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The mattress felt hard when Kiriona laid Harrow’s limp little body on top of it. And she knew, of course, that the Reverend Daughter would gladly have slept on a cold slab of marble - might in fact have preferred that, especially if she could share it with her beloved corpse. But even after everything - including fingering her into unconsciousness - the thought of causing Harrowhark any further discomfort sparked an unbidden ache in Kiriona’s open chest.
She tucked the woolen blanket around Harrow’s shoulders, taking care to keep the scratchy fabric away from any exposed skin - not that there was much. Then she settled on the edge of the bed. In the light of a single tallow lamp, Kiriona watched that flat chest rise and fall, rise and fall, and vaguely remembered what breathing felt like.
“Nnh-” Harrow’s forehead scrunched up in her sleep, head restlessly rolling sideways on the pillow. “Nnnnh-”
“What?” urged Kiriona, shaking her gently.
“Nnnoodle,” Harrow finally slurred and Kiriona had to smile. The creature was bunking with BoE and the Sixth refugees, just one floor above them, getting spoiled rotten and playfully nipping at the skeletal ankles of nuns and constructs alike.
“Shh. He’s fine,” Kiriona said, but Harrow was already out cold again, her face now relaxed and unlined by worry. It was still a novel sight. She’d spent her entire life looking at that face, at malicious frowns and meticulously applied ceremonial skull-paint. But like this, all bare, tan skin and angular cheekbones and not even an evil sneer in sight… It made a shameful urge bubble up inside her - one she’d thought had died with her body, one that had reared its head the second Harrow had truly become Harrow again. And, bizarre as it was, Kiriona just wanted to drink it all in now, wanted to follow the curve of Harrow’s jaw with her finger, wanted to count her eyelashes, wanted to… She bent down and barely touched her lips to the Reverend Daughter’s brow.
“Mmh,” Harrow sighed in her sleep. Kiriona stood up so fast it would have made her lightheaded, but in the absence of circulation it just made her feel extremely dumb. She shook herself, spared Harrow one final glance, and left to visit the cells.
***
By the time Kiriona got back from Ianthe - and a much-needed sonic shower - Harrow was awake, sitting cross-legged on her bed. She didn’t greet her visitor, didn’t even look up, all her attention locked on the small, white thing hovering above her palm, a thin trickle of red coming out of her left nostril.
Upon closer inspection, the thing was a tooth - a molar - and Kiriona caught herself hoping it wasn’t one of Harrow’s own. Then, with a tilt of the necromancer’s head, it began to twist and shift, transforming. A six-legged dog, a coffee cup, a sword the size of a toothpick. The last shape fell into Harrow’s hand and only then did the little freak raise her head, her upper lip and teeth bloody as she beamed with pride. Harrow beckoned her closer and for one stomach-twisting second Kiriona thought she might surge up and kiss her again… the thought crumbled to ash as the tiny toy weapon was pushed into her palm.
“Thank you, Griddle,” Harrow said, perhaps more earnestly than she had ever said it. Feeling idiotically flustered, Kiriona tucked the miniature sword into her breast pocket.
“Pshh. For what? Your first orgasm?” She crossed and uncrossed her arms over the hole in her sternum but Harrow wasn’t even looking, too busy wiping her nose on a black sleeve.
“Not my first,” said Harrow, now less blood-stained but still so shockingly sincere. And if that didn’t kick off a whole landslide of distractingly vivid mental images… Harrow in the dark of her cell, fervently rubbing at herself beneath the covers. Conjuring skeletal hands to hold down her own legs, to keep from thrashing and bucking with ecstasy… “Did you have a nice time visiting Ianthe?”
“Huh?” Kiriona’s dead body gave a very alive jolt. She felt caught, even though she hadn’t done anything she wasn’t perfectly entitled to. Not like fucking once in a dark tunnel made her Harrow’s wife or something. The little necromancer smirked darkly, her expression far more familiar now.
“Thanergetic signature. Difficult to hide one Lyctor from another.” Kiriona nodded, pretending to understand any of that and trying hard not to look as guilty as she was feeling. But Harrow wasn’t done tormenting her. “You don’t owe me anything, really. I’ve already taken so much more than I deserve.”
