Page 26 of These Eternal Bones

Horribly Intoxicating Silly Creatures

Molly

My nostrils flare at the sharp metallic scent of burning metal, my heart raging in my chest that no amount of deep breathing will ease.

Each lungful only serves to bring my attention back to this open field, the humming of my mothers and sisters as my brothers watch quietly on.

I can feel him , his eyes grazing across my flesh in the way that makes the hair on the back of my neck prick.

My gut permanently soured. I was chosen.

And in three years’ time, it will be me preparing the next girl.

My knees shake under my ankle length dress.

For a moment, I worry they’ll buckle and that he’ll see my doubt, my reservations.

Although they matter little, nobody says no.

Nobody would dare turn down Joseph, even thinking his name feels like a sin.

To say it out loud would be a damnable offense, an acceptance.

A welcoming for every tragic thing that will befall me next.

But it shouldn’t feel tragic.

I should be thankful.

I am not.

I raise my chin, steeling myself, although I tremble as the humming turns to prayer. His light, breezy voice rises above the mumbling. It’s not so much a request, nor thanks to God, but a vow, a vow to take what I am not ready to give.

There’s a fear burrowed so deep in my soul I worry I may never scrape it out.

But I shouldn’t be scared, not of one touched by God. Not by our leader, our father on earth. Another shaky breath leaves me as I try to remember their words, give the doubt to God. Let him steer my heart toward home. Follow in his grace. Keep quiet, keep sweet, obey.

My head goes light as I open my eyes, his voice beckoning me forward.

His long, scratchy beard pulls up alongside his thin lips as they lift in a smile.

His touch feels like acid on my skin, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom lying with him.

A man who helped raise me, raise us all.

I had always thought his title of father as a literal one, but now I am not so sure.

Now I do not know if he is to be father or husband, the idea of both feels wrong.

But it is I who is perverse, my thoughts edged by the devil. My heart soured with my betrayal, my doubt.

“Come, my sweet child, today you shall receive your mark, the one that claims you as mine. The one that binds us in God's light, as is his divine plan.”

My hands shake as he lays my hand on the table, my eyes falling from him to the other dark scorch marks in the wood.

His fingers are gentle but commanding as he spreads mine, his deep blue eyes flashing as he takes his time.

His touch is slow as my head swirls, the world around me tilting and wavering, black dots blotting out the light.

I am not meant for you.

The thought comes unbidden, and already I hate myself for thinking it.

For Christ’s sake, Molly, stop thinking.

Turn it off.

This is his plan.

It’s fine.

Atone.

“Are you ready, Child of God?”

“Yes.” The word is shaky, unsure, and I’ve announced them out loud. Everyone’s eyes dig into me, peeling back my fleshy layers to bore down on my soul, adding to the weight of my sin.

I do not want this.

God, I do not want this.

It feels wrong.

This is wrong.

I am to be silent, I know, but I cannot help the scream that leaves me as the hot metal is pressed to my finger, branding me.

I’m unsure if it is the pain or the fissure that formed in my chest that steals the ground from underneath me as I collapse.

****

“Mistress, mistress!”

I jolt upward with a ragged sob so quickly I knock into Péal, her pale, ashen hair tickling my flesh.

Her kind, round eyes greet me, although pinched with concern. I breathe deep, taking stock of everything around me, the warmth of the cottage and the paint smeared easel, but none of it does away with the pool of dread forming in my belly.

“Elric?” I blink rapidly in a desperate attempt to halt the tears in my eyes.

Her fingertips are warm as she brushes my hair from my face.

The length kept long and thick. The way god intended it to be.

It’s heavy and in the way, always frizzy and tangled, I hate it.

I feel in that moment that there is no God.

That he was just another story to keep us scared, to keep us close.

“Not today, miss, I was sent to collect you.”

“Wrong , I was sent. She simply tagged along.”

My eyes snap to Cartiel leaning against the door, my cheeks flushing as I wipe the remaining tears from my eyes. “I can hardly imagine he’d send you.”

