleen nodded toward a plush chaise on the flagstone patio. He sat, and she took the one across from him, sheltered by palmetto and bird of paradise. Autumn was nearly upon them, but the heat hadn’t dwindled with the changing season.

Your ability to love another may be shocking to you, but I’ve watched you grow from boy to man. Your passions have always run deep, Nicolas. The variable has always been where you chose to swing them.

Nicolas took the glass of sweet tea from Aria, Colleen’s head of household, who’d appeared as if on schedule and shrugged. Said nothing.

As to Mercy’s mind… we are still learning about who the Deschanels are, and where we originate, Colleen went on, drawing a sip from her own tumbler. What it is to be Empyrean, or at least, to share their blood. By all accounts, Mercy’s experience of being born Empyrean, dying as one, and being resurrected as human is wholly unique. We can’t possibly know what she’s going through, or what she’s up against, intrinsically and otherwise. And without that knowledge, helping her becomes an exercise in intelligent guesswork and experimentation. Mostly the latter.

She spends her days resting or praying. It never occurs to her the god who supposedly bestowed on her the next coming of Emyr was the same one who fucking abandoned her in her final moments, Nicolas rattled, not bothering to disguise his bitterness. I could have expected her coming out of that an atheist, but this?

Faith is a powerful, eternal phenomenon, Colleen said. One that sometimes rides the border of fanaticism and fantasy because throwing your control and life into the hands of something more omnipotent brings tremendous comfort in a world filled with chaos. That same abandonment you speak of, to Mercy, reads like a test from Emyr. She’s passed this test and been rewarded. As she sees it.

And how am I supposed to contend with her ridiculous, thousands-years-old dogma?

For starters, never use the word ‘ridiculous’ to describe another’s beliefs.

Nicolas affected the start of an eye roll and stopped. Fine. And I wouldn’t, to her. I haven’t. But, you know, a part of me wondered, even knowing it couldn’t be possible, if what she believed really happened to her? Who am I to say Emyr didn’t knock her up? That’s why I brought her here. If anyone could put the sanity caboose on the crazy train, it’s you.

Colleen nodded. The soft whir of the outdoor fan kicked in, followed by a fine, cool spray from the misters. They both closed their eyes, breathing in the relief. While I can’t speak to her faith, I’ve confirmed beyond a doubt she is not with child. Divine or otherwise.

All right. So she’s not pregnant. I’m wilting here, according to you, apparently, whatever that means. I haven’t figured out yet how to fix her special variety of insanity. I’m hoping you have a Hail Mary suggestion because I’m at a loss. Most of all, I can’t return to Ophélie. My failings as a man, as an heir, start and end there. If I can’t fix Mercy, I’m not worthy of the designation.

Have you considered stepping out of your comfort zone, and attempting to relate to Mercy on her level?

Sorry?

Colleen set her glass down, crossing her legs. Her manicured hands fell over her knee as she watched him. Consider the moments in your life when others have tried to convince you of the error of your ways. What was your natural inclination?

For them to fuck off.

Of course, it was, she answered, unruffled by and entirely used to his colorful command of language. Imagine, instead, if they’d gone along with your mischiefs? Tried to understand and even join you?

I can’t picture you or any of my other aunts or uncles closing the bars down on Frenchmen with me, but okay. The point?

Instead of trying to convince Mercy of her error, why not instead try to see things through her eyes? Connect on her level. Suspend your disbelief, despite the hardship of such an endeavor. See her world.

"Aunt Colleen, she’s crazy. And I’ve dated my share of crazies. This one chick I was with for a hot minute created her own ass-backward version of BDSM, but whenever I tried to use the safe word, she’d crack me across the face and scream at me to call her Xena—"

Long sigh. Nicolas.

He held up his hands. "I’m just saying. I’m no stranger to crazy women, but this is the first one I’ve ever wanted to fix."

