Page 13 of Meet Your Maker, Part One (The House of Marchese Saga #4)
Chapter Twelve
An Obol for the Ferryman
— Sunday —
We’re in a massive sea cave, lit only by a ceiling of shimmering, blue-green bioluminescence. Stefan claims they’re just worms, but that thought gives me the bad kind of shivers. Faerie dust sounds far more magical and comforting, and at this point, I think we all need a little magic.
The light from them dances on the surface of a huge pool of water that takes up most of the cave’s center, adding to what is already an otherworldly spectacle. Stefan walks beside me, looking tired—the kind of tired that neither sleep nor death can fix. He’s still grieving, but tonight he’s here, standing tall, and that matters.
I glance at him, letting the pulse of his grief wash over me, mingling with my own tangled emotions. I push a sense of warmth and steadiness toward him, a silent message: I can’t share your grief, but I’m here to help carry the weight .
The youngest Argyros sibling carries a simple earthenware jug we found in a dusty keeping room off the kitchen. Hastily repurposed to hold Lys’s ashes, it feels both too humble and strangely fitting. Grayson gave it a sniff though and chuckled, calling it appropriate—it had once held wine, and apparently Lys was a big fan of the stuff.
I know so little about the man, but the few interactions I had with him in Gray’s dreams cling to me. Even now, I can recall the rise and fall of his voice, rich and warm, as he told me about Siwa and Arethusa beneath the endless desert sky.
Rurik has led us to a whirlpool, a restless spiral of dark water. He says it comes and goes with the tides, and has long believed to be an entrance to the underworld. Imagining what stumbling upon a place like this must have felt like for pre-classical humans, I can believe it. It feels ancient, like a secret whispered between the earth and the sea.
I glance around at the vampires gathered here and lower my shields, letting their tangled feelings wash over me. Lys’ legacy is etched into all their faces—clear as day. He raised them to be survivors, adaptable and resilient, but also to appreciate life’s beauty. Grayson’s fierce love for his chyld, Stefan’s boundless enthusiasm, Aiden’s quiet devotion to Gretchen… even Rurik, who, for all his rough edges, has his good points. He protects his chyldren, raises some mighty fine dogs, and I’m willing to bet his love of history came straight from his Maker, who practically lived through it all.
“Lysimachus of Acarnania,” Grayson begins, his voice a low rumble that carries through the cavern, “was more than just my Maker. He was a guiding light in my sometimes tumultuous youth, a beacon of wisdom and understanding in a world that often seemed intent on extinguishing my spirit.”
A flicker of a smile touches his lips. “I was a restless child, brimming with energy and a thirst for knowledge that often outpaced the patience of those tasked with caring for me.” In my mind’s eye, I see him—the beautiful boy with his black stallion, the child dancing in antlers and shells. “My father, Philip, demanded discipline and obedience, but Lysimachus saw something else in me. He recognized my hunger for adventure, my yearning to explore the world and leave my mark upon it.”
He pauses, his gaze dropping to the swirling waters. “Lys was more than a teacher. Even after my turning, he remained a trusted advisor, a confidant. He showed the same care for me as a newly risen vampire that he did for the eight-year-old boy he found hiding in a cowshed.
But in recent decades…” His voice falters, a flicker of pain darkening his features. “… the darkness that clouded his mind, the echoes of Roxana’s influence, created a distance between us. A distance I regret now more than words can say. I should have tried harder to help him, but the idea of his final death was so far beyond my understanding of the world. I’m sorry. I wish I’d done better by you.”
A tear slips down Grayson’s cheek—a rare display of vulnerability from my usually stoic vampire. With a gentle motion, he pours a handful of ashes from the jug, watching the gray dust settle on his palm. “Farewell, old friend,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “May your journey to the underworld be swift and peaceful.”
Stefan moves closer to Aiden, seeking comfort. Rurik clears his throat and hesitantly steps forward, his usual confidence faltering. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes downcast, as though the grief is too raw to confront head-on. Leon and Maximo take their places beside him, a sharp pang of sadness striking me.
