“No.” The word came out swiftly and certain, and he couldn’t erase the hint of disdain from his tone as he turned his back on the painting. “Those who follow Tiagon dedicate their lives to aiding others. To strike, even against an enemy, is an affront to her teachings. That’s why Saelihn has her R.S. do the striking for her and why Imri only ever joined us in battle to heal the injured. Much as I loathe deities, to Tiagon’s credit, Imri never feared dying. She appreciated living but rather looked forward to an eternity in the twin gods’ paradise. The way her eyes lit up when she spoke of it, I ... I wanted that for her. Even if I could never be a part of it.”
“Couldn’t be a part of it?” Helspira’s brows pulled together. “What do you mean?”
Sikras smiled, shrugging. “Enos is ... The best way I can describe it is to say it’s like a port—a place to wait after death until your chosen god sails their metaphorical ship to the shore to collect your soul. Your god arrives, they separate your soul from your essence, and your soul departs into eternal paradise with your deity of choice, while your essence remains in Enos as a record of your existence. The thing is, gods are pretty picky about who gets on their ships. Venerators only. No room for godless heathens like me, not even in the cargo hold.”
“Could you not just convert to the Tiagon faith?” she asked, her inquiry innocent. “That way, you two could enter the same afterlife together.”
“Oh, believe me, I would’ve tried.” His gaze slipped to the floor, but his grin remained. “I’m afraid my sins are a touch unforgivable where Tiagon is concerned. In any case, I promised an old friend we’d go wherever the godless go in death, and while I have no qualms about breaking bones, I don’t break promises.”
Identifiable reluctance showed in Helspira’s face. “So, if the gods come to Enos to split essence from soul, what did Queen Saelihn mean when she said Imri’s essence languishes between life and death?”
Sikras flinched. Good, great, that incessant, stabbing guilt had returned. No matter. A quick, figurative shove to the back of his mind and it was gone. He was probably running out of room back there to hide his growing list of problems. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat, hoping that would somehow clear his head as well. “That’s Saelihn’s clever way of saying I haven’t been a particularly good husband. I hate that she’s right.” His shoulders stiffened, and he grimaced, blowing out his confession in one quick breath. “Imri is among Vessik’s undead minions.”
Helspira’s eyes widened. “Your wife is ... undead?”
The hallway echoed with the short, joyless laugh of a man teetering on the edge of mental collapse. “Yes,” he whispered, with equal parts detachment and self-loathing. “And fuck me for not doing a damn thing about it, but I can’t help but find it a little more comforting than if she were well and truly dead. At least this way, she’s still ... Well, ’til death do us part and all that. No need for parting when the love of your life is only somewhat dead, right?”
Sikras’s thumb picked at the gold band around his ring finger, waiting—waiting for the numbness to kick in. That cloying, dependable numbness that surfaced and spread like a slow, sweet tonic whenever reality had the audacity to become a littletooreal. It radiated outward from chest to fingertips, until he felt like a bystander watching his body from the distance rather than the poor soul stuck inside it.
In the face of his staggering sanity, Helspira rounded her shoulders, inclined her chin, and regarded the painting with a gentleness befitting a person who knew the value of a kind word. “She’s beautiful, you know.”
And just like that, the crisis passed, swallowed again by delusion and comforting denial. Sikras nodded. “Blessed was the artist who got to gaze upon such a flawless subject when he put acrylic to canvas that day. Though it’s near impossible for even Nyllmas’s most-talented painter to capture Imri’s true beauty.”
“That’s”—Helspira paused, smiling—“actually really sweet. It almost reminds me of something my da would say about my mum.”
“A man after my own heart, then. You and your parents couldn’t have picked a better place to settle. I don’t doubt you’ll face some difficulties as one of the few demons in Siaphara, but I’ll give Saelihn credit where it’s due. After countless decades as queen, she’s made Nyllmas as close to a haven as any ruling party could regardless of race, religion, or species.”
“She has.” A soft, wistful sigh left Helspira as she toyed with her scarf. “It’s everything Chthonia never was, which is exactly why we need to hail victorious over Vessik. I’d sooner die than see this haven become the same violent wasteland my parents and I fled from.”
“Is that violent wasteland where you lost your eye?” Sikras nodded to the obvious prosthetic. White sclera. Green iris. A far cry from the natural black sclera of a demon. “If that’s not appropriate small talk, I apologize. After four years of talking solely to undead and desperate clients, I may be a little rusty where social norms are concerned.”
“Oh.” Her hand flew to her cheek, fingers grazing the space beneath her eye. “No, actually. I lost it here. It was the first time I realized monsters weren’t solely confined to Chthonia.”
“And who was the monster in charge of your prosthetic? They couldn’t be bothered to match your sclera? Or, at the very least, your iris?”
A weak chuckle escaped, and she shrugged. “I’m stuck with a human eye for now. I’ve yet to find a craftsman who makes prosthetics for demons.”
“And I’ve yet to find a tailor who makes pants for skeletons. At least misery will have the company it so desperately craves this day.”
Her laughter grew in both authenticity and volume. “You know, after everything I’d heard about you in passing from the other sentinels, I was afraid you’d be unbearable, but I’m open to being wrong.”
“Oh, no”—Sikras held up his hands—“I absolutely am. The silver lining is I’m not as insufferable as Rowan.”
“B’yehnz, he’s terrible.” The words seemed to fly from her faster than she could stop them, and while she appeared guilty, she shook it off quickly. “I’d rather square off with a necrotic aberdine than endure one of Bannerett Rowan’s tirades.”
“I’d rather shake hands with a necrotic aberdine than endure Rowan.”
Helspira smirked. “Well,I’drather kiss an aberdine on the mouth.”
“I’d rather ...” Sikras paused, scrambling for a line before he surrendered. “I’ll be honest with you, Helspira. I haven’t the faintest clue what anecrotic aberdineis.”
Another laugh. “A six-legged monstrosity from Chthonia with more hostility than sense.”
“Ah. Well, that just sounds like Rowan with extra legs.”
Her amusement faded, and she gripped her elbows. “At least aberdines don’t hold any sway over my future. Please, don’t tell him I said any of this. He’s still my superior, and he can easily ruin my parents and my life in a single breath if he so chose.”
Sikras leaned into a bow. “Your secret is safe with me. Feel free to tell him what I said though. I’ve no qualms about knocking that man’s ego down a peg or two. I don’t know what happened since last I met him, but he’s much more insufferable now than he was years prior.”
