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Abigail picked up her tumbler of sherry and strode through the hall, towards Dulcinea Septimus and the strange Ninth House Cavalier that Magnus had taken a shine to. Given the Ninth’s apparent vow of silence, the conversation was distinctly one-sided. Not that the Cavalier seemed to mind. Through all that fascinating skull paint, she seemed to be blushing a little, especially when the conversation turned to her biceps. Abigail secretly reflected that if there had been more lady cavaliers with biceps like that on the Fifth, Magnus would have had his work cut out for him.
“Lady Septimus,” she said, sliding next to the Seventh, “do you mind if I join you?”
“Not at all, Lady Pent!” replied Dulcinea, similarly unperturbed at the interruption of her monologue. “This is a lovely party that you have organized. Fifth house affairs are so much more lively than what we have on the Seventh. I just know Pro is desperately missing his poetry readings.” She gestured across the table at her cavalier, who was sitting sullenly next to the equally sullen Eighth and Ninth necromancers.
“It was my pleasure,” said Abigail, “and I’m so glad you were able to attend. Now,” she added, “I was wondering if I could pick your brain on something. I’ve noticed that you are a connoisseur of literature, and I am wondering if you have come across any reference at all to the cavaliers of the original Lyctors? I have been looking at as much lyctoral history as I can find, and have not found anything. I am really searching for anything, no matter how romanticized or ahistorical.”
Just as Abigail completed her request, Dulcinea doubled over in a fit of coughing. Abigail and the taciturn Gideon Nav both reached down to steady her. After a few seconds, she righted herself and looked plaintively at Abigail.
“Lady Pent, would you be so kind as to escort me to my room? There is a private matter I must discuss with you.”
“Of course, Lady Septimus.”
Leaving the Ninth to look on, Abigail pushed Duclinea’s wheelchair down the halls of Canaan House in silence. The Seventh House chambers featured many of the accouterments associated with the palace of Rhodes, including lace-lined satin curtains and a significant library. The whole place smelled a little sweet and wet, like fruit left out too long. Abigail bent to help Dulcinea onto the bed, but found her standing up straight instead.
“Lady Pent,” said the Seventh House necromancer, “I think you should sit down to hear this.”
In place of Dulcie’s usual upbeat and wistful demeanor, the woman stood before Abigail with a face plastered with grief. In shock, Abigail sat down heavily on the bed, finding herself nearly swallowed by the thick duvet and soft mattress.
When Abigail had righted herself, the Seventh continued,
"I am not Dulcinea Septimus. My name is Cytherea the First, and I am one of the Lyctors if the King Undying."
"Fascinating!" injected Abigail, her scholarly interest and, to be honest, intense concern briefly overwhelming her manners. "Why are you here? What have you done with the Seventh House? Does this have anything to do with the lyctoral trials?"
"You wanted to know what became of the original cavaliers? Well I'll tell you. We were forced to kill them. Consume their flesh. All to complete the lyctoral process. She said…"
The information was coming very fast at Abigail, overwhelming her normally reasoned and scholarly approach. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Magnus, his smile, his jokes. How could she possibly let anything like that happen to him? Immortality was not worth that. She immediately felt her mouth going dry, and she was positive it was not because she had drunk too much sherry. Cytherea slumped onto the bed next to Abigail, tears brimming in her eyes. Abigail put a cautious arm out and Cythera leaned against her. Instincts learned from practically raising the Fourth House kicked in, and she was able to suppress her own anxiety and grief in order to comfort someone in clear distress. The tears were coming in strength now. Between sobs, Cytherea continued.
"Did you know that nobody has held me like this for millennia? Loveday used to, even on my worst days. She said it was the only way to keep me alive, when it finally happened. She was too good for me, and certainly too good for any of the others. I hate them so much!"
Abigail pulled Cytherea into a tighter hug and the Lyctor of the Nine Houses, the Hand and Gesture of the Necrolord Prime, grasped desperately at Abigail's party gown.
“That…must have been terrible,” Abigail managed to say, “I cannot imagine having something like that happen to the person you love.” She could feel tears welling in her own eyes as she gingerly stroked Cytherea's hair, and added, “I will stay here with you as long as you need.”
"I came up with a plan, you know. To come here and kill you all, forcing him to come out of his hiding spot, so I could kill him too."