Crazy is often a matter of perspective. To attack a problem, you must understand the source. And yes, that is my medical opinion as well. With a slight start, Colleen checked her watch and stood. I must return to the hospital, but think about our conversation. You’ve already committed to the task. Now you need to define it.

Mercy hadn’t emerged from her room once that day, a sign he’d come to recognize as her need to be alone in prayer. A rescinded invitation, if her silence was even an invite in the first place.

Nonetheless, Nicolas paused at her doorway. He slipped into the darkened room. The only sounds were an overhead fan and her light, even breaths.

To attack a problem, you must understand the source.

Mercy’s face was a canvas of blissful peace, her silver hair, a gift of her resurrection, brushed off her face, cascading down the pillow. A band of it trailed over the bed’s edge.

Walking away, as he always had before, whenever the pleasure of learning about another turned to the acceptance of baggage, no longer tempted him.

Yet staying terrified him.

Loving her frightened him.

Suspend your disbelief. See her world.

I need your help, Mercy. I need you to show me.

2

CYLER

Cyler drew in a steadying breath and announced himself. He didn’t dare venture beyond the strip dividing the doorway. Aggie, I need you to listen.

Agripin, gazing at a sleeping Anasofiya, lost in thoughts Cyler was grateful not to be privy to, slowly rolled his neck toward the interruption. You always talk. I always listen. Talk, talk, talk. Listen, listen, listen.

No. You pretend to listen while obsessing over a creature who bides her time to annihilate you. When she’s done, she’ll likely set her sights on the rest of us. They’re gone, or in the process of leaving. They’re not coming back, and we need a plan.

Who?

All of them.

Define ‘all.’ You’re here. I’m here. The empress is here. Who else matters?

Cyler grunted, shifting. He prepared the same recitation he’d given his master a dozen times over. Jorun and Yiva left before we departed Norway. A fact you still have yet to notice or acknowledge. Thor and Trygve took off a couple weeks ago. Maxima disappeared to investigate matters in Farjhem, for whatever they might be. Skadi turned south on the trip to Savonlinna. I won’t berate you about how Finland has never been friendly to the Farværdig. You already know this, and I suspect you’re not keeping us here long. This is a stop, not a destination. I’d know for sure if you’d talk to me, but thus far you’ve chosen to live in oblivion with her. Most worrisome is Leif left this morning.

Agripin gently assembled his quilt over a sleeping Anasofiya and rose. His scarred abdomen beaded with sweat from the fire roaring in the nearby hearth, such heat overwhelming for one with the fiery blood of Emyr. Day and night, he kept the flames stoked for his empress, who, when not glaring her hatred at him through her magic binding, remained deep in soundless slumber.

Plotting, Cyler was certain. He didn’t trust her quiet, not at all.

Agripin stretched, wearing a look frustratingly lacking in concern. "Leif is free to do as he wishes. As are all the drekar. Isn’t that the point?" The last came out heavy with sarcasm.

Cyler clenched one fist at his side. The other blocked the doorway. Agripin had blown him off too many times since they escaped Farjhem. Their situation escalated closer to dire each day. In case you’ve forgotten, Leif is the one responsible for Ana’s magic bindings. You know, the only thing keeping her from ripping your beating heart from your chest and devouring it for elevenses.

Agripin scoffed. Tossed his eyes toward the ceiling. So? They’re adhered. And likely unnecessary, I might add. No one asked Leif to do so. He pulled his arms over his head in a casual yawn. And you’ll refer to her by her formal title. Even when it’s only us.

Cyler bit the interior of his cheek. "Grand Empress Anasofiya might break free of her bindings. Then what?"

Agripin shrugged. If she does, perhaps it’s for the best. She’s been tethered far too long. No way to treat the mate of the crowned prince of Farjhem.

You’re jesting, right? We’re observing the same creature?

Cyler, you test me, Agripin said, growing visibly weary of him already. I still recall when we could spend days together and it was never enough. And you speak with false authority on matters you know nothing about.