Vivien should be here to stand with Gray.
“Lysimachus,” Rurik begins, his words quick and sharp, ricocheting off the rock walls and ceiling, “was a scholar, a historian, a man who understood the power of knowledge and the importance of preserving the past. He taught us to question everything—our most sacred cows, our staunchest beliefs—and to seek wisdom not just in books, but in the world around us.”
A fond chuckle escapes his lips. “He loved technology, practically filled the castle with machines.”
Gray’s face softens, a nostalgic grin spreading across his features. “The printing press. Gods, the ink and tiny pieces… everywhere.”
Aiden’s lips curve in a wistful smile. “I still have one of those early books.”
Rurik nods, his melancholic smile barely masking the tension in his drawn features. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something shiny and round. “I carry this with me, always.” He opens his hand, revealing a worn silver coin. My eyes widen in recognition.
“It’s an obol,” Rurik continues. “Lys gave it to me as a reminder that all things end—that even immortality is a season that will someday turn.” He studies the coin, rolling it in his palm, before gazing out at the water. “Our Maker had a favorite and oft-repeated koan: ‘If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.’”
Weak smiles and soft chuckles ripple through the group. Klassja wipes her eyes while Stefan exhales a shaky breath.
“With almost nine hundred years to ponder its meaning, I think I finally understand why it held such significance for him. For us, who have witnessed centuries pass, immortality isn’t just a philosophical construct. It’s the backdrop of our existence—woven from countless dangers, betrayals, and near-death encounters. Lys saw through the illusion of permanence, even in an endless life, and he urged us to embrace change, to shed the burdens of the past, and to continually evolve.”
Aiden’s quiet voice cuts through the silence: “If it doesn’t serve you, let it go.”
Rurik nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Exactly. His greatest gift was teaching us not to stagnate, to challenge our assumptions, and to grow—even if it occasionally meant defying him. He was never so brazen as to believe he had reached enlightenment, but he saw the opportunity that our existence offers: to become better, to do better, and to lift others around us.”
His voice catches, but he presses on. “His death seems senseless. But perhaps we can find solace in knowing that our Maker embraced the ever-turning wheel of life and death. That he knew the end of this existence was merely the beginning of another. May he rest with Nyx now, and with his own Maker, secure in the knowledge that he’s ensured the continuation of their lineage—not just in blood, but in spirit and resilience.”
A lump rises in my throat as Rurik raises his hand, the ancient coin gleaming in the dim light. With a gentle toss, he sends the obol spinning into the whirlpool.
Goosebumps prickle my skin as it winks out of sight beneath the darkened waters.
Stefan shuffles forward. The boisterous, larger-than-life vampire I know is gone, replaced by a man shattered by grief.
“I’m next.”
Grayson reaches out, his voice soft and coaxing. “He knew, Broder. You don’t have to—”
Stefan shakes his head, stepping out of Gray’s reach.
“Lys!” His voice booms through the cavern, echoing against the walls, only to crack and falter, betraying the sorrow he’s barely holding back. “My Maker, my friend, my… damn it, Lys, you were supposed to endure!” He swipes furiously at his eyes, his broad shoulders shaking with emotion. “I never thought… I never imagined…” The words crumble, lost beneath the weight of his grief.
The cavern holds its breath. The only sound is the gentle lapping of water against the stone. Stefan’s anguish is raw, a visceral ache that presses against everyone present. I want to take it from him, to ease the unbearable weight, but I know this pain is sacred.
“The bond,” he whispers, his voice ragged and broken. “I kept hoping he might call me home. In truth, I couldn’t bear the thought of… of being truly alone.”
He drops to his knees, his tears falling onto the damp stone, mingling with the salty sea spray. “You were always there, Lys. Always. Even when I was a newborn with more bloodlust than sense. Even when I made mistakes… you never gave up on me.”
“Fuck.” The word escapes him, barely audible over the whirlpool’s distant roar. “I’ll miss you, Fader.”
