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The mark appears on Ianthe’s neck on their tenth birthday.
Coronabeth finds it. She insists on styling Ianthe’s hair for their birthday party—an elaborate, stupendously idiotic thing that Ianthe would very much rather not attend, thank you very much. Ianthe had thought to put up a stink about it and slap her hands away, but Coronabeth had been in a terrible mood all week, and she didn’t feel like extending it. She lifts up Ianthe’s hair, gathering it into her hands to style it into some sort of complicated twist, when Ianthe hears her suck in a breath in surprise, the cool puff of air pulling goosebumps onto Ianthe’s skin.
“Oh,” she says, voice tinny in a way that has Ianthe instantly on alert.
“What?”
“There’s… you have a mark.”
“What?”
“Here,” she says, and lightly runs her pointer finger over it, tracing something that Ianthe cannot see.
“A cut?” Ianthe asks, hoping that that’s what she means, hoping it’s not a—
“A soul mark,” Coronabeth breathes, awe and jealousy and excitement all waring for dominance in her tone.
“I do not,” Ianthe huffs. “It’s probably just some dumb—”
“It looks like a pelvic bone.”
“What?” Ianthe sneers. Bone? Bones are incredibly stupid. She cannot possibly have a mark that is a—
“I think it’s an ilium,” Coronabeth says, her finger still tracing the mark lightly. “It looks sort of like a tattoo. Well, one of the old styles you used to see from before the Resurrection. Almost. I’ve never seen a soul mark before.”
“It absolutely is not a bone,” Ianthe insists, aghast.
“It is,” Coronabeth says. She pushes against it, directly at the base of Ianthe’s skull, but slightly over to the left, curling up towards Ianthe’s left ear. Ianthe tries to twist her body around to see it in the mirror, but no luck. “Hold on,” Coronabeth tells her. “I’ll grab a hand mirror.” She holds it up and Ianthe bites down at her lower lip, hard. There it is—a perfect little ilium bone, one half of a pelvic, on her neck, almost as though it is an artfully drawn sketch. Except it’s not drawn it’s forced; it’s half of a whole, and now there are going to be expectations, and Ianthe wants to scream. She’s already the one who isn’t the heir, has to do all of the necromancy for the two of them, and now—
“You’ve got a soul mark, Ianthe,” Coronabeth says, and now the excitement and jealousy are visibly apparent. She’s not trying to hide either emotion.
“Don’t tell Mother and Father,” Ianthe demands, locking eyes with Coronabeth in the mirror.
“Okay,” she promises. They’re very good at secrets, the Tridentarii. What's one more?
…
…
When Naberius Tern shows up two years later, Corona checks him for signs of an ilium bone on his person.
She’s subtle about it, because she’s good at this sort of thing—the people thing. She can charm anyone, touch anyone, get anyone onto her side if she wants to—and she is just as ambitious as Ianthe. She’s just better at hiding it.
“Stop it,” Ianthe demands. “It would never be him in a million years.”
“He’s cute,” Coronabeth counters, with a single shoulder shrug.
“He is not cute,” Ianthe sneers. “He is a cocky fourteen year old boy who wants the glory of being cavalier to the Princesses of Ida. It would never be him.”
“Probably not,” Coronabeth says with another shrug, too casual and intensely annoying. “But, him being your cavalier does make it more possible, no?”
Your cavalier. When it’s just the two of them, it’s always ‘your’ not ‘our’.
“He is not my cavalier,” Ianthe snaps. Coronabeth goes quiet and sullen. Ianthe rolls her eyes. “I’m not doing this again,” she warns.
“Father said—”
“You’ll be heir, Beth.”
Corona snaps her mouth shut and walks away, leaving Ianthe alone in the training room. She looks for the mark on him, too. It’s easy while he’s training; he wears less clothes. He’s already pure muscle, he’s been training for this for years and now it’s Official. Now, he knows.
“Oh,” his eyes go wide as Father glares down at him. Encased inside this circle of four, now expanded to five out of necessity, not trust. Ianthe watches his eyes go back and forth between her and Coronabeth, then jerkily land back on Father. The King of Ida glares down at him and Naberius may be fourteen, but he’s not as stupid as he looks. “Alright,” he says with a nod. He looks sure enough. A knight with a mission. Ianthe rolls her eyes. This is going to be annoying.
She wants to be sure, though. So, she corners him a few weeks later. Coronabeth is off studying theorems, keeping up appearances. Ianthe is meant to join her, but she has to make sure, first.
“Take off your clothes,” she demands, upon greeting.
Naberius blanches. “What?”
“What about that order was confusing to you?”
“I… Princess, I’m not going to… you’re twelve!” he looks positively scandalized. How delightful.
