The Succling and Her Dues

Chapter Two: Act 1

[Victorian District, 2018 (Same Night)]

Already in a heated kiss, Trenton carried Anara from the center of the rug toward the wall next to the fireplace, pinning her back against it. She curled his short, wavy locks around her fingers, clutching tight at the base of the hair strands. Their moans mingled together while he pecked down her neck toward the swell of her breasts.

Her eyes fluttered shut, biting her lip as he exposed her protruding n*****s from under the pads of his fingers, suckling them simultaneously. Her mind wandered to a familiar face. She yearned for the lover from her past, who died mysteriously. Even still, she had been tasked to incapacitate the man before her, suspecting him to be a doppelgänger of her former flame…

Regret filled her carnal cave while thrusting out savory treasures of liquid luck. As Anara wrapped her arms around Trenton’s neck to force him closer to her frame, she imagined what it would be like if she had him at least one more time after that.

No more taking orders from Cauva. No more intentional executions. Just freedom. More satisfaction in life. Importantly, everlasting love for another person

Why am I like this? she asked herself, knowing full well Trenton and the other two despicably hungry spirits could not hear. Why did I accept this… fate?

“f**k!” he interrupted, plunging deep inside and filling her with precum. His strokes increased as if to wish her an enthralling climax.

“Don’t stop,” she reciprocated, her fingers digging into his back and clawing their way down.

With his face buried in the crook of her neck, Trenton missed the hues of sapphire and amethyst spreading across Anara’s irises. They pulsated to the rhythm, growing brighter by the second—her way of working poison into her system.

But when he leaned back, the glow and color dissipated. What he saw were specks of color surrounding her pupils. And though this should have deterred him, his lips crashed against hers.

At that point, Anara coaxed her tongue between his teeth, coating his tongue with her sweet saliva.

“What do you want me to do?” Trenton moaned, carrying her across the room until he collapsed on top of her, the bed cushioning their fall.

Responding to this question seemed pointless. It wouldn’t have mattered what she wanted in the end. She did not see a tomorrow with him, nor could she fathom taking his life. Something was stopping her from doing so. But what? She could not explain.

Trenton aggressively left a wet trail with his tongue down her belly, all while massaging and kneading her thighs. His hot breath lingered at her opening, and he could not help but tease her budding c******s with the tip of his tongue.

“Seven Hells!” Anara mewled. Her back arched and hips bucked, begging for more.

He chuckled wickedly, his lips hovering over her vaginal opening. “Is this what you want, Ms. Manlen? For me to f**k your tight cunt?” His tongue lapped up her juices, plunging his entire tongue inside her core.

She writhed under him, the urge to clench fists full of hair there. However, he thwarted her attempts by gripping her wrists and pinning them at her sides. Her blissful cries echoed in the room.

Music to his ears. He released her and grasped her breasts, pinching and gently twisting the protruding n*****s.

“I want you inside me!” she admitted, her eyes wanton and glistening from the fire behind Trenton.

He positioned his throbbing c**k at her entrance, catching his breath. He looked down at her, admiring her pouty lips and sparkling eyes. “Only if you beg for it.” He grinned.

That grin, she thought. Why does it remind me of him? If only I could go back to a simpler time. When I had everything I could ever need… Pondering this, her mind went back to 1728, when she lived on the outskirts of the Safavid Palace in the Persian District as a child.

☽☀☾

Rays from the morning’s golden sun pierced through the parting tapestry that blew in from the wind. Anara stretched her arms, yawning as she woke from a night full of peaceful slumber.

A spritely woman with wild gray hair, wearing a mud-covered shift, entered the hut with half a loaf of bread and a horn filled with goat milk. Her milky gray eyes loomed over Anara, glistening with love. “Tê klaré,” she greeted, “may the morning’s light bless you.”

“You always say that.” Anara sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“My heart means it.” Kneeling, the woman handed Anara her breakfast. “Now, you must fill your belly—”

“Am I to learn a new enchantment, Mama?” Anara beamed, gripping tightly to the horn.