The bronze man rolls his eyes. “I am the safest next bet.”

The covers are suddenly too heavy, too constricting, but I pull them to my neck, hiding my body anyway.

He didn’t come.

Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, the last few days… since that night in the snow, Elric has been quiet, distant, angry even at times, while not outwardly at me.

His regret is clear, but he didn’t come.

I feel the bite of that deeper than I imagine I should. After all, he is my employer.

“ You are the safest bet?” I quip, not hiding my doubt. Perhaps my snarkiness will keep the tears at bay, to hide the disappointment festering in my chest. He’s been odd, distant, but this is the first time he hasn’t been the one to escort me to the estate.

“Oh yes, mistress. As annoying as they are, Nephilim are incredibly powerful beings.”

“Nephilim, what is that, exactly? ”

“Bastards of God.” He answers curtly.

God.

“So, he is real?” The question slips from my lips, a frayed line of hope connected to the pool of dread as I stare at the thin, lanky golden man.

“Don’t know, never met him.” That’s all he offers me before slinking from the cottage, the thick wooden door slamming behind him as if to compound his displeasure with the topic. Or me.

“Ignore him. He’s been a sourpuss since the last time. It was his first, you see, grief is odd, the way it lingers. It made him bitter.”

I open my mouth to pry when she speaks again, something Péal does often. “He was quite worried about you, mistress. Nephilim have a vast amount of power, but it weakens them considerably with each use, so they use it sparingly. Soul magic, they call it. Much different from what fae use.”

“What do you use?”

She smiles, tugging the blankets free from my hands so she can urge me from the bed. “Everything around us. The trees, water, air, and earth. We pull from it and give in return.”

“So, he was worried? He used magic?”

“We could hear you crying from the tree line. He said your soul was troubled. You seemed scared.”

I frown, the idea of him…looking at my soul feels like a violation, but I can’t bring myself to actually be upset about it. Not with my thoughts revolving around dark eyes, spice, and cedar. “Why didn’t he come?”

She pauses, pulling a brush from my chest. “He said something about a letter, or maybe he was looking for a letter. Something about a ship. I don’t know. I was not meant to be listening.”

My lips quirk at that. “You were eavesdropping? ”

The selkie shrugs, her gentle hands working my hair down my back. “Not intentionally, selkies have exceptional hearing. Words carry in such a large house.”

“I would like to know–”

She leans in, her breath dancing on the side of my face.

“Perhaps these questions are best kept for the master, but I quite suspect the Nephilim also hears much. He is less loyal than I am. Men are silly creatures. So severe in their convictions, even when they lead them in the opposite direction of where they desire to go.”

I sigh. “You’re speaking in riddles again.”

“Yes, because you ask the right questions, and I wish to keep my head. It is a shame you never remember. It would make this entire process far more efficient.”

“I am not who you think I am, Péal. I’m not the woman you spoke of before. We’ve talked about this.”

“Of course not, mistress. You are someone entirely new, which is why you do not remember.”

I grit my teeth when she hits a tangle, my fingers rubbing together on that rough patch of flesh on my finger. “What is it I’m meant to remember?”

“Another excellent question for the master, or perhaps the Nephilim, should he insist upon keeping himself unavailable to you.”

My stomach drops to my feet, the urge to cry pushing at me again. “So, it is because of me?”

She half laughs at that. “Everything is. As I said, men are silly creatures; the master may be powerful…but he is still a man.”

The warmth of the solarium is hidden behind a brutal flurry of snow by the time dinner falls, and in all of that time, Elric hasn’t returned.

How am I meant to properly do my job if he’s not even here?

It’s a waste of my time, time I could’ve spent painting or…

sitting in the cabin. I spent the entire day glaring at my painting in his office.

The one he took down to hang it behind his desk sits discarded in the corner, facing the wall.

My painting’s sunset pink and purple swirls are such a jarring contrast to the rest of the home that at first I’d thought was funny, cute even that he hung it there, but it didn’t feel like either of those things today.

Still, worry needles my gut. What if something happens? What if he got lost or hurt? Can he be hurt?

