“Every Keeping’s as unique as its Keeper. An ancient maxim, sure, but one that modern times has increasingly proven true. These days, you don’t hear stories of vengeance, or pity, or some deep desire to preserve the human that’s caught our eye. We just don’t Keep like we used to.
When a Nocturni makes another now, it’s always to specialise. A fund manager, a security expert, or, God forbid, those dilettantes in the Dhoine Rosín ‘hire’ whole teams of designers! How else can us old folks stay relevant? Art, fashion, technology; it moves so quickly now. Even the mortals struggle to keep afloat. But God. These contracts, this allodry, one Kept for a dozen Keepers, they just exhaust me. It feels like there's no soul in the damn things. Like we can never have any fun.
But then, when I least expect it, my office gets graced by a good-old fashioned Keeping. One Kept. One Keeper. Sharing of blood, sharing of wills, all that jazz. And when I see that look of desperation in the Kept’s eye, the bruises she poorly hides, the memories come flooding back.
The new way’s not good. But it’s leaps and bounds better.”
Excerpt from a letter by Henri Ombras, Scáthshiúlóir and Porter of London, to an unknown European Nocturni. Translated from French; dated April 14th, 1989.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
At first, she thinks she’s finally dead.
Her eyes open, but she cannot see. Her skin feels air, but it’s stale and temperate. Her head rings, and she’s filled with the sensation of… falling. As she slowly wakes, and memories pass, she tries to place herself from there to here. Was she captured? Was she killed? Or was it all just a bad dream, one that’s refusing to end?
For a moment, Harriet Eddards… stops. Everything is so still. To most people, she thinks that’d be calming, but for her, right now, it’s just grounds for more fear. It happened, didn’t it? She pulled the trigger, and her brains splattered the walls? In the heat of the moment, with the gun to her forehead, there was no hesitation, no second thought. She wanted it. But now, with the time, and the nothing, the weight of that bullet hits. Doubt. Regret. Fear. God, is this it? Is this where she goes?
No. It can’t be. God still has so much further to drag her.
A jerk. She’s tried to breathe. But there’s something over her nose and mouth, something tight and padded that keeps the air out. She can feel hints of cold metal on the edges, clinging so forcefully to her jaw that she can hardly move her lips. As she blinks, her eyebrows touch more of the same padding.
She flexes her arms. Her legs. Feels a rough, scratchy texture. They’re both being held down by rope. Something pulls at her chest, as well. She lolls her head across her shoulder. Her ears are uncovered, but… what the fuck is going?
One thing’s for certain. She’s alive. But as that realisation cascades into more, the ice, the traps, the Venefici…
… Fuck.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, right?
Harriet forces herself to relax, and leans into what must be a wooden chair, from all its creaking. She’s trying to loosen her muscles and slip through the straps, like Red once taught her to do with handcuffs. But whoever tied her up clearly has experience.
Tch. Figures. Janet always said the Court was filled with pervs.
Oh, shit. Janet! Where is she? Or Red, or Aisling, or anyone? After this, who knows what the Court could have done? They were already leaving bombs on their desks. What kind of retaliation…
She starts pulling on the restraints. Fast. Hard. As much might as she can muster. But… wait, wait. Paradox. Yes! What the fuck is she doing!? She could just think herself… shhh, shhh, focus, she has to focus. She’s low on blood, and deleting is always harder than copying. She’ll need to be calm. She’ll need to…
The thoughts stop. Everything goes quiet. She can imagine herself in this chair, sparks flaring across her skin, a glow bursting through the binds on her eyes. Yes. Yes. Space and time, bending before her. She can-
“MmmRRRphmmmm!” Harriet winces into the chair, so hard that it nearly falls. A migraine pierces her skull, burning and fiercer than any she’s ever felt. The flares vanish, replaced by deafening white static. After a few seconds, even that is gone.
“Please.” There’s a soft voice, a demeaning click of the tongue. Before she can react, she feels fingers on her cheeks, large hands fiddling with the metal on her mouth. She hears a strange whirr, the spinning of gears. Her lips flood with oxygen and her sore jaw falls free. The voice speaks again. “After all your little tricks, did you think I wouldn’t be ready?”
Harriet sets her jaw. Her rage boils. “Lissen here, ya ass bitch piece a’ fuck. I ain’- rrrmmm!!”
