Work Text:
“You killed me,” said the spector, which, fair. And then: “You didn’t even give me a warning.”
“A warning?” she said. “This is IRL, Babs. You have to keep your head in the game.” Ianthe circled past him to the pin-up calendar tacked to the wall. A Corona naked from the waist up flaunted two round, beautiful breasts above the month of April.
“Improper,” Babs said coldly.
Ianthe snorted. “Oh, shut it. You’ve always known.” She stroked a thumb over one of Corona’s glossy cheeks. “How much longer do I have to cook?”
“Thou hast profaned the mortal soul,” said someone in dulcet tones. Ianthe turned, but there was no one there. Hearing voices. Even in your own head, probably not the best sign. Well, it was too bad. No matter was the spooky voices proclaimed, Ianthe didn’t really give a fuck. She hadn’t even made the rules. It wasn’t her fault this was a necromancer eat cavalier world.
Out there, probably only a nanosecond had passed. Ianthe knew that she was living in the spark between synapses, that this whole room was nothing but a phantasm conjured by her distended spirit, which was full to bursting with Bab’s putrid soul.
She crossed past Bab’s sulking form to the window. It was the same view she had from her window home on Ida. The azure sky, the numerous numinous moons.
Oh, Ianthe, Ianthe, with hair the color of subcutaneous fat and cheeks as thin as a lingual frenulum. She’d never been a tragedy, though according to Corona on her meanest days, she looked like one. And now here she was, walled up alive with her sad excuse for a cavalier. He couldn’t even defend his heart, in more ways than one.
Pin the soul in place. Take it in. Absorb it, maybe with ketchup. Easy.
And now what? The tower room had no door. The window was barely the size of a small book, hardly large enough for Ianthe to crawl through, despite her extreme attenuation.
Ianthe pressed her hands to the cold walls. The stone froze her palms. Closing her eyes, she tried to trace the contours of the tower. Tried to cast her mind down, down the curling staircase into the cellar. It was all part of her, after all. No reason she couldn’t see more than with her eyes.
But the tower disobeyed her. It remained static, unyielding. A mental block. Annoyed, Ianthe looked about for something that could help her.
The contents of the room included:
Babs. Exceedingly unhelpful. Barely useful in life, now only good for powering Ianthe’s immortal flame. Yawn.
The calendar that, Ianthe knew without looking, was filled on every page with pictures of Corona. Helpful if she felt like, well…there wasn’t time for that.
A spade.
Why…? Ianthe picked it up and felt its cool, wooden handle slide against her palms. Was she expected to dig her way to freedom?
No. It wasn’t that. She trailed a finger along the edge of the blade. It was slightly rusted, she saw, red blossoms spreading on the silver. She flipped it to her lips and licked one of the rust spots. It was scratchy against her tongue and leaked the taste of blood.
“Stop, C—!”
Ianthe turned, but once again there was no one there. The scream had been unholily desperate. Despite herself, she shuddered.
No. She was Ianthe Tridentarius, Heir to the House of the Third and Princess of Ida. Her own mind was no match for her. With all her might, she swung the spade against the wall. Instead of doing any damage, the blade snapped off and flew back towards Ianthe, catching her in the shin.
“Ow! Fuck! Nasty!” She kicked it aside and growled. Her mind was taunting her. Sending her snippets of the past. When she was younger, six or seven, she used to dig in the royal gardens with Corona in search of Galatea Tripleri’s lost jewels. They never found them, but now she could smell the richness of the earth, could feel the little white worms they overturned scrambling over her fingers.
So the spade was useless.
Time to take stock again.
“It hurts,” Babs said plaintively.
Ianthe rolled her eyes. “Digestion isn’t supposed to be pretty. Pepsin and renin and gastric lipase. It’s supposed to be painful.”
She sat down on the floor with her legs crossed and attempted to meditate. Corona had never been any good at it, but Ianthe was good at separating her mind from her body. That was her specialty, after all. The things that flood in when the block is removed. Only now she was heading in the opposite direction, trying desperately to open her eyes out there in the real world. She didn’t think much time was passing, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was lying there like a fucking idiot for the horrible others to find.
Oh, damn. What if she didn’t get to make her speech?
“I had it all planned out,” she said, propping elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. “Ever since I knew what the megatheorem was, I’ve been practicing. Do you want to hear, Babs?”
Skin was dripping from Babs’ cheeks; his eye jelly was running down the exposed bone like tears. Through a hole in one cheek, she could see the unhealthy pink of his tongue.
“Argh,” said Babs.
“Touché,” said Ianthe. On her head there was a crown. It hadn’t been there before, she was sure of it, but it was there now. Interested, she lifted it off her skull and turned it about in her hands. Heavy, set with gems. She brought it to her nose and sniffed. Metal, and also dying roses. Her mother’s crown. She had a sense memory of her cheek pressed to her mother’s sharp collarbone, one small hand running over the crown’s crenellations.
The Ninth House witch would be hot on Ianthe’s trail, even if no one else was. She wasn’t as good as Ianthe, not by half, but she was decent. Good enough to understand what they were up against, or at least to comprehend the general shape. She didn’t have what it took, though. Neither did the Sixth. Those fuckers, they’d never understand that sometimes sacrifices were worth it.
“I’ve suffered for my art,” Ianthe said to Babs, who by now was writhing and bubbling like plastic melting in a fire. “Haven’t I?”
She wanted her sister. Didn’t like to admit it, but there it was. Corona, Corona. Wanted to crack open her chest and let Corona crawl inside to curl up somewhere between her heart and liver. God, she wanted her. But Corona was out there, and Ianthe was in here. Here-self. Haha.
Babs let loose a sort of snuffle/scream. Ianthe licked her lips. She could feel herself absorbing. Plumping. Filling up.
Because Ianthe had done it. While the others tottered on the precipice, too afraid to jump, too afraid to acknowledge the truth, Ianthe had opened her mouth wide and snapped shut her jaw on her future.
“Sister, mine.”
Ianthe looked in the direction of the voice; the Corona in the calendar winked at her and jiggled her breasts.
“Tease,” Ianthe said mildly.
“Bitch,” said Corona.
“Whore.”
They smiled at each other, both with something hidden behind their teeth.
“Good luck out there.”
Ianthe laughed. “You really think I’d let a little thing like luck dictate my life? I was born dead.”
“Yes,” said Corona. “With your hand around my ankle.”
Soon, the tower would crumble. Soon, Ianthe would reemerge into the melée.
And, oh God, could she not fucking wait.