“And you’re fourteen,” Ianthe rolls her eyes. “Are we done making inane and obvious statements now? I need to inspect you.”
“For what?”
“That is my business.”
“Princess…”
“I am your necromancer,” Ianthe snaps. “And your Princess.”
Naberius grits his teeth, but, for all of his cocky white knight bullshit—he has been trained well. He begins to hastily disrobe. “For the record,” he says as Ianthe begins a quick scan of his chest and back, lifting up his arms to check thoroughly. “I’ll be able to serve you—both of you—much better if I know what you are actually asking of me.”
“For the record,” Ianthe says. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it might make things easier.”
Ianthe scans his legs, pushing them outward to look at his inner thighs. Naberius squirms only once. Ianthe demands that he disrobe entirely. There has never been a historical instance of a soul mark showing up on genitals to her knowledge, but she needs to be sure. She needs to be able rule this out. Naberius grits his teeth, but relaxes once he picks up on the detached, mechanical way that Ianthe is inspecting him. That, and all things considered, the Third House isn’t particularly concerned with nudity or sexuality. In fact, compared to some of the other repressed, tight ass, zealous, Houses, they’re practically hedonistic and far too casual about it.
“Alright,” she says, relieved beyond measure. “That’s all I needed.” She turns on her heel and walks out to find Coronabeth.
“I can train her,” he calls out. “If you want. If… if she wants.”
Ianthe doesn’t turn back around to look at him. Obviously, he will train her.
…
…
She scans Coronabeth a few years later. It’s… not unheard of. A soul mark can indicate a platonic connection, there have been a few historical instances.
It’s certainly not common, though. There’s always… well, implications. Unwarranted or not.
Apparently, she’s not subtle enough about it. She thinks that she is doing a marvelous job, thank you very much, until Coronabeth clucks her tongue and says, “Would you like me to simply disrobe and let you check?”
Ianthe rolls her eyes.
“Do you honestly think that I wouldn’t tell you?” Coronabeth asks, and now she sounds devastated. Betrayed, even. This is no small slight, and Ianthe has to act fast or this rift will never heal, she can see that immediately in the set of in Corona’s eyes.
“I couldn’t see mine on my own. I wouldn’t have found it, without you. I just wanted to check and see if there was something you might have missed.”
Coronabeth only looks marginally placated. “And why would it show up now? Four years after we found yours?”
Ianthe shrugs, fingers ghosting slowly down Coronabeth’s forearm. She is far more tactile than Ianthe, and if the touch comforts her, then Ianthe will use whatever she has in her arsenal to soothe her. “There’s no set way to these things. If history has taught us anything, it’s that.”
“There’s nothing. At least, not an ilium,” Corona says, but she peels off her clothes, spreads her arms and legs, and submits to inspection—just in case. She knows that Ianthe is right.
“No ilium,” she announces, a few moments later.
Coronabeth goes still at her choice of words. “Is there something else?”
“It…” Ianthe runs a finger down the mark, tracing it, the same way that Corona did with hers, six years ago. Coronabeth shivers and tries to contort her body around to see the spot on her lower back. “Just above your ass,” Ianthe scoffs, trying for a laugh. “It looks like a single stalk of wheat.”
“Wheat?” Coronabeth clucks her tongue in annoyance. “Get a mirror; let me see.” Ianthe does not do particularly well with demands, but from Corona, she supposes that she will allow it. She watches Coronabeth twist herself around against the wall mirror until she can see the mark. It’s smaller than Ianthe’s, and much easier to miss. “Oh,” Corona whispers. “Well… alright, then.” She starts mechanically pulling her clothes back on.
“You’ll be happy to note that Babs doesn’t have a stalk of wheat on him,” Ianthe says airily.
“He didn’t,” Coronabeth counters and Ianthe goes very still. The two of them not having matching marks is one thing, but if Naberius has a stalk of wheat anywhere on his stupid muscled body, Ianthe will cut it off and eat it and then she will slit his throat—Father be damned. Corona sees the look on Ianthe’s face. “He won’t,” she says, quickly. “It would never be him for me either, Ianthe.”
Ianthe stalks out of the room to check, Coronabeth reluctant and bored at her heels.
“Again?” Naberius sighs, though he’s already tugging his shirt up over his head.
“Nothing,” Coronabeth says, three minutes later. “As I said.”
“Am I going to be told why I had to do this again?”
“No, Babs,” Coronabeth says, gently tapping her palm against his cheek. “You’re not. What you are going to do, is begin training me far more seriously as a cavalier. And you will tell no one.”
Naberius’s shoulders tighten, and he glances back and forth between them, in same way as the day he learned about Coronabeth. Ianthe does nothing but look back at him with a detached, bored stare. Finally, he locks in on Coronabeth. “As you wish, Princess.”