The mask comes back on, as quickly as he took it off. Her jaw strains as it tightens into place. Harriet pulls on the ropes again. It only makes the voice laugh.
“I realise that you might be angry, but it’s important that we start this relationship on the… how do you say? The right foot?” She feels a strong hand on the mask, gripping the metal. “I’m prepared to have a civil conversation with you. But if you just would rather exchange insults, well… I can come back in a week. Or two. Or three. We’re immortals. No reason to skip ahead.”
A pause. She knows he can see the way she shivers. Curses herself for it, under her shaky breaths.
When it becomes clear that silence is all he’ll receive, he grabs the mask again. She feels her lips grow moist in the air, his hand press against her forehead. His fingers are soft, and uncalloused, and warm.
The blindfold is taken gently from her head, and blinding white light greets her.
Once Harriet’s blinked past them, she looks around. Drab grey walls, tile floors, blinds pulled over long glass windows. A row of clocks show different times, each denoted by cities. London. Seoul. San Francisco. Dubai. It’s all built around a mahogany table, and sitting atop is him, the man with the mask, smiling right in front of her. She studies that bronze contraption in his hands: slim, but heavy, and clearly filled with all sorts of moving parts. He also wears a Rolex on his wrist, a black-on-black suit, tightly fit, the jacket buttoned. She looks into his face. Olive skin, slicked back hair, a hint of perfume. She knows he’s Nocturni, but it’s a struggle to find any piece of it. Except for his eyes.
.He isn’t using aether to hide his black sclera, but the flame she saw in Scotland is still there. Bright and wild, beneath irises of gold.
“Good evening, Fireside.” Soteris Chrysanthou grins. “Are you ready to build our future?”
image [https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/4/patreon-media/p/post/103379162/0a9019d752684762892ee30a52ff6e8c/eyJ3ZWJwIjowfQ%3D%3D/1.jpg?token-time=1721779200&token-hash=wFXdRhIR7gFvKl8H3leHhfrA6rr7XuvPkoZ6Wdh18hk%3D]
Harriet blinks. Completely still. He leans back, relaxed, even affable. She should swear. She should scream. A million more ‘shoulds’ flash through her mind. But she can’t put any of them into words.
“...I…”
He laughs. Her eyes trail down. To her clothes. She’d almost call her a jumpsuit. A snow white blouse with matching trousers. Bits of red hair cling to the fabric. She isn’t wearing shoes.
“It took a lot of effort to keep those clothes tidy.” His voice is soft as silk. “I hope you can appreciate them.”
He changed her? Normally, she’d be furious. Halfway to tearing his throat. But as she sits there, helpless, gunless, she can only feel windchimes.
Windchimes and fluffy, buoyant white clouds.
Her throat is parched. “Where am I?”
“Still in my building. Thirtieth floor. There were… logistical issues we had to resolve. You’ve been in death sleep for two days.”
That makes the windchimes louder. Harriet shuffles in her chair, looking around. “An’... yer gonna untie me, right?”
“In time. Not now.”
“Wh-... why the fuck not?”
He gives her a look, and chuckles again.
“Alright.” She scowls. “Then at least tell me why. If I’m so dangerous ta keep around.”
“Information is a privilege, Fireside, not a right. Learn that lesson quickly.” His smile grows. “You’re curious, and that has its uses, but the days when you could ask countless questions and expect answers are over.”
The words hit like a slap. She stares at him, her expression blank. But then, quickly corrects. This… freak, h-he’s not right in the head. But… but that’s okay. She’ll deal with this like she would any man. “M-Mr. Chrysanthou-”
“Soteris,” he corrects.
“Soteris.” She awkwardly smiles. “I… I realise that we mighta had a misunderstandin’-”
“Is that what you’d call it?”
“An’ th-that maybe, maybe! I-I didn’t fully appreciate yer offer.” Harriet shuffles again, struggling to keep her composure. “But, really, that stuff with the Unbound, w-we can put that behind us! Y-ya said ya wanted ta help, an’ shit, I’m startin’ ta reconsider yer-”
“Shhh.” Her eyes grow wide. He’s put a finger on her lips, slowly lifting her jaw. His voice turns soothing as he pinches her cheeks. “You’ll get your help, I promise. But it’s not professional to swear.”
