On my ninth attempt, I allowed Atropos to claim my daughter’s body. She proved an inadequate substitute; her cuts crooked, blade hissing in her grip. The steel of Kath’le Kal bonds with its master and responds to no other, so death vacated the peninsula and my daughter, absent her body, grew intimate with her chains. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Morta was dead.
She knew it. There was no point arguing about it. She knew that, too, but did it anyway.
“Just give me a milligram!”
“My lady, half a milligram of epinephrine is the recommended dosage when administered intravenously.”
“Igor, just give me the damn shot or I’ll do it myself!” Morta tore open her blouse, sticking the first paddle below her right shoulder and the second beneath her left breast. “For the tower’s sake, give me the fucking shot, now!”
Her heart was quivering, twelve beats a minute, a record for her since puberty. Seize the opportunity. That’s what her father would say.
Never waste a good pulse.
Igor spun around, eight legs sliding across the floor, padded with silicon. He wore a horse’s bleached skull and had an external booking lung, thin plates of iron, a spaghetti junction of copper wire and nickel gaskets: twelve spinnerets, eight golden eyes, metal grates, ash, and white-hot coals.
He used a thirty-gauge insulin needle, pressing firmly against her arm and inserting the syringe.
Morta bit her lip, convulsing against the bed, the monitor blip bouncing erratically as she broke into a cold sweat.
“Do it, Igor!” she shouted, digging her nails into the bed frame. “Do it now!”
She heard a chirping noise, the sound of a battery reaching its peak, a charge poised for delivery.
“Clear!”
Morta bounced off the bed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as an electrical surge raced through her body.
Eight beats per minute.
Igor lined his hands over her chest and pressed in quick succession.
She convulsed, frothing at the mouth, her toes twitching and her fingers digging into her thigh.
Four beats per minute.
“Clear!”
Another surge of electricity and her fingers were snapping like chickpeas, her diode spinning azure blue sparks within her left iris.
No crying. She thought. You promised yourself not to cry.
Morta held her tongue, squeezing her eyes shut with each timed compression, but it was too late.
An uninterrupted beep came from the monitor, flat and joyless, the symphony of the silenced. Igor held her wrist, tapping the screen with his fingers.
She was dead.
Morta sniffed, her lips quivering and eyes watery.
“There’s still a chance that—”
“Oh, shut the fuck up and call it!” Morta sat up, rubbing her eyes with her elbow. “It’s not like I care!”
“9:58 am, eastern time,” Igor said. “My lady, I don’t understand why this upsets you. It’s merely symbolic a manifestation of your duty as a duchess.”
Morta knocked over the medical tray by her bed, spilling the scalpels, picks, and knives. “It’s not exactly a pleasure for me, Igor!” she shouted, rubbing her hands, a strange tingling sensation in her fingertips. “I don’t like the feel. Blood pooling in my feet, and my hands, ice cold. It makes me feel sluggish and exhausted. Atropos always holds off the second part for a while, but eventually, you’ll have to bury me again.”
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Morta remembered it. Clawing at the wooden casket, shrouded in complete darkness. She gasped, unable to catch her breath, splinters of wood stuck in her fingertips, her elbows knocking against the oppressive walls. Her eyes grew wide, and her heart hammered in her chest, beads of sweat rolling down her neck. She cried, pressing her bloody knuckles against the wooden hinge.
“I never want to wake like that again,” she said, her voice shaky.
“I understand you’re frightened, but I promise to leave a bell in your casket, and I will be listening. If you wake before your time, I will be by your side with a single tap.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, crossing her arms. “Make the arrangements.”
“Next of kin?”
“By the tower, Igor, my sisters, Nona and Decima. You know that.”
“Decima has a wedding soon.”
“Yeah, well, now she has a funeral, too.”
Morta hopped from her bed, tearing off her blouse and skirt. She cursed, stumbling around on one foot, trying to fling her undergarments off her ankle.
Igor looked the other way, hanging upside down from her bedroom ceiling. Eight eyes fixated on his fingers, fidgeting with 21-gauge round liner needles.
What a gentleman.
Morta scowled, staring at her meek breast, bruised and sore. All these years watching her baby sisters grow into women and she couldn’t fill a bra if she tried. Life wasn’t fair, and, as it turned out, death wasn’t either.
“My lady, Decima requested you for her maid of honor.”
Morta touched the bulkhead of her bedroom closet, a rusted metal vault from some poorly manned battleship. She hung her head, looking over her shoulder towards Igor while scratching the rust off the hinges. “I thought Decima wanted Nona,” she said.
“Nona’s going as a bridesmaid this time.”
“Because of another pseudopregnancy, no doubt.” Morta snorted. “I suppose I should expect a baby shower soon?”
“You know your sister’s menstrual cycle better than I do,” Igor said, stepping down from the ceiling and covering his eyes with his palms.