…
…
She looks for a matching ilium bone on everyone that she fucks over the years. Even the ones that she hates—maybe even especially them. Hate and love are such a fine line, after all.
She never finds one. The relief that washes over her each time that she comes up with smooth, unmarked skin, or a different mark altogether is almost overwhelming.
Annoying; she doesn’t want to be affected by this, she doesn’t want to be affected by anything without her consent.
“Relax, Ianthe,” Coronabeth teases, when she slips back into their bedroom in the early hours of the morning. The boy had been hardly worth the release. Boys, she learns quickly, hardly ever are. It will be her second and final try. Experiment complete. Results: as suspected.
“I am perfectly relaxed,” Ianthe says.
Coronabeth chuckles, disbelieving. She rolls over, golden curls sleep mussed as she tucks an arm underneath her head. “What will you do if you find it?”
“Cut it off the person and eat it.”
Coronabeth laughs, bright and airy. Ianthe crawls into the opposite bed and tries to mold herself into the sheets. She only has seconds to react, and then Coronabeth jumps on top of her, still laughing. “If you eat them, then you really will be stuck with them forever.”
“Fuck off,” Ianthe says and tries to bite Corona’s arm and shove her off. Coronabeth is stronger than she is, though. She always was—being born with necromatic talents always has that particular cost—and now that she has been training with Naberius, she’s only grown stronger. There are genuine muscles underneath her clothes now. Coronabeth bench pressed with Ianthe yesterday, just to prove that she could. “Beth,” she whines. Corona relents, slightly, and rolls over so that she’s curled around Ianthe, instead of on top of her being an asshole. “I hate this,” Ianthe says, lying through her teeth. She is nowhere near as tactile as Coronabeth, but she would be lying if she said that sometimes she doesn’t crave it. She only ever tolerates it from Corona, though. That, and when she finds someone worthy or intriguing enough to spend an evening with.
“What do you think they’re like?” Coronabeth whispers.
“Who cares?”
“I do. That’s why I asked.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the most important person in my life. And if we’re not each others soulmates, then I have a vested interests in who is yours.”
“Not yours?”
“Of course I’m curious about that, too,” Coronabeth snaps. “Don’t be stupid.” Ianthe clucks her tongue, annoyed. “Well?” Coronabeth asks, a beat later.
Rolling her eyes, Ianthe pulls the blankets tighter around her, creating a bit of space between them as she shifts. “It won’t be a man,” she says. “Other than that, who knows?”
“Do you think she’ll be from Third?”
Ianthe frowns. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“You said it would be a she,” Coronabeth teases.
“Will you shut the fuck up?”
“No. Calling her ‘she’ makes it too real for you, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“For real,” Coronabeth questions, “or just because you’re being you?”
In response, Ianthe rolls over, turning her body away from Coronabeth.
Corona rolls with her, wrapping her arms around Ianthe and spooning her. “For real, then,” she says easily. “For the record,” she adds a few beats later. “My guess is that she won’t be from Third. But I’ll drop the subject for now.”
“Finally,” Ianthe says, not much bite to her words.
…
…
The first time that Ianthe sees Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of Drearburh and Heir to the House of Ninth, she seems like an unremarkable little twit with some idiotic face paint. Ianthe doesn’t give her much of a second thought for the majority of her time at Canaan House—she’s rather busy working on theorems, keeping up appearances with Coronabeth, and ignoring the whole “people being continually murdered” thing.
That said, Ianthe is nothing if not intelligent. She is often overlooked whenever Coronabeth is around, and that fact lends itself to plenty of opportunities for observation. Harrowhark is one hell of a necromancer. Ianthe thinks that bones are boring, but she is not above admitting talent when she sees it.
She’s preoccupied, though.
…
…
When she completes the theorem for Lyctorhood, she instantly vomits. Instinctive. She will become a Lyctor. She is the greatest necromatic Princess of Ida and she wants this.
She will not give up Corona for it, though. That is her single line in the sand. Ianthe has practically no qualms about doing anything to just about anyone—apart from Beth.
Babs complains about Coronabeth’s cavalier training after a few years. Once he realizes that it isn’t just a one off, something for Coronabeth to do since she has no necromatic talent of her own, once he realizes what the twins truly want—he balks.
Briefly.
Ianthe doesn’t need to set him right, Corona takes care of matters herself and Babs gets in line. When Coronabeth slips back into their room, still panting from the exertion of their fight, she stalks forward and pulls Ianthe into her arms. Crying and shaking, she holds Ianthe far too tightly. “You’ll break my fragile necromatic bones,” Ianthe complains, but holds her sister back just as tightly.