“Yes, Tê klaré. We will begin once you’ve had your fill.” The woman patted Anara’s thigh, then left the hut.

Truly, the woman was a gift. Most of the villagers called her a hag who coveted curious tools—and scrolls of enchantments so vile—they believed she made a pact with the Devil. But few who truly knew her called her Nanektah. For her name translated to ‘Bearer of Gifts.’

After stuffing her gob, Anara sifted through the linen covering the hearth and changed her garments. She frolicked past the tapestry, winding around the hut to a gated orchard.

The foliage sealed various plants, fruits, and herbs from the sun. Birds chirped on the branches. Spiders weaved strands of lace.

“Mama!” Anara hugged Nanektah from behind. “I’m ready.”

“Seven hells, Tê klarê. You’re impatient,” Nanektah tittered.

“What shall I be learning today?”

Nanektah pulled out a scroll with a wisteria seal. “You’ll be learning the Fos Sti Zoí.”

“Mama? What is it, exactly?” Anara tilted her head, scratching her head.

“Fos Sto Zoí is best known as Light in Life. If procured correctly, it will bring life back to those Death had claimed for himself. These runes are of Periochían origin, but they will do well in this region, too.”

Anara laughed. “But we are Persians, Mama!”

“No, Tê klaré. We are not.” Nanektah unraveled the scroll. “We must never forget our origins.” She feathered her fingers against Anara’s cheeks, humming a lullaby.

While it was true that Nanektah traversed from her homeland of Periochí Thanátou. Anara thought her mother living in Persia meant experiencing something new. Different. Unknown. But what it meant for Anara was elusive. She had grown up in the little hut since she was but a babe. She recollected nothing before her birth and suddenly assumed her origins also resided in Nanektah’s place of origin.

“Yes, Mama. I hope never to forget mine.”

“Let us begin.” Walking over to a beautiful tiger lily, Nanektah chanted:

“Es che wrêli qa omu weí,

Le loy qa synväk e foihê.

Fi dra po qa asa verìka hytenÿa fos,

Thañatos mei qa olma shiêpe.”

“What are you doing, Mama?” Anara tugged nervously at Nanektah’s skirts as the plant wilted before her eyes. Water sprung from its stem, dissipating into the air.

“I sent its lifeforce to Death. Now, it’s time you learned to bring it back to life.”

“What shall I do?”

“Perform the Fos Sti Zoí.” She handed Anara the scroll. “You must pluck herbs and use them for this spell. Are you familiar with this garden’s abundant selection?”

Anara nodded, smiling.

“I will watch from here.”

Anara wandered through the garden, plastering the scroll in her face to read the tiny letters scribbled on the parchment. She wanted everything to be perfect. Nanektah entrusted her to perform the enchantment on her own. Her rite of passage into maidenhood, as she was often told.

“Be careful, Tê klaré,” Nanektah whispered to herself, her eyes glued to a particular snow-speckled dove with blue wings that flew from branch to branch above Anara.

Anara stopped in front of a turmeric plant. “Curcuma longa: three pinches of thee,” she read aloud, gathering a bundle and placing it in a pocket she made with her skirts. “One stick of Cinnamomum zelyanicum—crushed. Delicious!” She sniffed the cinnamon stick, stashing it away with the turmeric bundle.

Anara then stood beside a young clove tree, plucking buds off its branches. “Six buds of Syzygium aromaticum pressed, not crushed. Finally, origanum vulgare. Four pinches…”

Without looking, she reached over the oregano stalk. Suddenly, bundles of parsley sprouted; and she plucked them, tucking away the last of what she thought was on the scroll with the rest of her ingredients.

She skipped over to Nanektah, giddy about her herb gathering for the spell. She sat next to the withered plant, laying the ingredients on the ground and following the steps of the scroll.

Nanektah handed Anara a mortar and pestle to mix the ingredients into a potent concoction.

After everything was mixed in the bowl, Anara sprinkled the contents over the flower while enchanting:

“O, Fos Sti Zoí.

E veríka hytenÿa, le greníeâ judipälo.