The windchimes scream. She starts to tremble in his hand.
“I can see your worry. But there’s no need for it. I’m not mad. In fact, the heist, the fight, all that set-up… you performed exactly as I had planned.”
He sees the way she pales.
“What? Who do you think set those traps? Let those whistleblowers slip? Leaked just enough info, performed with just enough arrogance so that you, and Keaton, and Blackbird all thought that I was a childish, fraudulent fool?” Soteris smiles. “Not my best work, I admit. Obvious. Overzealous. A bit reliant on the Venefici. But, heh, the things you can get away with, when you’re young. No one’s quite ready to admit when they’ve met their better.”
He starts petting her cheek. Slowly, gently. It makes her twitch beneath the bonds. “S-stop.”
“You don’t understand the importance of this moment.” He talks over her. “The history we’ll make. The legend we’ll become.”
“Let go a’ me or I’m gonna-”
She gasps. He wraps his hand around the back of her head, pulls her up, and kisses her.
The windchimes immediately respond. Her heart races, her breaths shake, and still Soteris digs deeper, tightens his grip the more she squirms. It’s wet, and warm, and she feels a hint of his tongue. Her skin grows pink, the light leaves her eyes. When he finally pulls away, it’s all she can do to sputter.
“What the…” She spits. “What the fuck!?”
“This isn’t something to doubt. This isn’t something to fear. You’re looking upon revolution, for all our kind. So please.” He smiles again, tracing her lips. “All your burdens, they aren’t yours to carry any longer. You can hand them off, calmly, safely, in the gentle, waiting arms of your-”
The door opens, and they both jolt. Soteris quickly walks to a real seat, while her eyes focus like slats on the figure snaking into the room. He wears another black turtleneck, the same short blonde hair, thick binders and folders tucked beneath his arm. But that light blue glow isn’t hidden now. It shimmers around him like waves of heat, seeping from the scars across his cheeks and blazing from his eyes. Harriet tries to scooch back. As far as the chair allows.
“N… no!” Her breathing picks up. “Get away!”
Randall Avery watches her. And keeps watching. Studying her face the way a connoisseur might study artwork, even after she turns away. There’s a flicker of light in his eyes, something magnified in his voice.
“Pale.” The word is motionless. Robotic. “Light greens on a field of orange. Chrysanthemums in the bloom of spring. All of them shifting, mottled, broken. You are confused. Defensive. And most of all, afraid.”
He doesn’t pause for a reply. Just calmly sets down his papers while she tries to hold in her scream.
Soteris frowns. “You’re a bit early, Avery. I haven’t even had the chance to offer her tea.”
“She’d bite your hand long before she’d eat from it.” A few more seconds pass as Randall reads from his binder, looks at her again. “Can you confirm that you are Harriet Eddards, terrorist, outlaw, Shorn Nocturni and Unbound operative acting under the alias ‘Fireside’?”
She steals a glance at Soteris. Randall might look deathly serious, but the CEO seems annoyed. “Uh… no?”
Soteris snorts, but Randall doesn’t react. Doesn’t even move. “Can you confirm that you were hired by Janet Chisholm, outlaw, terrorist, Shorn Kept and Unbound acting under the aliases-”
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“We can skip the formalities, Randall. Just give her the Pact.”
“You might not respect the traditions, Chrysanthou, but us Venefici live by them.” There’s an edge in Randall’s voice. “The Canon exists for a reason. We cannot allow the circumstances-”
“Nothing about these circumstances are anything close to traditional.” Soteris leans forward. “Are you Sovereign, Randall? No? Then consider reading that Canon again. It offers a pretty clear guide on what to do in my jurisdiction.”
Harriet stays quiet. Randall doesn’t seem pleased. But he takes the papers and walks towards her anyway, ignoring her growing protests. “Wait, wait, i-if this is some sorta legal thing, don’t y’all have ta gimme a-”
She stops as the papers fall next to her. Her eyes glaze over the words. Once, twice, three times.
They only get more insane with each pass.
“The Blood Pact of Allodry and Retainment on this, the Eighteenth of September, in the Hundredth and Fifty-Sixth Year of the New Sun’s Reign, between the Sovereign Entity Polyphron Limited; Harriet Eddards, Shorn and Kept; and Sotirios Chrysanthou, Sovereign, and Keeper.”