How stupid. To worry about an immortal man.

I prod at the roasted vegetables on my plate, my appetite entirely nonexistent as I think back to the ride to the estate this morning…

the flash of burnt orange tipped with black I saw dart between the trees.

I had wondered if I’d see him again. Perhaps this was him letting me know he was still around.

I can’t bring myself to be upset about that while I know–

“Molly.”

My fork flings from my hand, only to clatter loudly against my plate, nearly upsetting the mulled wine in my glass. “Elric.” I gasp. My eyes widen as I truly focus on him…he looks– “Are you alright?”

His dark hair hangs around his chiseled, sharp features in disheveled waves.

His eyes are swallowed entirely by pools of black, the inky network on his neck reaching his lips…

surpassing them, decorating his high cheekbones in obsidian.

He ignores my question. “I apologize for my tardiness today. I had not expected to be kept so long.”

Where were you? Have you fed? Is that why you left, to find someone to feed from?

The darkness in his veins tells me perhaps not, although his hunger is often indistinguishable from his rage.

I ignore him in tune, turning my attention back to my food.

I wait for him to join me, for that clever quip of velvety words, a brush of his hand, or his devilish smirk.

He does not move.

So, neither do I, that discontent rising in my gut like a torch.

Was I truly so unappealing, or has my time finally come?

Perhaps he will kill me now that I am no longer entertaining.

“Syringa–”

I cut him off. “I wish to return to the cottage now. The storm is worsening, the journey will already be uncomfortable.”

“You may stay here, if this storm is as bad as–”

An ugly, bitter laugh leaves me, and I'm at a loss as to why . Nothing feels even remotely funny. My chest is swirling with searing feelings that I have no place for. “I would sooner sleep with the horse.”

“Molly…” He growls, and it is without a doubt a warning.

I can feel it in the jump of my pulse, a sensation over these past months I’ve come to crave.

My head snaps to him, waiting, watching for something, anything.

Any sign of what I’d done wrong, to explain this sudden wrenching change in him, like perhaps if I look long enough, I’ll understand why it’s troubling me so.

Why have my nightmares come back, and why does it feel hard to breathe?

It’s that final thought that makes me take notice of his eerie stillness.

He’s…not breathing. I watch as he shifts ever so slightly, but his chest is as still as stone aside from the movement required to speak.

“Very well. The Nephilim will escort you–”

My chair drags across the floor roughly as I stand. “And why not you?”

“I have work to– ”

“Work…yes, you are very busy as of late. I think it is best that I stay at the cottage until the storm passes. Perhaps my debt is nearly paid. You should start to search for a new source of entertainment.” I spit, anger scathing the walls of my chest, making my bodice feel too tight as I go to storm past him.

A gasp is ripped from my throat as his hand snaps out, the movement jerky and rough as he snatches a tendril from the air.

Heaven knows what that damned thing had intended to do.

“As much as I admire your claws, today is a good day to keep them sheathed, little human.” For the first time in days, I have his full, undivided attention, and it is…

horribly intoxicating. The pang of loss is ripe in my gut, but how can you lose something you never had?

You cannot.

He dematerializes his tendrils then, and I find myself holding my breath as I continue past. I no longer wish to breathe him in.

The Nephilim is waiting in the hall as I pass, his golden bronze eyes glancing back to Elric before settling on me.

He dips his head, gesturing for me to lead the way.

When the sound of crashing echoes in the chambered hall, I barely flinch.

The storm is wild, and for the first time since the snow started falling, I’m privy to the unyielding and brutal side of winter.

Its gusts of wind are so violent that they rob the heat from my bones and the questions from my chest. The only saving grace is the heat radiating from the man at my back.

Like sitting beside a fire, but it brought no comfort.

When we reach the cabin, he declines my invitation to step inside and warm up, but of course, he’s rude about it.

Usually, I don’t let it bother me. Today?

I slam my door in his face. Perhaps the only person who wants to speak to me less than Elric today is Cartiel. The feeling is mutual.