With trembling hands, he lifts the jug and pours a handful of ashes. The gray dust floats on the water’s surface for a fleeting moment before the current pulls it under, disappearing into the abyss.
I step away from the onlookers—Val, Leon, Maximo, and Klassja—and move to Stefan’s side. When I offer my hand, he takes it, his grip fierce as I siphon away just a sliver of his pain.
Aiden steps forward, the last of Lysimachus’ chyldren to speak. I’ll be honest: he’s my least favorite. This isn’t the first time I’ve had uncharitable thoughts at a funeral, and I still don’t know what Lys saw in him. But maybe I’m about to find out.
His posture is rigid, his expression a careful mask of control. “You’ve all spoken about the qualities Lys fostered in us—his intellect, his principles, his thirst for knowledge. These are undeniable.” He pauses, his voice softening, a crack forming in his stoic veneer. “But without his belief in the transformative power of love, I wouldn’t be here today to mourn him.”
I straighten, my ears perking up. Love? This is not what I expected from the Hibernian King.
“Twice,” Aiden continues, his gaze distant, “twice Lysimachus loved his chyldren so deeply that, rather than witness their heartbreak, he expanded our family. He didn’t choose me because of a Maker’s call. He chose me because he loved Ricardo, and Ricardo, in all his foolishness, loved me.”
A flicker of emotion crosses his face, quickly masked by his usual composure. “We had almost two hundred years together. As a human, dying of a blood disorder, besotted with my mysterious lover, I could never have imagined such a gift. Nor could I have foreseen the even greater miracle of finding love a second time.”
He pauses and glances toward Val, who stands a short distance away, his eyes clouded with something like remorse. “And when tragedy struck,” Aiden continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “when I lost Ricardo—when we all did—Lys was there. He didn’t judge my actions, my anger, or my… mistakes.”
He swallows hard, his composure wavering. “Even in his grief for his chyld who, in so many ways, was the best of us.” I glance around the circle, catching Gray and Rurik nodding in agreement, and I feel a sharp pang of regret, wishing I’d met this vampire who left such a mark on their lives.
Aiden’s voice softens, a thread of raw emotion threading through it. “He helped me atone for my failures, gave me the chance to find solace, to rebuild my life. And in time, to be open to love again. It took years—decades even—to finally let go. To ‘kill that Buddha’ within me and release the weight of what was, so I could open myself to what might be.”
He takes a breath, steadying himself. “He may not have chosen me for the same reasons he chose the rest of you, but it was the luckiest day of my life. I will miss him more than I can say.”
With slow, deliberate steps, Aiden approaches the whirlpool. He tilts the earthenware jug, his movements careful and reverent. Lys’s ashes cascade into the swirling vortex, the gray dust lingering on the water’s surface for a single breath before vanishing into the depths.
The finality of it settles over us, a blanket of quiet sorrow—and, strangely, peace.
Color me shocked. I wipe away a fresh flood of tears, surprised that Aiden Argyros—of all people—has managed to pull them from me like a divining rod aimed straight at my heart.
Leon breaks the silence, his voice low and gentle. “We should get back to the castle.”
It’s so dark in here it’s easy to forget dawn is almost upon us. But dim light is beginning to resolve out of the shadows, the cave entrance softening to a muted gray. High tide has pushed us onto a narrow walkway along one wall, the water lapping closer with every passing moment.
Yeah, we need to go. Grayson might be able to weather a little sunshine, but the rest of them? Not a chance.
I pull Gray aside, lowering my voice. “Should we… should I offer everyone…” I grimace, struggling for the right words. “A sip? Just to make sure they get back safely.”
His fangs flash briefly, a flicker of instinctual irritation. “Absolutely not. Why would you even consider it?”
I shrug, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “They’re family.”
He rolls his eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Tomas told me you have a ‘thing’ for handing out samples.” Taking my elbow gently, he leans in, his voice a low murmur. “Come on, Lover. Let’s get out of here before you start playing sommelier.”