Her face falls. It’s real. They’re serious. She'd seen the marks, of course. Black ink etched into the skin, on Janet, on Aisling. And she’d heard the stories. But… fuck, fuck, FUCK! That was them. It wasn’t her. She hadn’t gotten this far, she hadn’t killed this many-
She slowly looks at Soteris, her face wreathed in horror, her gut twisting in pain. He smiles. He puts his hand on his chin. Beaming.
Randall folds his arms behind his back. “As you are assumed to be unfamiliar with our ways, it is customary to explain the different expectations of your Keeping here. This Blood Pact contains two clauses: Allodry, and Retainment. Allodry enables Kepts to be enfeoffed to organisations or locales the Magistrates of the Council have designated as Sovereign Entities, including this one. When you sign the Pact, the Court will legally register you as an asset of Polyphron and its subsidiaries with Mr. Chrysanthou and I-”
“Property!?” Harriet cuts him off. “So ya fuckin’ admit it. Yer slavin’ me!?”
“Don’t be so crass.” Soteris smirks. “‘Slave’ is such a transactional term. It misses all the Keeping’s intimacy.”
“Intimacy!?”
“Fireside.” Randall clears his throat. “You will find employment in the company. You will represent us in Court functions. And for security’s sake, your aether will be bound to this location-”
“Which, in practical terms, means you can’t leave.”
She’s looking at her clothes. White. It’s all white. Those are Court colours, aren’t they? Holy shit. Mother of God. Fuck fuck fuck FUCK!
“Tell her about Retainment, Randall,” Soteris taps the table. “That’s the fun bit.”
She looks up at the Venefici, pleading for him to stop. But in that same drab voice, he continues away. “In addition to the usual clause, the present Sovereign has requested that you perform what the Canon calls the Rite of Keeping.”
Harriet pales. Soteris grins.
“You will drink the Sovereign’s blood and aether, mark of ownership will appear on your body, mirroring the cut location. Under a retainment, directives given to you by Soteris take precedence over all else. He will be responsible for your care and discipline-”
“Why the fuck do I-”
“The Rite binds the will of the Kept so that she can perform exactly to her Keeper’s image. When you drink his blood, a spell is formed. It will give him total control over your mind and body. The Court will register you as Kept. Soteris will be responsible for your care and discipline.”
The windchimes are back. Louder than ever. Soteris fidgets in his chair, like a child waiting for Christmas morning. Seeing Harriet’s frozen face, Randall walks towards her desk, holding two objects: a standard, ballpoint pen, and a long, serrated bronze blade. He sets them both parallel to a page awaiting her signature. Neatly.
“If you have any questions, please-”
“Heh. Heheheheh.” She breaks into giggles that quickly hyperventilate. “Hehehehahahahahahahah.”
Randall squints. “Fireside?”
She barely holds it in to speak. “Heheheh… are ya FUCKIN’ WITH ME!?”
There’s a delay in Randall’s expression. Like booting up a faulty. “I don’t-”
“Ya fucks musta lost yer minds. I ain’t fuckin’ signin’!”
She jolts. Knuckles crack. She turns towards their source: Soteris, growing angrier by the second. She can see the fury in his eyes. And beneath, a sense of hunger.
Shit. She looks at him like a frightened animal. Where’s her gun? Where’s her fucking gun!? “I-I wanna negotiate!”
That makes Soteris snort. “Negotiate? With what?”
“How old are ya boy?! T-twenty-five? Yer not old enough ta be a Keeper. Yer jes’ some… hyped-up Wizz Kid Steve Jobs wannabe!”
“Yet I’m old enough to capture you,” he grins. “Fireside, I’m Sovereign. The Court recognised my talents already. Claiming you is my legal right, and claim you, I will. Surely, you don’t think your pathetic bleating is going to stop me!”
“Ya got any idea what I’ve done ta men with twice yer balls?”
“Plenty, I’m sure, but when our paths crossed, I won. You lost. That should be all the proof of my competence that you need.”
Harriet snarls. It only makes his eyes spark.
“It must be hard, to accept how totally you’ve been outfoxed.” His smirk shows fang. “I know how much you prided yourself on being clever.”