Transech le aswa foihê inte gana le cretÿinmâ,

Ra dïln greníeâ upo kis listêanu.”

“Magnificent,” Nanektah praised. “You are—”

Anara repeated the spell, with more conviction in her voice. Her eyes glowed bright amethyst, and her hair flickered like a wild flame.

“Tê klaré?” Nanektah leaned closer, worried. She grasped Anara’s shoulders, shaking her. “Tê klaré! Stop this!”

Black ooze poured out of the shriveled stem and covered the flower, sprouting a figure cloaked in black. The mysterious bird descended from the branches and perched on the figure’s shoulder.

“Anara!” Nanektah bellowed, hugging Anara from behind.

Soon after the glow disappeared, Anara glanced around, unsure of what had happened. Then, her eyes trailed up the cloak of darkness, stopping at a set of bright orbs. Frightened, she spun around and embraced Nanektah, burying her face into Nanektah’s chest.

“Why fear me, child?” the figure jested. “Was it not you who summoned me?”

Shielding Anara behind her, Nanektah glared at the creature. She shouted, “Why summon you at all, when you have already made your way here, Thánatos!”

He chuckled, removing his cloak. “‘Death’ will do.”

Anara poked her head out in awe of his sculpted, pale features.

His winter curls were decorated with golden vines and crystal gems covered his eyes. His lush lips—tinted peach—gleamed, showing off his pearly canines. Death stretched out his scythe, nudging Nanektah’s head up. “Whatever do you mean, witch? There is no need for me to wander within the Garden of Destitute. Unless…” He smiled at Anara.

Anara glances up at Nanektah, confused. His smile seemed endearing and warm.

Death leaned over and grasped Anara’s wrist, pulling her in. “It’s truly an honor to make your acquaintance, Anasaría of Tavers. How I’ve longed for your call.” He kissed her hand.

Anara drew back, gulping. “Please, have mercy!” She bowed, pressing her nose into his feet. “I know not what I’ve done. I’ll do anything!”

“No!” Nanektah cried.

“Anything?” Death coyly responded.

Nanketah closed her eyes, holding back her tears. “Why?” she whispered to herself.

Using his scythe, Death, too, lifted Anara’s chin. “Look into my eyes and command whatever your heart desires—”

“I will not permit this!” Nanektah stormed toward Death, concealing Anara from him. “You are not to touch her. Not in this life or the next.”

“Our deal hasn’t come to fruition yet, my dear.” Death smirked. He then whispered into her ear, “Don’t tell me that you’ve already forgotten your promise?”

Nanektah tensed up, gritting her teeth. She had nearly forgotten the bargain she made. One that involved a precious gift that she had sought after for years. And when she found it, she hid it away. Indeed, Anara was the gift she was meant to give back to Death, but she was not ready. For she loved the child as soon as she fell upon her in the desert beyond the comforts of their home.

“We will meet again, Anasaría.” He smiled and dissipated, leaving behind a golden orchid.

“You should have paid more attention.” Nanektah’s glare melted into sadness. She walked away and plucked the flower, crushing it to dust. “You’ve just sealed your fate with a monster.”

“I didn’t mean—I thought I—I’m sorry…”

“I should have been more attentive,” Nanektah mumbled to herself. “This is all my fault. I should have gathered the herbs.” She swiped away at her surfacing tears. “I’m a pathetic hag.”

“Mama?” Anara called out, approaching with caution.

Nanektah turned around, her eyes red and soft. “Cleanse yourself. We need to prepare supper soon.”

Anara slugged out of the garden, hugging herself to tears.

“I pray to you, Syifus,” Nanektah begged, her hands clasped together in prayer. “Come to us and grant my wish. Protect the girl. Raise her to be powerful, and keep Death at bay.”

The air shifted around Nanektah. Her arm hairs raised as a sudden cool breeze nipped the back of her neck. She eyed the dead flower as it transformed into an aconitum—buds of purplish blue with devilish eyes sprouting from its center. And the plant spoke gruffly, “Granted.”