And yeah, there was no arguing with that. Her childhood, her freedom, her life, her sword, even her memory. But - sick and twisted as that was, with her chest cracked open and her skin icy cold - Kiriona found she didn’t even mind…
“Knock-knock,” a sing-song voice from the doorway interrupted her steadily downward thought spiral. It was… shit.
“Ianthe?” said Harrow, surprised. Kiriona went for her rapier’s hilt but Harrow held out a hand to stop her. “What are you doing here? If the guards see you…”
“Guards are in a bit of a… sticky situation. Mucus and cartilage cells, family recipe.” Ianthe grinned, flexing her left hand as she made her slinking way into the room.
“Ugh. Flesh magic is disgusting.” Harrow visibly shuddered.
“Aw, still my bone-dry Harry. You have so much left to learn from me.” Ianthe came to sit on Harrow’s other side like she belonged there, and Harrow prompty grabbed her left wrist, pulling it close enough to examine under the lamp light, then huffed in exasperation. The reddish-pink scars were already fading. Soon, nobody would know where broken bones had recently poked through the Lyctor’s skin. Harrow sighed, looking tired.
“Why now? Your trial is in two days, for God’s sake.”
Ianthe scoffed, rough and bitter. “Don’t you dare talk to me about God. Bastard set me up to fail.”
“Hmm,” Kiriona shrugged, elegantly inserting herself back into the conversation. “Wouldn’t put it past Dad to pit us against each other for his own amusement. And the way I see it, we both royally fucked it up. Tomb’s cracked open, Alecto out and about, probably dead set on revenge…”
“Maybe that’s exactly what he wanted,” Harrow said flatly, letting go of Ianthe’s arm. “Might just run in the family, romanticizing your own destruction.”
If Kiriona had any working blood vessels in her cheeks, she would have blushed bright red at that point. “Shut up,” she mumbled, which only provoked more loaded silence from Harrow and a mean laugh from the Saint of Awe.
“Oops. Didn’t mean to interrupt your little Ninth heart-to-no heart there. I just suddenly realized I actually do like to cuddle after sex.”
That was enough out of her co-Prince, Kiriona decided, locking her golden glare on Ianthe now. “Don’t even bother, you milky skank. She knows.” And she doesn’t even care enough to be jealous, was what she didn’t say.
“Ugh. Boring. Corona would already have stabbed me for touching her toys.” Ianthe tossed her thin blonde mane over one shoulder, scooting up Harrow’s bed to lean against the headboard. Then she reached over, grasping at one of Harrow’s black braids, possessive golden fingers toying with the silky end. Even more shockingly, Harrow let her. “They do look hot on you. Better than a bald head, anyway.”
It set something alight in Kiriona. Bone conjured by Harrow attached to Ianthe’s shoulder, hair coaxed out by Ianthe sprouting from Harrow’s scalp. And after two decades of suffering and sacrifice, what did Kiriona have to show for it? Well, an unreasonably handsome dead body and a bigass hole in her chest. That’s what. Harrow patted the mattress between them, the unraveling thread of her self-pity fraying at the sound.
“Sit closer. I’m cold.” And Kiriona knew full-well she didn’t have any body temperature to share. Knew that Harrow knew. So she must have utterly failed at hiding her distress, she figured, but accepted the thinly veiled offer of comfort all the same. Obediently, she shifted up the bed to bracket Harrow between the two Tower Princes, and rested her tired eyes for a bit.
“What if…” Ianthe mused dreamily after a while, interrupting Kiriona’s corpse nap. She was still busy wrapping Harrow’s plait around her finger bones. “What if I just said fuck it. Fuck God. Fuck Lyctoral loyalty. Universe is practically in shambles anyway, nothing to be done.”
“That’s treason,” Kiriona felt the need to point out, feeling smug. Not like she minded a bit of treason. Hell, she’d only planned to slice and dice the worst of the intruders, then catch the first shuttle off the Ninth to salvage whatever was left of her Dad. Maybe he would invent a whole new Cohort rank just to give her a promotion, or even tell her she’d been a good kid, complete with a fatherly pat on the back. But then the first shuttle took off, the second, the third… and she wasn’t on any of them. There were always more monsters to kill. An extra pair of hands needed to help Aim when Noodle kept kicking off his six ridiculous dog shoes. Uptight little nunlets to pleasure in dark corridors. The Ninth had always been the place she’d wanted to escape more than anything. But now that she actually could leave, she only kept finding more reasons to stay.