She turns back to Randall, trying to push the CEO far from her sight. “You. Y-y-you captured me, not him! Y-ya shouldn’t stand fer this! C-Can’t let him walk with the f-f-fuckin’-”
“Language,” Soteris scowls. “You’ve already been warned once.”
“I’m gonna say whatever I goddamn like!”
“I have claimed you, Fireside. Through the Allodry.” Somehow, Randall still speaks slow, calm. “But-”
“Randall’s Kept,” Soteris interrupts. “So for him, no Keepings.”
There’s a hint of displeasure in Randall’s sigh. “I am not a ‘Kept’, Mr. Chrysanthou, I am Caedmon’s top Inquisitor. The venefici have their own terms-
“Really?” Soteris shrugs. “Nobody ever thought to tell me.”
Harriet pauses. She can see that burst of pale blue aether that courses through Randall’s eyes. Good. Good. Okay. Ignore Soteris, he’s just.. pulling pigtails. Randall can be worked with.
“Mr. Avery,, right?” Harriet shifts in her chair, trying to nudge close. “Ya work fer the Seneschal? Caedmon?”
Randall gives her a disparaging look. Shit. It’s not promising.
“He oughta be here, though, ain’t he? I’m a big, scary Unbound. Certainly he’d… y-y-ya can’t jes’ leave me-”
“Stop pretending like you know our laws.” Soteris stands up. “You were captured in my office, which means that what happens to you falls within my-”
“Will ya just SHUT UP!” Harriet snaps, panicked. “Yer not the fuckin’ boss a’ -”
He slaps her. Hard. A firm backhand that leaves a red spot welting on her cheek. Harriet blinks, bewildered. Her ears ring. The world blurs. And Soteris towers over her, scowling.
“What did I say about swearing?” He points at her, his voice venomous. “Try again. I dare you.”
Randall starts rolling a cigarette, never giving them a glance.
Harriet smirks. “Ya hit like a BITCH-”
A punch this time. Straight in the jaw. The force of the blow rocks her around the chair. Then he grabs her by the hair, yanks it back until it stings. Her lip splits. Her mouth floods with a taste like metal.
“There.” Soteris keeps pulling, until her scalp screams. “Was that more to your liking?”
Harriet wants to break him. Rip his bones from his flesh. Snap him out of existence. She feels the aether course through her veins, flare from her eyes. All her magic, all her rage, focusing on that stupid, disgusting little man. But then… gone. The magic pulled, like a lightswitch.
Then pain.
She howls. The migraine’s returned with a vengeance, blinding and needle-like. Her head grows slack in his arms, and as the Paradox slinks back into her veins, she hears Soteris’ sharp, cutting laughter.
“Mentis Imperium. That’s what the Court calls this power. I prefer ‘Empire of the Mind.’” His voice has doubled over, his skin glowing with golden light. “It allows me to halt all those naughty little thoughts, so I wouldn’t bother trying.”
“DO YA KNOW WHO I AM!?” Harriet strains against his grip. “HOW MANY I’VE KILLED!? WHAT I’M GONNA DO TA YA THE SECOND I LEAVE THESE HANDS!?”
“You’ll never leave these hands.” He snarls back. “So I suppose you’ll do nothing.”
She spits. A good, healthy glob that splatters across his suit. Soteris grows quiet. She can feel the sheer rage in his eyes. It makes her laugh.
“Well,” she grins. “Guess yer lil’ mind power don’t halt everythin’.”
He slams her hard into the table. Leaves her to sputter and cough as he wipes himself with a handkerchief. She hisses, showing fang. “Untie me, ya fuckin’ coward!”
“Fireside, please,” Randall interrupts. “The Rite of Keeping is a sacred ceremony. It should not be-”
“There ain’t gonna be a Rite, you FREAK!"
“You don’t have a choice!” Soteris shouts.
“FUCK YOU!” She screams. “This is bullshit! Ya wanna try an’ fuckin’ rule me!? THEN TAKE ME TO YER GODDAMN QUEEN!”
She breathes. Opens her eyes. The men are silent. Randall watches her with a clear, quiet concern. Soteris… something worse.
She smiles in triumph, leaping at the chance. “I can do that, right? Go ta the New Sun? Let that glowin’ bitch sort this out?”