“Fuck, Igor, don’t say it like that. You make me sound like a stalker.” Morta tiptoed around a pile of rusted nails and used .408 rounds. “Listen, when you’re related to that girl, you pay attention to which hole she’s bleeding from,” she said, flinging open her closet door, the rusty latch squealing loudly. “She’s a half-blood, remember?”
“A discussion best left for another time. Please don’t disregard Decima’s wedding. These ceremonies are important to her.”
Morta sighed, sticking her arm out of the closet and tossing a heap of clothes on the floor. “Fine, move my funeral date if you must, but not a moment later.” She rolled her eyes. “Gawds, I wish Alexander would just pop her cherry and get it over with.”
“I will make the arrangements, my lady,” Igor said, jotting down notes in his leather-bound journal he hid within a bevy of spinnerets.
“What time is her wedding, anyway?” she asked.
“Two in the afternoon.”
“Attire?”
“Casual, cocktail.”
“For her maid of honor?”
“Decima insisted. She wanted you to be comfortable.”
“Alright…”
Morta licked her lips, fishing out a floral brocade sleeveless evening gown with an asymmetrical hem. The skirt was tantalizingly short, accentuating her hips and legs, and the bodice was loose with room to pad her chest if her ass petitioned her for shore leave.
“What do you think?” she asked, stepping out of the closet and pressing the dress against her body.
“It’s a little,” Igor said, scratching his chin.
“Too much?”
“I was going to say bold.”
“What’s wrong with bold?”
“Morta, this is your sister’s wedding. She’s supposed to be the center of attention,” he said.
Morta scoffed, crossing her arms. “You told me Decima wanted me to be comfortable.”
“Yes, and now I’m telling you, for her sake, tone it down.”
Morta tossed the gown into the closet and fished out a satin homecoming dress, sleeveless with a short v-neck. She slipped into the outfit; the dress exposing the middle of her back, her metal scar more pronounced than Nona’s, extending a few inches farther down her neck, steam rising from a tiny stuck piston.
Morta smiled, twirling in front of a tall mirror.
“Well?” she asked, stepping out of her closet.
“Morta, the witnesses?”
“Come on, Igor, really? Why does Decima get to be herself and I don’t?”
“Morta, your sister doesn’t have a choice. Besides, you know she would give anything to walk among them, as you and Nona do.”
“Fine!” She undid her braid, black hair falling over her shoulders and covering her scar. “Happy?!”
“My lady, you are hopeless,” he said, stepping over her head and pressing his hands against her shoulders.
Igor brushed her hair, tying an intricate knot, a layered waterfall, straight as an arrow against her shoulders with a curly horsetail braid on top, enough to mask the back of her neck.
“There, you look beautiful.”
Her breath caught in her throat as she ran her fingers through her hair.
Why hadn’t she thought about wearing it this way?
“I… it’s—uh.” Morta’s heart produced a single beat, her cheeks blushing pinkish red. “It’s not entirely displeasing,” she said, crossing her arms and looking the other way.
Igor climbed back onto the ceiling, nesting in her bedroom chandelier, a six-hundred and sixty-pound spearfish warhead with a scrambled firing mechanism and bent tailfins. He leafed through his journal, clicking his brass fangs together.
“Well,” she said, hopping back onto her bed and swinging her feet. “What else is on my schedule today?”
“Atropos wants to meet.”
“Damn.”
“And you have work after the reception tonight.”
“By the tower, would you all fucking lay off?”
“My lady, please watch your language at your sister’s wedding.”
“I’m not doing it, Igor. I thought I made that clear. I’m never touching the knife again and you can tell Bastion I said that.”
Morta touched her breast, that sinister black blade hungering within her, darkness dripping from its honed edge, quivering for a taste, a sunken fang in the vulnerable fabric of mortal fate.
She was the duchess of death, the scion of murder and manslaughter, her thumb on the expiration date of every living thing. Her thumb on Nona’s delicate heart, pressing until she… until she…
No, no, no, no!
“Bastion is walking Decima down the aisle,” Igor said.
“Then I’ll tell him straight to his face.” Morta crossed her arms. “I’m not cutting fate anymore.”
“My lady, it is your duty as a duchess. Only disaster will come should you continue to ignore the call of fate. I know you’re worried about Nona, but your father has his reasons. Surely you understand—”
“Stay out of my business!” Morta hissed, glaring at Igor.
Good morning, Morta. said a voice in her head. I have detected unusual drops in your blood pressure. Are you dead?
She felt dizzy, her palms sweaty as she leaned against the mattress.
“No shit, Atropos. Late to the party as usual.” Morta’s knees went limp, and she collapsed against her bed, hands shaking. “W-what are you doing? Y-you can’t just summon me without permission.”
Morta, please relax. I will take good care of your body.
“Y-y-you-n-n-need,” Morta said, her lips quivering, lines of drool dripping down her chin. “M-my p-permission.”
Little sis. No, I fucking don’t.
— ✦ —
“Wh-what happened?” Morta asked, scratching her head, throbbing like a drum.
She blinked, rubbing her eyes as she looked around the room.