“It is treason,” Harrow agreed after a long pause, eyeing Ianthe curiously. “What’s your price?”
“Ha, my sweet, clever Harry.” Ianthe’s smile turned saccharine. “You know me too well.” Her freckled eyes darted across Harrow’s features, finally landing on her lips. “I’m not asking for much, my sister Lyctor. I’ll happily do it for a kiss.”
Harrow laughed at that - a high, bright sound Kiriona had never heard before but now desperately needed to hear every day for the rest of her miserable, undead life.
“Let me get this straight. You, Prince Ianthe Naberius, will refrain from any further attempts on my life or that of my subordinates. What’s more, in the likely event that the interests of the Ninth House and those of the King Undying should not align in the time to come, you are willing to betray the Emperor and swear your fealty to… to us. For a kiss.”
“With tongue,” Ianthe clarified helpfully and Harrow blinked, looking back and forth between the two Princes. Kiriona just shrugged, helpless but not surprised - not like anything Ianthe did could really surprise her anymore.
“Alright.” And then Harrow was leaning in and Kiriona froze, watching. It was like a fucking shuttle crash, terrifying to look at, impossible to tear her eyes away. They were both decent kissers, as far as Kiriona could tell - both heavy on the teeth and prone to taking out their bottomless supply of aggression on a willing partner’s face. Pale lips opened, a pink tongue darting out to lick into Harrow’s mouth and the Saint of Awe moaned, deep and showy, when Harrow actually reciprocated. But while Ianthe’s mean little face melted into pure adoration, Harrow’s shoulders remained straight and hardened, fists clenched on the blanket, only her jaw softening enough to work efficiently. Kiriona had to get a better view, even if it made her a total pervert. She bent forward, craning her neck until she finally saw what she needed to see - above their spit-slick mouths and smushed noses, Harrow’s black eyes were open, alert and present, while Ianthe’s had fallen shut in utter bliss. And wasn’t that something?
The kiss broke. Ianthe smiled, serene like she had just witnessed the birth of Dominicus, then hastily put on her trusty bitch-face again. “So. About my trial?”
Harrow licked her lips, now shiny with saliva and stray remnants of her own blood. “I’ll talk to Aiglamene in the morning. Best spend the night in here. She’ll be pissed about the guards.”
“Oh.” Ianthe looked like she had to physically restrain herself from exploding like a skin-and-tendon party cracker. And slow as the creep of rigor mortis, Kiriona felt her own kind of tension setting in. She didn’t need to be here for this bullshit. Bad enough she’d had to watch them eat each other’s faces. Now she wasn’t about to play witness to some fucked up necromantic orgy while she sat there totally useless, all dry, unfeeling pussy and cold, dead tongue. And maybe she wasn’t half bad with her fingers but, really, who needed those when they had another warm, responsive body to touch? Best she could offer was to be a thick slab of chilled meat between them, cushion the blows so the clatter of their pelvic bones didn’t alert the nuns… Never saw much of that in her naughty magazines.
Jaw clenched tight to keep that entire mess to herself, she straightened her uniform jacket and swung her legs off the bed.
“No. You stay too,” Harrow said in that effortlessly bossy tone and Kiriona all but crumpled back onto the mattress. Apparently, neither resurrection nor possession had weaned them off of their ingrained hierarchy, which honestly was so fucking annoying. But when Harrow looked at her again, it was with an odd expression, almost playful, if Her Solemn Severity had been capable of anything like that. “Who knows what she might get up to during the night? I might need protection.”
“I’m not your cavalier anymore,” Kiriona grumbled, hoping it sounded more defiant than totally pathetic. Probably not, because Harrow’s face softened further, which still looked absolutely weird.
“You’re not, Griddle. But are you still my friend?”
An impossible lump caught in Kiriona’s lifeless throat. She nodded. “I could be, uh… that. I guess. Yup.”
“Good. We all need those right now.” Harrow wriggled a scrawny arm behind Kiriona’s back and around her waist, pulling her closer. If the dead girl had been breathing, she would have stopped right then and there.
On Harrow’s other side, Ianthe made a disgusted retching noise, but Kiriona was beyond caring. She just leaned her head against Harrow’s sharp shoulder and closed her eyes again, hoping neither of them could see her dopey smile.