Abigail sat there in silence, shocked by this casual revelation of her own potential demise, already piled on top of the revelations about the lies her entire society was built on. As a speaker to the dead, she had heard much of what went on in the River and had begun theorizing of a place beyond, but she was in no hurry whatsoever to venture there herself. However, she also recognized she was currently in bodily contact with the very same incredibly powerful and emotionally unstable entity who had been set on her death. Abigail frantically weighed her options and settled on the most Fifth House answer possible. Dry, disarming understatement. Though her own voice nearly cracked, Abigail said, "That plan seems to rely on several very big assumptions."
"You're right," replied Cytherea, her shoulders slumping dejectedly, "and from what I've seen here, there is another plan that might actually be working. Ugh I hate that Mercy was right."
Cytherea had stopped crying as much, but was still resting her head on Abigail's shoulder. Abigail's pulse was slowly returning to normal, but she could not forget that she was balancing on a knife edge and holding a bomb in both hands, and she could feel sweat prickle on her forehead. She wanted to ask who 'Mercy' was, but given Cytherea's evident disgust, it seemed unwise to probe further.
"I am sorry though, for killing the Seventh House. I think you would have liked Dulcinea, and Protesilaus would have been much more fun if he had been able to recite all his poetry."
Abigail swallowed, but she had made a promise to listen to this woman's problems. It seemed like the safest course of action.
"Grief can make us do things that we regret. And you've been living with yours for thousands of years. I can't imagine how hard that must be."
"They never let me forget how much they didn't like her. She was my one advocate, the one who pointed out how wrong it was that he did nothing to help my condition. But they were all still eating out of his hand back then. Oh they've come around now, that there are only four of us, but they still won't admit she was right."
Abigail noticed that she was clutching Cytherea's thin, frail hand as the Lyctor spoke. Despite her fear, she still noticed how beautiful and tragic Cythera looked right now. It was a truly good disguise.
"You'd think that becoming a Lyctor would have fixed my condition. But guess what, it just means I have to live with it for a myriad. Nonstop healing, but nonstop pain."
Lady Pent found herself placing a hand on the Lyctor's cheek. In for a penny, as the old saying went.
"Nobody should have to experience what you went through."
Cytherea leaned into Abigail's hand and looked up at her, her large wet eyes somehow slightly too big for her face.
"Lady Pent, you are the true Saint of Patience. I have received more kindness and understanding here than I have for a myriad. Shall I kiss you?" She finished.
Abigail cocked her head to the side, unsure of what to make of this request. On one hand, this woman had, moments ago, said she was going to kill everyone here. Only afterwards, she had bared her deepest traumas and griefs to Abigail, with a vulnerability that she had rarely witnessed. Both of these were traditionally considered red flags. Finally, though, Cytherea was truly beautiful, and it wasn't as if she and Magnus had not spoken at length about their mutual desire for the Seventh House pair.
"I don't see the harm in it," she replied cautiously.
With a force that pushed Abigail back down onto the bed, Cytherea pressed her body into the Fifth House necromancer. Their lips found each other, Cytherea's kiss desperate and pleading, Abigail's soft and reassuring.
Cytherea weighed next to nothing, but she still pinned Abigail to the bed. Her lips moved down Abigail's cheek and traced the line of her jaw, down her pale neck and finally to the collarbone exposed by her gown. With each kiss, she let out a little gasp. God, she had missed being with a woman.
Cytherea propped herself up and looked down at Abigail, hair disheveled and slightly flushed, lying on the bed.
"Lady Pent, I want you to touch me. I haven't been touched in so, so long."
Abigail flushed a little. She had been with Magnus so long that their lovemaking had become the automatic intimacy of two people who knew each other's moods as well as their own. She had forgotten what it was like to hear desire expressed so directly. If she hadn't been wet already, she was now.
She reached up and began to unfasten Cytherea's gown. It fell to the ground, revealing boney shoulders barely holding up a slip. She ran her hand down Cytherea's neck, allowing her nails to dig into her shoulder blade just a little. The Lyctor let out a soft sigh before bending down to kiss Abigail again.
Abigail slid her hands along Cytherea's bare legs, feeling the smooth thin skin beneath her fingertips. She felt Cytherea shudder as she ran her hands up the back of the Lyctor's thighs.
Her hands were now on Cytherea's hips, sliding under her skirts to tease the little patch of curly hair between her legs. Abigail resisted the urge to speed things up and instead moved her way up Cytherea's ribs, bringing the shift along with her.