The interior of her mental space was black, save for a single table in the center, illuminated by a swinging dirty yellow light. Double-sided glass, stale coffee, a half-eaten doughnut, and an empty liquor bottle—this could only mean one thing.
Morta wasn’t getting her phone call.
“Little sis, come sit with me,” Atropos said, patting the table.
Atropos crossed her legs, her black hair teasing the corners of her lips. She smiled, caressing her hips and the curve of her breast, the tips of her fingernails painted red, arcs of electricity snapping between her knuckles.
Gawds, she was so fucking annoying.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Morta said, scraping the chair along the ground and sitting in a huff.
“Oh, dear me,” Atropos said, pressing her fingers to her lips. “Whatever has your bloomers in a bunch, little sis.”
“I don’t wear bloomers and stop calling me that!”
“Oh, I get it.” She leaned back against the table, swapping her legs one of the other. “I am a manifestation of your insecurities, after all.”
“Go to hell, Atropos!”
“I knew it!” She clapped, grinning from ear to ear. “We are two sides of the same coin. You can’t hide from me.”
“Gawds, what do you want? If you’re just here to laugh at me, send me back. I have more important things to do…”
“I wanted to have a quick chat. We so rarely get these moments. Just us girls.” Atropos laughed, sitting on the table’s edge, her short skirt riding high revealing a thigh holster for a thirty-eight caliber Colt revolver.
She wasn’t wearing anything else down there.
“Fuck, are Clotho and Lachesis this insufferable?”
“Clotho is still a little girl.” Atropos tsked, wagging her finger. “She just can’t give up her innocence. You know how our little Nona is, cute as a button, but Lachesis? Gawds that woman has legs.” She sighed, blushing slightly. “Exactly the thing Decima fantasizes about on account of her knees being so fucked up.” Atropos ran her fingers along Morta’s thigh. “We have her beat in that department for sure.”
Morta slapped her hand away. “Please, just tell me what you fucking want?”
“Testy today, aren’t we? I’d swear you were on the rag if you weren’t already dead.” Atropos smiled. “Dead girls don’t bleed, do they?”
Morta squeezed bunches of her dress in the ball of her fists, grinding her teeth.
“Now, now, control yourself, little sis. We need to have a heart-to-heart, you and I.” Atropos pulled the colt from its holster, balancing the weapon in her palm. “And I thought, while we chat, we could play a little game? You know the rules, of course.”
Atropos opened the pistol’s cylinder, releasing the catch with her thumb. The chamber spun counterclockwise, and she slid a bullet into a random slot, slapping the barrel shut.
“Youngest goes first,” she said, cocking the colt and dropping it in front of Morta, taking her place on the opposite end of the table.
Morta touched the grip, a solid nickel plate with a blue finish. She ran her fingers along the barrel, caressing the dorsal fin with her nails and scratching the plate. Her nostrils flared, the scent of galvanized steel tickling her nose.
A standard military issue.
Morta pressed the revolver against the roof of her mouth, savoring the metallic taste as she fingered the trigger. She closed her eyes and squeezed.
Click!
She sighed, dropping the gun and sliding it across the table towards Atropos. “You wanted to talk, so talk,” Morta said.
“Yes, about us and our future together. Where do you see us in ten thousand years?”
“There is no us,” Morta sneered. “If this is about cutting fate, you can stuff it.”
“You can’t keep running away, Morta. We were born to end lives.” Atropos picked up the pistol and held the barrel against the side of her head.
Click!
“Why the fuck do you care so much about what I choose to do?! I’m the one who makes the cuts, you just show me where!” Morta said, shouting as she slammed her fists on the table.
“And that absolves me of punishment? We’re the same, you little bitch. If father blames you, that includes me as an accessory.” Atropos spoke softly but flung the pistol so hard it nearly flew off the table. “Why do you resist doing what you love? Have you come to adore mortals, as Nona does?”
“Don’t you fucking dare! I don’t love them!” Morta jammed the colt under her chin, squeezing the trigger.
Click!
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Morta said, sliding the weapon across the table.
“Then help me understand! What did you see reading your fate that broke your confidence?! Why are you keeping secrets from me?!”
“Because I love my sister!” Morta shouted, standing up straight and throwing the chair against the ground. “I… I love her, Atropos.” Tears dripped down her chin as the words spilled from her lips. “I love the way Nona crawls through the ductwork, always landing on her face, or the way she pouts when she doesn’t get her way and blushes when I see her scar.”
Atropos stood, embracing Morta, who sobbed into her shoulder. “I love how she fumbles with coaxial cables and weaves weft over warp,” Atropos said, wiping Morta’s tears. “I love her too, little sis. We are the same, so please stop shielding me from your memories. What did you see in our future, and why do I hurt so much?”
Morta sniffed, taking the colt from Atropos and pushing it against her temple. “You are me and I am you,” she said with a smile. “I’m sorry. I should never have kept secrets from you.”
“Please, what did you find in our fate?”
“Nona,” Morta said, pressing their heads together and cocking the pistol. “We are the ones who kill her.”
Bang!