Kiss of the Necromancer (Memento Mori 1)

11

Gideon pulledthe blanket up to Marguerite’s chin. She prefers Maggie now. It was hard to think of her as anything other than “Marguerite.” But like all things, he would adjust. She was sleeping soundly, and he knew that it wasn’t something she came by easily. He stroked a hand over her dark chestnut hair. She had dyed the ends a ridiculous shade of neon orange, and it made him smile. She always did enjoy doing odd things for the sake of amusement.

He hated to see someone so strong brought so low. Worse yet…he was to blame.

He was always to blame.

The poor creature. Her head had barely even touched the sofa before she had passed out. He let her sleep in his living room for a while before he decided it was best for her to get some real rest.

Her hair was soft like silk beneath his fingers. He couldn’t help but comb them through the strands. The smell of her shampoo reached his nose. It was a cheap brand—something that managed to both be acrid and cloying at the same time. He wanted to spoil her rotten…but he knew from experience how poorly that would go. She might be his princess, but she despised being kept. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Glancing to the nightstand, he smiled faintly. Reaching out his other hand, he scratched the head of the undead rat perched on the nightstand. He kept his voice at a whisper. “You know she didn’t mean it.”

The creature let out a small squeak and grasped his finger with his paws, asking for a chin scratch. Far be it for him to refuse. “We have to be careful, Algernon. We only get one more shot at this before it’s too late for all of us. It’s bad enough that Eurydice nearly ended it all in the garden.” Turning his attention back to the sleeping woman, he sighed drearily.

Marguerite. Oh, his poor, tragic Marguerite. A sadness of his making. He leaned down and kissed her temple gently. He wanted to cradle her in his arms. He wanted to protect her from the darkness and the death that clawed at her in life and in dreams.

There was only one problem with that.

He was that darkness and death.

Yet there was nothing he could do to change the past, merely work at fixing the future. What little of it he may have left. Funny that I have held on to life for so very long and find myself still resisting the idea of losing it, where others are given the gift so briefly. He hated to give up the things he had worked hard for. And he had worked very hard to attain the status he had gained over the centuries.

Standing, he reached toward the undead rat. “Come, Algernon. Let the poor thing sleep. She does not need your guardianship today.”

After a moment’s hesitation, clearly disliking the idea of leaving his post, the rat scurried onto his hand and then up his arm to perch on his shoulder. Gideon left Marguerite’s side—Maggie—and hesitated in the doorway to gaze back at her.

It would be so easy to fill the space beside her. To hold her. She would be confused when she woke…but would she be angry? He didn’t know. Sometimes she was. Sometimes she wasn’t.

It wasn’t worth the risk. Not this time. With a beleaguered shake of his head, he shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Perhaps he’d amuse himself by making dinner. It certainly would pass the time.

He could hear her chiding him—calling him a “stress baker.” He smirked at the memory of her standing in his kitchen, stealing bits of cookie dough and eating them, uncaring for the possibility of sickness. He had teased her back, saying she had no issues reaping the rewards of the time he spent in the kitchen lost in his thoughts, only to have her retort that half the time that was why she annoyed him. His smirk grew to a full smile.

Perhaps if she could recall those moments between them—those peaceful, happy times—she wouldn’t be so terrified.

Perhaps they wouldn’t be where they were now, standing on the brink of destruction.

To her credit, he had to admit those moments were…few and far between. And much less impactful than all that she could recall of him and their times together.

But hope was just like her cheap shampoo. Acrid and cloying, it lingered in the air. It stung him, even as it promised that perhaps this time would be different. That this time he would succeed.

That this time, she wouldn’t hate him.

Or what he had done to her.

Hand-in-hand, like lovers, his hope walked with the despair of knowing the odds were slim. He had rolled the dice so many times, and each time he had come up bust. And now, left to play double or nothing…how could he expect a different outcome?

Wasn’t that the definition of insanity?

And he was not a lunatic. He had met many in his days—he had made a few, to be fair—but he would lose his life before his mind.

Like a marble around the edges of a basin, his thoughts circled Maggie. Of all the abominations he had made in his centuries, she was the one he regretted the most for myriad reasons.

Yet I know I would do it again, even knowing what I know now. Regret means nothing without repentance.

Fishing through the fridge, he pulled out various containers of ground meats and settled on what he was going to make them for dinner. Swedish meatballs. His favorite comfort food. Rolling up his sleeves again, he went to work as Algernon jumped from his shoulder to sit on the counter and studiously cleaned the fur that was barely clinging to his skeletal frame.