The blue fires faded, slowly, fluttering in the nonexistent wind, and in the quiet Ezra heard a soft thrumming. A deep breath, a sharp gasp of air, and the fires were blown out, gone like an extinguished candle.
A figure lay on the floor, naked and breathing hard, and vibrant red and gold hair spilled across the concrete like blood over a dragon’s hoard. Bright cobalt eyes glowed within a heart-shaped face, and frost glittered on thick lashes and around her eyes on high cheekbones. Around her temples and hairline shimmered ancient markings that glowed brightly for a heartbeat, then dimmed to a series of small blue tattoos that matched the symbols that had adorned the bare skull.
Voluptuous, with a strongly muscled frame, the reborn goddess was a vision of power and beauty. Her breath fogged in the air, despite the returning warmth, and as she moved, snowflakes fell from her hair to spin in the air like tiny silver stars.
Hecate lifted Her hand, and in it hung a silken length of blue and white cloth, the ends trailing on the floor, and a hand reached up and took it from Hecate.
Morana stood, and clothed herself in the wrap, Ezra politely averting his eyes until she was covered.
Where Hecate was fire and shadow, Morana was frost and light.
“Death mage,” Morana said, staring down at Ezra where he sat in Hecate’s shadow with Lilith in his arms. Her voice was a velvety alto that reached into his mind and made him smile, despite his wariness. Hecate, he trusted not to hurt him, but Morana he did not know. She was powerful and volatile, and if he were to make a guess, she was now restored to full strength.
Morana was a Slavic winter goddess of death and rebirth, and she was now reborn, looking down at him as if she wasn’t sure whether to thank him or squish him beneath her heel.
“Morana,” Ezra replied, dipping his chin in a respectful nod. “I am glad to see you restored to yourself.” He was proud his voice held steady.
“You would have had me fade,” she declared imperiously. “Instead of healing me.”
It sounded like she wanted to squish him.
“I thought it impossible,” Ezra replied cautiously. “I did not expect divine help.” He cast his eyes to Hecate, who stood over him like a monolith. “Such a thing was beyond me without my Lady’s assistance.”
“Fade! A goddess!” Morana hissed, frost growing across the floor under her bare feet, her hands curled into fists. The tattoos along her hairline glowed brighter.
Lilith hissed as well, her purring stopped, her ears pinned back as she stared at Morana.
“My necromancer healed your grievous wound, dearest cousin,” Hecate stated casually, as if reminding a relative to pick up the dry cleaning, like Morana was not shaking with outrage. “And here you stand, restored and free from your curse.”
Ezra kept his mouth shut and held on tightly to his familiar.
At the reminder that Ezra was a necromancer, and therefore under Hecate’s protection, Morana growled under her breath and forced herself to relax. Her hands opened and the frost growing across the floor stopped its progress and began to melt, and the glow of the tattoos faded away.
“That curse,” Morana spat, eyes glowing brighter. “Struck low by a foul fiend I hope is long dead. Long have I slept, near to death and helpless. Dain has much to answer for.”
He would not have called her helpless, considering the blizzard her skull could call down, the destruction left in its wake. And her mentioning of Dain—the dwarven blacksmith god who made the Dainsleif sword—seemed to confirm that the Dainsleif was responsible for her former state.
“Dain has not been seen for some time,” Hecate shared idly. Ezra had a feeling that both goddesses forgot he was there. Or maybe they didn’t care that he heard their conversation. “Perhaps he needs to be dragged into the light and taken to account for the weapon he made.”
“He surely does,” Morana agreed. “I must return to my lands and tend to my people, and then I shall find Dain and make him answer for his misdeeds.”
Morana glowed brightly in a flash, and power stirred in the ambient magic fields.
Hecate hummed, lifting a single finger. Morana dimmed, glaring at Hecate.
“I have revenge to administer, cousin,” Morana said, anger biting at her words.
“I believe a debt is owed, my dear. For your restoration. Surely you have not forgotten already?”
“Yes, yes, I owe you a boon for the healing,” Morana snapped, impatient to leave.
“Oh, not owed to me,” Hecate said, and She gracefully gestured to Ezra at Her feet. Lilith lifted her head and stared at Hecate in fascination. “To my necromancer.”
Oh shit.
Morana’s glare was sharp enough he winced.
“I don’t need a boon,” he tried to protest, terrified of the prospect of a goddess owing him anything. Hecate and Morana ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken.