“You… can,” Randall replies. “But-”
“Do it. Do it!” She pulls at her restraints. “I’ll plead my case, I’ll hold my trial. I’ll do anythin’ ya fuckin’ want, as long as ya keep him - YARGH!”
She’s thrown violently to the ground. Her head crashes on the tile. The world is sideways, stars spark in her eyes. She tries to squirm, wriggle, force herself free. But she’s stuck in the chair, ropes pulling the furniture along with her. She yelps. Something presses into her head, solid, patterned, and smelling of leather. His shoe. His fucking shoe. She starts to writhe as its sole smashes into her cheek.
“You’d rather go to the Court!?” He laughs. “This is what they think of you. This is what the New Sun looks like!”
“G-g-GET OFF ME!”
He presses harder. “Dung to be swept off. A pest to be destroyed! Do you not understand that I am the only thing holding you back from them now! Your trail would be a farce! Quick and merciless!”
“SO LET THEM KILL ME!”
She sputters again. Soteris steps on her throat, and leans, adding more weight. She starts to thrash and flop. Can feel her lungs give out, the bones in her throat creaking.
“You think the New Sun will just kill you?” Soteris speaks through grit teeth. “After all you’ve done? That the death of a Reeve means nothing!?”"
Harriet stops. Her eyes dim. She’d completely forgotten the name Germaine FitzGerald. It sounds like something from an aeon ago.
Something from a different life.
Soteris sees the flash in her eyes. Pounces, with a smile. “Can you imagine what that death entails? Flayed off skin. Pulled out teeth. Your organs ripped loose so they can regrowing come dusk, while all you can do is stand and watch them! You’ll be drowned. You’ll be starved. They’ll leave bits and pieces of you to burn in the sunlight!”
She starts to sputter. “That… I…”
“You think the New Sun knows mercy? Blackbird’s dead. Swept from the streets in piles of ash. So where do you think our Potentate’s vengeance will boil over?”
Harriet doesn’t speak. Or move. Just tries to process the words pounding in her skull. Soteris puts his shoe back on her head, using his foot to tug her face forward.
“You want to tell me that you’d rather die, don’t you?” He tilts his head. “That you’ll never give in, you’ll never surrender. Because you know the Unbound expect nothing less. You know they want you to be a martyr.”
Harriet makes herself small, never looking directly at him. But he doesn’t seem to care.
“I might be young, Fireside, but I’ve seen men die. In fear. In rage. In sobbing, helpless desperation. But the men who gave their lives freely, they’ve always had something in them. A spark. Maybe you once had it, too, but not now. You could have ended this, if you tried. But I know you’re scared of death. You have the eyes of a survivor.”
She bites her lip, trembling beneath the shoe. She wants to tell him off. Prove him wrong. Give herself to the Sun with a smile on her face. But her mind keeps going back to the void she woke up in. Empty. Spaceless. Endless black and cold.
She needs a gun. She needs a gun.
“It is a hard thing, to lose your pride. But my salvation is the only you’ll see. So we will not negotiate. There will not be terms. Because right now, you are not an outlaw, or an Unbound, or a killer. You are nothing.” Soteris finally takes his shoe off, steps back. “The legend of Fireside died on Thursday night. You can either die with it, or let me build a new one.”
Silence. Soteris watches. Randall takes drags of his cigarette. Harriet curls into the ground. Her clothes. Herself. This shouldn’t have happened. She shouldn’t be here.
She can’t have failed.
She knows she can’t do this. Not for values, not for pride, fuck that, it’s sruvival. She’s seen the ass-end of Keepings. How they break. And this asshole who wants to enslave her…
… Godamnit.
God fucking damn it, he’s right.
“Fireside.” Soteris catches her attention. “Did you hear me?”
She looks at him. Her brows bent, her frown clear. Soteris meets the challenge with a mirthless smile.
“You aren’t going to say it?”
She snarls.
“That’s alright.” He stoops down to pull up her chair, then starts to clean her. Dust swiped from her blouse. Fingers combing through her hair. Harriet squirms and tries to speak up, but he cuts her off there, too, dabbing his handkerchief over her bloodied lips. He finishes with a kiss on her forehead that makes her want to puke.
“You don’t need to.”
She watches him grab the knife. Study it, while a blue aura glows around her.