Cytherea let out a gasp as Abigail ran perfectly manicured yet practical short nails along her ribs. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her dress, pulling it up and over her head to allow Abigail full access. She jumped a little as Abigail's hands found the sensitive area under her shoulder blade.
Abigail felt Cytherea’s hands unlacing her own gown, her well-practiced hands deftly moving to bare Abigail’s feverish skin to the cool air. She shivered once she had been stripped to nothing but her own scant slip, and the Lyctor sighed in soft admiration.
“Lady Pent, you are a sight to behold.”
It was the sort of thing that Magnus would say to her, with the same tender intonation. Abigail flushed, letting Cytherea’s slim, feather-light hand skate over the rise of her breast. She was surprisingly sure in her movements, drawing the pad of one thumb over the peak of Abigail’s taut nipple.
“And you, Lady—it is not correct to call you Septimus anymore, is it?”
Cytherea shook her head, soft brown locks tumbling in a curtain around the pair of them. “Cytherea Loveday.”
“Cytherea Loveday, then”, Abigail said, arching to meet Cytherea with a soft, slow kiss.
Cytherea kissed with a hunger, like a woman left starving for the attention and affection of another. And, in a way, Abigail supposed she had been. She met the pace, lips sliding together as Cytherea drew her hands down Abigail’s sides, a slow and careful touch that drew flickers of electricity down over Abigail’s nervous system.
Her fingers moved easily, tracing the contours of Abigail’s body as if she were seeking to memorize them. There was a power there, a strength that Abigail could not otherwise understand had she not bore the context of Cytherea’s Lyctorhood. It was not just the hands of a beautiful woman, but the Hand of the King Undying’s.
Cytherea drew her hand up beneath Abigail’s slip, eliciting a soft gasp as her fingertips brushed against the rise of her thigh. Cytherea was not prone to teasing as it seemed. She dropped her lips to Abigail’s ear and sighed, warm and slow, as her fingertips danced over the sensitive interior of her legs.
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat, a stone of anticipation as Cytherea’s fingers delved into the warm, fevered space between her legs. The first brush of her delicate touch left Abigail shivering in her grasp.
Above her, Cytherea sighed. “You’re so wet, Lady Pent,” she hummed, fingers teasing the soft, slick patch of curls. “For me? Oh, it’s so wonderful to entice another woman in such a way.”
Abigail’s breath was beginning to come in heavier, hotter bursts. She trembled against her. Cytherea was not incorrect. Abigail’s arousal was making itself known, flushing down her chest and pooling with a slick heat between her legs.
She parted willingful for the Lyctor above her, welcoming the delicate touch of Cytherea’s fingers as she dipped them into her heat. Abigail gasped, a warm and wet sound, as one thin, careful finger slid through the mess.
Cytherea lowered herself down to Abigail, pressing their chests together. The silk of their slips slid against her skin, drawing an array of gooseflesh up over her skin.
“May I make you feel good, Lady Pent?” She asked, breath thin and hot over Abigail’s ear.
Without hesitation, Abigail nodded. “It would be my honor, Lady Loveday.”
It was all the permission the Lyctor needed. She slipped a finger into her, drawing a soft noise from the back of Abigail’s throat. It was soft and slow, working the single finger into her again and again—a slow draw that only worked another array of soft moans from Abigail. Her thumb slipped up between her folds as Abigail’s breath only sharpened. She circled her clit with a well-practiced touch, leaving Abigail panting into the sheets beside them.
“You feel so lovely, Lady Pent,” Cytherea hummed, her nose turning into the sweat-slick curl at Abigail's temple. She nudged a second finger up against her, letting Abigail relax before she slid it alongside the first.
It was different than it was with Magnus. Magnus was broad, a strong and lovely man, of course, but it was different with Cytherea. Cytherea was delicate, her fingers were thin and well-manicured as she curled them inside of Abigail to draw a gasp.
Cytherea worked her with a near-perfect knowledge of the body. If Abigail was in more of a sound mind, she would wonder what that said about Cytherea’s necromantic abilities. If being a Lyctor gave her access to anything other adepts lacked. But Abigail was not in a sound mind. Cytherea slid her fingers deep into Abigail, rending another wrecked sound from her throat.
It was not going to take long like this. She came undone under Cytherea’s careful work—inch by inch and atom by atom. Cytherea took her apart on a microscopic level, rending Abigail to pieces the way only she could. She arched from the bed, her peak burning through her as she reached and reached and reached for the distant-sweet oblivion. It crashed over her slowly, and then all at once.