“I need you,” Coronabeth whispers, almost piteously. “I need to be your cavalier. Not Babs. I want it.”
“Obviously,” Ianthe says, and clutches Coronabeth’s muscular frame. “Don’t feel bad, sweetheart,” she whispers back. “Of course, it’s you, not Babs—what do you take me for?”
Coronabeth sucks in a ragged breath. “He knows it, now.”
“Did you beat him?”
Coronabeth pulls back slightly to look Ianthe in the eye, a stunning glare boring down onto her. “What do you think?”
Ianthe smirks. “I think I’m quite irritated that you didn’t let me watch.”
Coronabeth shrugs. “It was between me and Babs. It had to be. I can do nothing else but this.” She hesitates, slightly, then adds, “I want nothing else but this.” Ianthe has suspected as much for a few years now. Initially, Coronabeth had been as distraught as their parents at her lack of necromatic talent, but Ianthe has long suspected that had more to do with their parents reaction than a true desire for necromancy of her own. The moment Coronabeth understood the dynamics of necromancers and cavaliers, she always watched the cavaliers. Ianthe would be lying if she said that hasn’t thought about it for years, too. They came into this world together, two sides of the same coin; who else would she possibly even consider as her cavalier? Truly. Naberius Tern? For fucks sake.
“Then let’s do this together,” Ianthe tells her, holding her palm out for Coronabeth. Corona takes her hand and Ianthe uses necromancy to temporary meld their flesh together in a promise. She’s proud of Coronabeth for holding her gaze and not wincing even for a moment. “I need you,” Ianthe says, a pledge.
“I need you,” Coronabeth whispers back.
And that, really, is that.
The truth of the Lyctor theorem settles into her bones, and Ianthe sucks in a breath. He might not truly be her cavalier, but he is the next best thing. Ianthe has been consuming bits of that boy for years—Third House is no stranger to cannibalism in their magics. It’s all just flesh. She’s been curious about soul magic for years, it shouldn’t be any harder.
Naberius comes to her without question, the same as he has done since he was fourteen years old. He only fights her at the very last second, once he realizes what’s happening. It’s so much easier than Ianthe thinks it would be, once it’s all over. Too easy, maybe. She pushes that thought away.
Coronabeth’s scream of betrayal, though, that sound echoes the walls of Canaan House and haunts Ianthe’s nightmares for years.
…
…
She doesn’t fight Cytherea for Harrowhark, she just so happens to also be fighting Cytherea at the same time.
When she wakes up, after, arm gone and replaced, she finds Harrow, small and emaciated in a hospital bed beside her, and she gets her first glimpse of a bare-faced Harrowhark. Lyctorhood achieved, Ianthe finds her attention now focused directly onto Harrowhark Nonagesimus.
There’s something beautiful about her. Not aesthetically, not really—she is scrawny, all spindly limbs, chopped off unruly hair, surprisingly smooth face despite being abused by near constant paint—but there is something that draws Ianthe to her, regardless. That Harrow stays in the back of her mind, while meeting The Emperor and being inducted into Sainthood, certainly says something.
When Harrow wakes, when she gives Ianthe the death glare of all death glares, it lights up Ianthe’s core and she smirks.
She opts to help with the idiotic experimental brain surgery because… why not? It sounds interesting, if nothing else. She’d like to see Harrow at work.
(She’d like to play around with that pretty little skull, run her fingers down that spindly little body, celebrate their shared Lyctorhood. Ianthe is almost giddy with anticipation).
When Harrow finally gives Ianthe free reign to flex her new Lyctor necromancy, it’s addictive and over all too soon. Ianthe wants to stay with her hands inside of Harrow, she wants more, but Harrow banishes her to the hallway for secrecy. When Ianthe is allowed back into the room, Harrow immediately passes out and Ianthe doesn’t waste a moment trying to search around inside to see exactly what she’s done. Ianthe clucks her tongue when she finds nothing whatsoever available to her. Harrow is talented, she’ll never deny her that.
As a last act of pettiness, Ianthe coaxes a new crop of that beautiful black hair out of her scalp. She fidgets around with the follicles so that they’ll continually squirt out a little extra, cursing the Ninth House nun to almost ceaseless haircuts, least she let it spill down her back like oil-slicked waves.
It’s the little things that matter.
What an absolute fool this nunlet is. Ianthe takes a moment and studies her, now that she has extended time and nothing much else to do. She thinks back on their time together at Canaan House, now that she’s not consumed with theorems and impending Lyctorhood. Harrow has certain kind of charm to her; prickly and intelligent, she is a necromatic genius with a very cute ass. From everything that Ianthe knows of her, Harrow is the type of person who needs—who craves—control. Clearly. She cannot cope when control is wrested from her, nor does she have the personality to do the work of taking it back again—she’d rather cut the problem out and move on. Fractured, as the nunlet would say. Impromptu brain surgery to erase Nav entirely, rather than deal with her grief, is nothing if not a perfect example of that.