Harriet’s pulled towards him. The chair scraping across the tiles. Her broken face on the knife’s reflection, getting larger and larger. Soteris calmly lifts the blade, pressing it to the side of his neck. Blood pools around the tip. Harriet looks at Randall again, a final, desperate call.
“Sotirios Chrysanthou, say the words.”
“Please.” She swallows her pride. “Please, please, wait! Don’t-!”
And with a flick on Randall’s wrist, her head’s thrown back, her jaws are pried open. Wrenched apart by invisible hands. She pulls on the restraints, a final time, but knows already it’s useless. Soteris slowly brings the blood. Red drips from the wound, and steam rises where blood meets air. He meets her eyes. She can’t hold back the tears.
“Me aftó enónontai oi psychés mas.”
No.
“You and I are one.”
A slice. Split skin. And then a geyser of blood shoots from his throat. Splattering her white-clad body.
And falling into her open, waiting lips.
Her body recoils, her muscles snap. Bound to the chair, she jerks in sudden movements. She can feel the two bloods mix, the magic merging, one aether fighting the other. Her heart starts to surge. Her body starts to glow. And her skin, her organs, everything, moving with regained strength. Growing impossibly hotter. She screams.
It stops. She gasps. Her vision is lost beneath a blinding white light. But slowly, so slowly, the world comes back. The aura is gone, and she’s gained control of her mouth. She takes a momento just… breathe. Then looks up, staring into the bloodied bronze knife.
Bits of blood drip from her chin. Her blouse is ruined, and bruises are forming. Her eyes are flecked with gold, and a brighter blue then she’s ever known. But that’s not what captures her. Leaves her silent and spellbound.
A black mark has etched itself across her neck. Characters forming words, quivering across her skin like creatures swirling in the deep. It’s not written in a language she knows, or wants to know. But the words still pound in her skull, forced upon her:
Χάριετ, Κρατημένο του Σωτήρη
Harriet, Kept of Soteris.
“And so it is done. And so it shall be.” Randall continues. “Keeper and Kept are bound. Forever.”
She feels a hand on her shoulder. Wants to run, wants to leap, wants to scream. But inside, she can feel her blood pulling her towards him. Like magnets across a table, or the moon and ocean waves.
Soteris leans down, until his lips grace her ear. He doesn’t speak, can’t speak, with the bleeding gash over his throat. But she hears him in her mind, either way.
“I am going to undo your bonds. You will not move.”
His eyes glow, and hers follow. Little patterns in the irises that match and swirl and synchronise. Harriet immediately tries to disobey him. Squirm and tug and tell him. But she can’t. Her body stiffens, and refuses to move. Like a leg falling asleep. Paralysis all over.
Soteris cuts away at her ropes. Burns show on her skin, biting as they touch open air. She watches him with listless eyes, completely still, until he’s finished and looks forward. He pulls back her hair, cups her cheek. She can’t so much as twitch, and he seems to enjoy that fact. Takes her hand, squeezes it, presses his fingers deep into the knuckles. Her hand moves however he wants it to. He’s only denied her control.
Randall’s words repeat in her mind. You two are bound, forever. Forever. FOREVER.
“When you get up, you will find the contract on it’s final page. I’m not going to order you to take the pen, and sign the Pact. You will, because you must. But there is something I want to you do. Sign it with your real name.”
He smiles. Must see the flare in her eyes. Hear the question she wants to say.
“Information is a privilege. I told you that. And you are far from earning that answer.”
Soteris stands up. Steps back. Winks. And only then says, “You may move.”
Harriet gasps. Nearly falls into the chair. Control of her muscles come rushing back. Her hands immediately grip her neck, pulling on the mark. It’s real. She can feel it moving. She turns towards the binder, the table. The Blood Pact looms before her.
There’s hesitation. The final pleading thoughts of a mind that’s trapped in a corner. But they die quickly, and her hesitance dies with it. Soteries watches. Randall smokes. Harriet forces herself to her feet. Wobbles at first, grips the chair for support. Without shoes, she can feel the cold tiles. But slowly, she works her way to the table. The pen. The dotted line.
Her soul.
She takes the tool. Closes her eyes. And signs without looking. A furious, ugly scrawl. It perfectly encapsulates her feelings towards that name.
Harriet Josephine McClintock.