Abigail came apart beneath her, falling to pieces as Cytherea worked her through her orgasm.
She slumped back down into the bed, sweat cooling on her skin. There was a shift above her, and by the time she looked back, Cytherea had stripped herself of her slip. Her delicate skin was left bare to the soft light.
Abigail could not look away. She pulled herself up to lay her hands on the soft skin. Cytherea shivered beneath her touch.
“My Lady?” Abigail sighed, drawing a hand up to cup the swell of one pert, small breast. Cytherea closed her eyes.
“Yes?”
She drew a thumb over one of the Lyctor’s pert nipples. “May I pleasure you in turn?”
Cytherea sighed, leaning her chest into Abigail’s touch. “I would greatly appreciate that, Lady Pent.”
Abigail brought another hand around to help ease Cytherea into the bed, lowering her onto her back before she divested herself of her own.
“How do you like to be touched?” Abigail asked, hand hovering down in the space between Cytherea’s thin legs.
“Any way you please,” Cytherea responded. “And please, Lady Pent, do not feel as if you must treat me with care.”
“But your condition,” Abigail started.
“I am a Lyctor,” came the gentle cut off. “My body may be endlessly dying, but it endlessly rebuilds itself. You will not hurt me.”
Abigail hesitated, two fingers finding the slick heat buried among Cytherea’s soft curls. She sighed as she teased along her slit, drinking in the feverish warmth of her body. “If you are certain.”
“I am Lady Pent. Please, I want to feel you.”
There was little Abigail could do, so entranced and enthralled by Cytherea’s pleas, to deny her. She buried two fingers into the Lyctor’s cunt at once—feeling her narrow and thin body take her without protest. Cytherea’s body arched beneath her, the soft noise of pleasure turned into a cough that nearly drove Abigail to halt.
“Please, please,” Cytherea said, as Abigail slowed. “Don’t mind it. It—” she cleared her throat, drawing a hand to blot at the welling blood from her lips. “Please.”
Abigail nodded, laying a kiss to the other side of Cytherea’s mouth, and began to drive her fingers back into her. Cytherea was slick, her cunt already drooling into the sheets beneath them as Abigail ground the heel of her palm up against her.
Rapidly, two fingers began three as Cytherea’s quiet moans of pleasure turned into pleas for more. Three became four, roughly fucked into Cytherea’s body. Beneath her, Cytherea all but cried out in bliss—she shuddered beneath Abigail, one hand catching in her hair to tug her down into the Lyctor’s chest. The other clawed at the sheets, holding fast as Abigail used the heel of her palm to work her to the edge.
The room that had once held their soft, tearful confessions had become overflowing with the scent of sweat and skin and the slick sound of sex. They were a collection of whispered affection, praises and pleas traded back and forth in panting, humid breaths between them. Abigail kissed at Cytherea’s pale throat and in turn Cytherea pressed her trembling lips to her temple. They held fast to one another, bound like flesh and spirit as Cytherea began to tremble apart in her arms.
Slowly, she shattered. She came clenching with a nearly inhumane strength around Abigail’s fingers, and a sharp cry that Abigail might have otherwise wondered if it could be heard across Canaan House.
Just as easily and just as carefully, Abigail pieced her back together with an array of soft, slow, kisses. She withdrew from the Lyctor, and lowered herself with one fleeting, final kiss.
Abigail lay next to the Seventh Saint to Serve the King Undying, the pair of them slick with sweat. Cytherea’s shallow chest rose and fell, and Abigail could see she had a smile on her face. Not the worn, tragic smile that had been there so many times during her stay at Canaan House, but one full of real joy and pleasure. Cytherea finally spoke, her big wet eyes gazing straight up at the bed’s canopy. “For a moment there, I almost forgot my pain. Thank you, Lady Pent.”
Abigail reached over and squeezed Cytherea’s hand.
“So, what do you want to do now?”
Cytherea smiled an acid smile.
“If my dear sister Lyctor was truly correct, we need to get the Ninth House cavalier back to the Locked Tomb.”
Adjusting her gown and ignoring her slightly smeared makeup, Abigail Pent stormed into the dining hall to see the party winding down, though Magnus was doing his best to keep the energy up. Grabbing her husband's arm, she turned to the Reverend Daughter and Palamedes Sextus and said, "Ninth, Sixth, I have just heard some rather disturbing revelations. Bring your cavaliers. There is someone you need to talk to."