Ianthe is self aware enough to know that she possesses this type of personality, too. Like recognizes like. The only reason that she is even here, that Harrow chose her to help, is because she recognized it in Ianthe, first. “Someday I’ll marry that girl,” she muses, aloud. “It might be good for her.” She rises from her chair, rolling her neck and ignoring the dull throb of her new arm.
“Probably not, though.”
…
…
Ianthe and Harrow are put together regularly throughout their time on the Mithraeum—youngest and newest Lyctors, and all that.
Ianthe doesn’t mind. Harry may be losing her goddamn mind, might be a Ninth cultist who loves bones, who sneers at everyone and is as repressed a person as Ianthe has ever seen, but she’s also an adorable, feral, little bitch.
And Ianthe likes her so much.
It’s distressing, when she stops to think about it, so, Ianthe absolutely does not. She trains with Augustine, curses Babs and his useless lack of help with her arm, misses Corona desperately, avoids Gideon and his murder attempts, ducks out of Mercy’s wrath, does whatever God tells her to, avoids thinking about how much she has bitten off more than she can chew, and tries to tamp down her growing desire for Harry.
It doesn’t help that Harrow keeps coming to Ianthe for help. Sort of. The type of help that a bitchy little nunlet would dare stoop to demand for.
It doesn’t help that Ianthe can’t get her fucking arm to work. She can stop Gideon from murdering Harrow—barely—but she can’t make her own arm use a rapier with any sort of finesse.
It doesn’t help that Harrow keeps on coming to her bedroom for sanctuary.
It really doesn’t help, that Harrow chops off her arm when Ianthe can’t, and reforges her a new one. Beautifully plated with golden bones and nerves that sing—that feel like her own. Harrow straddles her and works her magic, and Ianthe has never been in more pain, or more tuned on, or more enraptured with another person in all her life. Covered in her own blood, shaking with relief and desire, Ianthe gently rolls Harrow off of her and picks up Naberius’s rapier.
“Oh, Harry,” she breathes. “I could kiss you.”
“Disgusting,” Harrow scoffs, but Ianthe saw the ragged breathing, the tensed muscles of her stomach as she straddled Ianthe a moment ago. Harry might be a repressed little nun who’s slowing losing her mind, but she wants Ianthe, too.
Tonight isn’t the night to press it, but it is the night to start to make her intentions known.
When they crawl into Ianthe’s bed together—still both covered in Ianthe’s blood—Ianthe presses herself closer to Harrow than she usually does. If Harrow isn’t receptive to it, she doesn’t make it known beyond glancing over at Ianthe and rolling her eyes—but she doesn’t move away from her. If anything, as Harrow’s breathing finally starts to even out, Ianthe feels her curl a bit closer.
She falls asleep with a new arm and a smile on her face, both courtesy of the Lyctor nunlet.
…
…
Ianthe presses her lips to Harrow’s.
Or, she tries to. Harrow turns at the last moment, and Ianthe gets the side of her jaw. There’s a spot of blood smudged on her cheek with tiny perfume blots of thalergy, it’s just so Harry, that despite the rejection, Ianthe finds herself brushing her broken mouth across it with unanticipated tenderness. She can feel Harrow trembling slightly underneath her, and her voice comes out in a dry rasp when she says, still shaking in Ianthe’s embrace, “My affections lie buried in the Locked Tomb.”
“And let them lie,” Ianthe says with a laugh, not very kindly. She knew, somewhere in the back of her brain, that Harrow might turn her face away, but… they’re in dresses. They’re both drunk. Harrow let Ianthe dress her up this afternoon. She keeps coming to Ianthe’s room. Ianthe’s bed. Ianthe—for protection. God and Augustine and Mercy are all so old and horrible, and they still muster up affection—as disgusting as it may be. Harrow won’t take off her stupid paint, even though Ianthe has already seen her bare face. She also very clearly has never seen anyone kiss someone else before. She has probably never kissed anyone herself. Ianthe wants to kiss her so much. She wants to do so much more. She brushes her fingers through Harry’s soft growing hair, down her trembling sternum, and takes no small amount of pleasure in the little gasp it elicits, before she pulls herself away. “Somebody might even exhume them for you. Good luck, Harry… try not to die.”
Ianthe walks away humming, almost giddy and cheerful to try and disguise her hurt.
…
…
When Harrow comes to Ianthe’s bedroom later that night, she is—unfortunately—long since sober.