The emperor ducked under Cyler’s arm with a disdainful groan and sauntered toward the stark, stainless steel kitchen. The entire cottage, though miles from other inhabitants and the city center of Savonlinna, was fitted with the sleekest modern accoutrements, reminding Cyler of their few weeks in the Upper East Side of New York. in the early days of his service to the crown. When this life came with a polished shine and the roses still tainted his view.

She will be hungry when she wakes. The nights are colder now, Agripin muttered to himself or the furniture.

Cyler stormed in behind him. "Don’t you want to know why they left?"

No, Agripin replied, sorting through the cupboard as if reading a book in a foreign language. But I venture you’re going to tell me.

I should. I should tell you about how you’ve alienated every single one of our allies with your refusal to face reality. How dismissing their requests to send Ana—excuse me, grand empress—back to her family, where she belongs, where she can heal and allow us to focus on our plans with a clear head, has caused them to see you as a poor decision-maker rather than an ally. Some were slower to leave than others, but you’re about to drive even the most patient ones away. Dagr has been thirsty for war for centuries, and he hangs on, hoping once you snap out of it, he’ll get the fight he craves. Birger and Astrid love you and believed in you. Stian goes where they go, and if you don’t think they’re next, you’re even more deluded than you’ve been acting all these weeks.

Both creatures pivoted toward the sounds coming from Anasofiya’s room. She’s awake, Cyler said with a resigned sigh. Even had he said all he wished to convey to his master, the words would dissolve into the nether, clinging to the dwindling force of the great warrior Agripin had once been, before all this. Go to her.

Aye, Agripin replied, brushing past him. See about supper. We shall talk later.

Cyler leaned into the marble counter, defeated.

He couldn’t estimate how many empty promises he had left in him to receive, but it was not many.

Birger arrived at dawn. He’d been away seeking news of Farjhem. By the crestfallen expression on his face as he embraced his mate, Astrid, he’d returned with some, though perhaps not the news they’d hoped for.

Oriana has taken over rule of Farjhem, he announced, dropping his traveling cloak over the sofa without waiting for the completion of pleasantries. The stark chill, steeped for weeks in the threads, passed through the room. Already, she’s designated a new Senetat. Hand-picked from the patrons of her Menagerie. Guards, sellswords, failed scholars. Hardly politicians and leaders. A dark cloud passed over his eyes. They’ve kept busy.

Astrid sunk to her knees on the fur carpet. She fell forward in a sway, and her mate caught her. So, it’s true, what I’ve been sensing. They’re murdering them, one by one.

What the hell is going on? Cyler demanded.

The Senetat. They’re activating marks across the globe. Killing off those who know no better, and who have served Emyr under the rule of the Senetat. The devout, Birger answered, lifting Astrid to her feet and settling on the couch beside her. Oriana is behind it. Trying to garner our attention. She’s well aware we have those in our ranks, like Astrid, who can sense the deaths of our own. She seeks to goad us, but has no clear vision of the future and what it is she actually desires, other than her own freedom to practice her pleasures without restraint.

Cyler’s hand instinctively traveled to his ass, where his own mark—a phoenix as brilliant as the day it was sealed in by magic—still burned hot against his skin. Aggie, you motherfucker. You’ve made me keep this time bomb on my flesh far too long, for your own insecurities. Are you certain? How did you discover this?

"Maxima has been re-installed to the Senetat. Birger’s grin was humorless. Beside him, Astrid went pale, her eyes fixed on an unknown spot across the room. She claims to have escaped Anasofiya’s wrath by seeking refuge under a pile of corpses in Farsengel. So goes her official story to Oriana."

Cyler frowned. So she played us all along? He’d vetted her himself.

No. She is ours, and I don’t anticipate that changing. She remains our only view of what is happening under Oriana’s new reign. I left her with a new set of instructions and misdirection, now that the landscape has changed. We can only pray it works as intended.

Astrid