between hell.

III

act one: the limbo

part three: black rose

It was in my flaws,
I found a much deeper truth-
and it is from them,
I bloom: a black rose.

-Segovia Amil.

MACARIA ASKER

Macaria was almost a mile away from home. She was seriously regretting her decision of not letting Xiemin drive her home.

It was two months after the masquerade. Two months after Abner's death. She'd been there when Ceridwen Kavati had dragged the body and thrown in the Dimere river. She'd been there when water shrouded the body and carried it with its flow.

Agonizing, deafening screams fueled her, filled her heart and satisfied her void soul. Her laughs echoed from city to city, burning as bright as dying stars in the swirls of forgotten galaxies. Her sharp ears caught the whispers of the wind, telling her stories that would never be true.

Your ruthlessness will be the reason you die, Macaria Asker. And, remember me, when screams escape your ruby-rimmed lips, and everyone hears you but no one listens to you and your blood soaks the ground and you join souls that were long forgotten. Death is inevitable, Macaria Asker. 

She let her sight rake over her surroundings. In the dead of night, Easby was a city filled with wonders. Serpents of smoke slithered across the sky, and covered the faces of weathered buildings who were too ashamed to show their longevous faces. A conduit skidded from the sides of the roads, the miasma of the ill-colored vile liquid became too much to bear. The monotonous moans of manufactories was maddening, just like the muteness of it. The moon kissed the ground laid out before Macaria and it seemed as if she was dancing on black ribbons.

There was a silhouette hunched over, sitting on a motorcycle at the end of the alley and Macaria felt her curiosity rise. Smoke rose from inbetween its nimble fingers. The figure was lean, and there was a certain grace, even in the way it caressed the cigarette.

Macaria walked a few steps more, clearly intrigued. The person came into light.

His hair was ebony, made up of shadows that circled his head like a diadem. A halo of moonlight surmounted his obsidian curls, almost as pale as his ivory stitched skin. Fragments of stars made up his detoriating cigarette and ruins of cities made up the ashes. He was drowning in daemon's clothes, from head to toe. He looked like a monster, a daemon, wearing nothing but human skin. Devilry seemed to move within him and it seemed to stain his soul. The star-kissed blade of his jawline could cut through hearts and she saw a cut on his exposed wrist as he, once again, raised his hand to take a drag out of the addicting stick in his hands. She wondered if his charm was like the crescent, destined to die when the sun took its throne in the sky.

His gaze reached hers, and she was chained to it. His eyes had caught the welcoming darkness of the night and a circle pulled the glowing magic from the sun. He looked like a long-forgotten angel. Hell with that, he looked like long-forgotten God from another Realm, who could break hearts and shatter souls, with just a word from his wine-tinted lips.

"Gowned in silk, drowned in pride. Perfectly suits you, I think." He finally spoke. His voice was smoky, filling Macaria's head with unwanted thoughts.

"You aren't familiar." She ignored the jab in his words and, it was taking all her control not to whip out her gun and just shoot him straight in the heart.

"Because, you haven't met me. Deimos Rebenncourt." He introduced. His tone was monotonous, almost bored, as if he had said his name many times. As if he was sick of it.

Deimos, she thought. The one who brings dread. What an amusing name.

"What is your business here, Deimos?"

His eyes narrowed at the question. "And, why do you care, fair lady?"

She laughed. "I may be a lot of things, but I am not a lady."

At this statement, Deimos' smirk deepened, making it seem like his cheeks were hollow. His gaze held nothing but pure amusement as he observed her.

"Trust me, Macaria Asker. I know."

*