She’s not sure about Harrow, though. It would be shocking if the nunlet didn’t shuck the alcohol from her veins the very minute that she went off to try and kill Gideon, but there is something wild in Harrow’s eyes that Ianthe hasn’t seen before. And she’s seen a lot of Crazy Harrow’s looks over the last few months.
“Well, you’re not dead,” Ianthe states dryly.
“No.”
Harrow is as stock still as Ianthe has ever seen her, dress and paint disheveled, hair wild, eyes blown wide and as black as the night sky. “Is Gideon dead, then?” she asks, but she knows that Harrow hears: Ortus. Their little experiment slipping in and doing it’s job.
“No,” her chest is heaving with the depth of her ragged breathing. “Not for lack of trying.”
Ianthe clucks her tongue. “Unfortunate. I’m sorry, Harry,” she says, genuine. Ianthe would be, displeased isn’t the correct word—but it’s the only one she’ll willing to cop to, right now—if Harrow was murdered by that creepy dolt.
“Yes… well.” Harrow is still just standing there, chest heaving, pupils blown, absolutely rigid as she stares searchingly at Ianthe. For what, exactly, Ianthe has no unearthly idea. Something very Ninth, probably. She might be looking at Ianthe’s clavicle more than the rest of her. She’s not sure.
“Are you coming to bed?” Ianthe asks, gentle as she breaks the silence. She’s used to this, being gentle with Harrow; it’s almost like holding a blown-out eggshell, or a blood-bubble caught in glass, and trying to remember not to squeeze. (Much as she constantly wants to press Harrow down underneath her and squeeze… well, everything).
“Yes,” Harrow says a moment later, suddenly decisive. She jerks into motion awkwardly, and it takes Ianthe a moment to catch up to the fact that Harrow is very hurriedly ripping off her clothes. “Take them off,” she says to Ianthe.
“I beg your pardon?” Ianthe quirks an eyebrow.
“Your clothes, Tridentarius,” Harrow snaps, impatient. “Off.”
Ianthe’s eyebrow crawls up to her forehead. “Why?” she asks, unwilling to embarrass herself further tonight if this isn’t what she thinks it might be—what she wants it to be.
“Because, Tridentarius,” Harrow says, fully nude now as she stalks towards Ianthe’s bed. Her skeletal corset is the only thing still on her, but it’s smaller—it’s only covering her ribs. Her breasts are right there on display for Ianthe and they’re glorious; small and pert with rock hard nipples daring Ianthe to touch them. The last time that Ianthe saw Harrow naked, she’d been so shocked by it that she’d literally run away. It was not her finest or smoothest moment. Harrow shocks her yet again when she says, calmly, “I am going to fuck you.”
Ianthe is embarrassed by how immediately she begins to grow wet. “Are you?” she asks, delighted by this turn of events.
“Yes.” Harrow looks determined, like she’s about to go into battle or work for hours through a particularly difficult theorem—but her pupils are blown out with desire.
“And you expect me to just… let you?” Ianthe asks, even as she is pulling her nightgown off her body, underwear gone in the next second.
“Yes,” Harrow says, through gritted teeth. “You owe me.”
“Do I?” Ianthe counters. Harrow is on the bed now, crouched before Ianthe on her knees, but not touching Ianthe—not yet. “By my last count, I helped you perform an incredibly stupid—albeit admittedly, quite spectacular—brain surgery. I’ve given you all your letters at the appropriate times. I’ve saved you from our older brother’s continual murderous attempts. I taught you how to make soup. And I’ve kept all of your stupid secrets. You ensorcelled my jaw, you tedious little bone witch,” Ianthe is horrified at how fond the moniker comes out of said jaw, but naked Harrow is hovering above her, demanding sex, and she can only do so much.
“I ensorcelled your jaw and that is why you have kept my secrets, Tridentarius. You and I both know it.”
Ianthe gives a single shoulder shrug.
“I gave you a new arm,” Harrow counters.
“And that tallies us up?”
Harrow makes a frustrated noise at the back of her throat—it’s unbelievably attractive. “We’re not tallying up. I’m not going to list all of mine, that’s stupid. You want this.”
“Do I?”
Harrow looks like she might blow steam out of her stupid little ears. Ianthe wants to bite them.
“You kissed me less than two hours ago.”
“Tried,” Ianthe reminds her. “You started prattling on about your precious Tomb.”
“Do not bring the Locked Tomb into this,” Harrow snaps. “That is a condition of mine.”
“Are we making terms, now? Safe words?” Ianthe teases, she has to tease, because despite how much she has had dreams of this very moment, it’s throwing her off-kilter for some reason.
Harrow frowns. “I suppose that would be best. My conditions are that I will be fucking you, you will not be touching me, and you cannot make remarks about the Locked Tomb.”
“Hold on,” Ianthe begins to sit up a bit. “I want to touch you, too.”
“No.”
“Harry,” Ianthe whines. “That’s not fair.”
“This is not meant to be fair.”
“What is it meant to be?”
Harrow’s answer is a jerky, frustrated shrug.
The inherent homoeroticism of blackmail, Ianthe supposes. Or hatefucking. Or two very lonely, touch-starved people, both without their previously most important person, slowly going crazy with God and his Lyctors surrounding them and death lapping at their heels.
“What’s the safe word, then?” Ianthe says, not really enthused about the whole ‘not touching’ rule but, frankly, just desperate enough to feel Harrow touching her to agree to it anyway.
“What’s the point of that?”
“If one of us wants to stop. We say the safe word and we stop, no questions asked.”
“Oh,” Harrow looks unsure for the first time since stalking into Ianthe’s room. “Mandible,” she finally says, staring down at Ianthe’s jaw.
“You would choose a fucking bone,” Ianthe says, again, far too fondly.
“Do you agree to sex?” Harrow asks, frustrated.
“What an erotic seduction this is turning out to be,” Ianthe teases. “I feel so wooed. So attractive. So desired. So—” Harrow calls up skeletal hands and ties Ianthe’s arms to the headboard with them, and jumps on top of her in the same moment, effectively cutting Ianthe off with a very sloppy, forceful kiss.
It’s… well it’s very likely Harrow’s first kiss, and she’s angry at Ianthe and trying to get her to shut up, and there’s room for improvement. Harrow seems frustrated that it’s not going well and she pulls back and glares down at Ianthe.
“Try a different angle,” Ianthe offers. Harrow’s glare deepens and Ianthe makes her voice softer. “If you straddle me, then—”
“You just want me to touch you,” Harrow snaps.
Ianthe quirks an eyebrow up, amused. “I thought that was sort of the whole point, Harry.”
Harrow grunts angrily, but she lifts up one glorious thigh and straddles Ianthe all the same. Ianthe lets out a groan when she feels the slight beginnings of wetness from Harrow’s center, pressing against her stomach.
The angle is, indeed, much better. Harrow takes to kissing the way that she takes to most things, with fierce determination and a singular focus. It’s incredibly attractive. Ianthe is aching to touch her. She squirms against the skeletal hands and runs her tongue along the bottom of Harry’s lip—delighting in the shiver that Harrow let’s out in response. “No,” Harrow says, tapping against Ianthe’s arms. More fucking bones appear and press her back down. “We agreed.”
“Sort of,” Ianthe allows. “But I think I’d very much make it worth your while if you let me touch you, Harry.”
Harrow lifts up slightly, glares, and then moves down and takes Ianthe’s right nipple into her mouth.
“Oh… fuck,” Ianthe hisses. Harrow’s tongue is a marvel. Ianthe cants as Harrow swirls her tongue around the nipple in slow, deliberate circles, then flicks it up and down before sucking on it—hard. It’s when Harrow grows bold—after she’s been at it for a few minutes, and she’s begun taking her cues from Ianthe’s reactions—that she bites Ianthe. “Fuck, fuck, Harry, ” Ianthe gasps. She’s drenched, now. “Lower, Harry, please,” Ianthe begs. How demeaning.
Harrow looks up and connects her gaze with Ianthe’s, and if Ianthe thought she looked determined and awkward before, she doesn’t anymore—not really. Harrow’s pupils are blown as wide as she’s ever seen someone’s and Ianthe can feel how wet Harrow is, too. She looks mildly nervous for a moment, when she glances down to Ianthe’s core, but she shifts down to inspect it regardless.
“What do I do?” Harrow asks, sounding immensely annoyed about being out of her depth.
“Frankly, Harry… whatever you want.”
“What I want is for you to give me a starting point.”
“Well, what you did with your mouth a minute ago was pretty great,” Ianthe admits. “That would work just as well down there, too.”
“Only my mouth?”
“Fingers are good too,” Ianthe tries to shrug, but Harrow’s stupid bones are sort of impeding her upper body movement at the moment.
Harrow frowns, tilting her head and inspecting Ianthe’s cunt like it’s a textbook.
“Ninth, you’re overthinking it. Just do.”
Harrow pinches Ianthe’s inner thigh and she squeals in surprise. “No more talking,” Harrow says, and, of course, a fucking skeletal hand covers her mouth at the same time that Harrow applies her own.
Ianthe bucks up into Harrow’s touch, moaning despite the obstruction. Her technique is mostly mechanical, there’s no rhythm to it. Harrow is very much still overthinking things, but fuck everything that’s holy, it still feels amazing. Harrow is unrelenting in her touch and Ianthe doesn’t get a moment to breathe. Harrow’s tongue presses down against her clit and refuses to move. When she finally slips a finger inside of Ianthe, the noise that she makes through the fucking bone is beyond embarrassing.
When she finally comes, Ianthe whines into the bone, her back bowing and hips pressing into Harrow’s mouth. She’s breathing hard, slowly coming back to herself to see Harrow lifting up onto her knees and unceremoniously wiping off her mouth—paint even more melted off. She is staring down at Ianthe with an unreadable expression. Ianthe wants to touch her so badly. She wants Harrow to never stop touching her. She’s terrified that Harrow is just going to turn around and walk out and never mention this again.
Instead, what happens is that Harrow releases Ianthe’s limbs and goes to find her nightclothes—there are a few left in Ianthe’s room, at this point, she sleeps here far more than anywhere else.
“Put your clothes back on,” Harrow says, exasperated as she climbs back into the bed.
“Why?” Ianthe says, trying to pose languidly.
“Because we’re done.”
“Are we, though?”
“Yes,” Harrow says, and rolls over into a tight little ball.
Ianthe sighs. Beggars can’t really be choosers, she supposes. Ianthe does not put her nightgown back on, though. When they wake up the next morning, and Harrow realizes that Ianthe is still naked, she takes an immense amount of pleasure in the way that Harrow can’t seem to stop staring at Ianthe’s breasts, even while she’s grumbling about blasphemous Third heretics the entire time.
…
…
It’s not a one off.
Ianthe had been preparing herself for it to be, but she’s irritatingly happy to find that it’s not. Mostly, Harrow stalks into the room, ties Ianthe up with bones, and fucks her to her heart’s content before falling asleep. Ianthe is only mildly disappointment by the turn of events. It’s the first time that she has ever really let someone else do whatever they want during sex. Be in control. She feels like she should be fighting against it the first few times, but she doesn’t.
Mostly.
The fifth time that it happens, Ianthe sees the mark.
They’ve fallen into a sort of routine, at this point. Both of them know what to expect to a certain extent. Harrow walks in, rips off her clothes, demands that Ianthe do the same, ties her up, and explores Ianthe’s body. Ianthe is so preoccupied with the feeling of Harrow all over her, it’s hard to take it all in when Harrow doesn’t give her any opportunities to touch and explore her in the same way. So it’s not that surprising then, that she doesn’t see it until the fifth time that they do this. Until Harrow has three fingers inside of her, and is nipping—rather forcefully—at Ianthe’s jaw. Ianthe is bucking with the rhythm of Harrow’s thrusts, and she turns her head for some relief, Harrow lifting up slightly and twisting her arm and… there it is. An ilium bone, right above her left armpit; a tiny little matching set, hidden on the soft skin of her upper arm, tucked away and out of sight.
Ianthe comes immediately in her panic. Overloaded with emotion, she cants as Harrow curls her fingers, bending down again to bite Ianthe’s chest. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” Ianthe just keeps gasping her name as Harrow rides out her orgasm. “I can’t, Harry,” Ianthe tries to tug her hips away but Harrow holds her firmly in place. “I can’t anymore.”
“I’m not done,” Harrow says. She’s gotten bolder each time. Ianthe would be lying if she said that she didn’t like it. But right now, right now her brain is broken. Her body is overloaded. Harrow’s mark matches mine.
Harrowhark the Not-Ninth Anymore. Her sister Lyctor. Fucking, Nonagesimus. The bone witch is her soulmate. Their marks match and Ianthe has no idea how to feel about it. Their marks match and Ianthe has been so annoyingly attracted to her for months. Their marks match and Harrow still has three fingers inside of her.
Harrow pulls out of her more carefully than she’s done before and drops the bones, freeing Ianthe. Her movements are a little stilted as she tugs her clothes back on and Ianthe can tell—has been able to—that Harrow isn’t as unaffected by this as she claims or hopes to be. Her legs are pressed together as she crawls into the bed and lies down. She presses herself closer to Ianthe than she normally does and Ianthe’s mind is spinning.
God, Ianthe needs to talk to Coronabeth. She has never needed her sister more in all her life.
…
…
“Do you have a soul mark?” Ianthe just comes right out and says it, a few nights later.
Beside her, with far less paint on her face, clothes only haphazardly tugged back on, legs pressed tight together as her gaze continually drops back down to Ianthe’s exposed breasts, Harrow stills at the question. “Why?”
“It’s just a question, Harry,” Ianthe says, far more casually than she feels.
“Do you?” Harrow throws back at her.
“Yes,” Ianthe says. She is surprised—a little—by how easily the honesty comes. “I’m partly surprised that you haven’t found it yet. You’ve had far more opportunities to explore my body than you’ve given me of yours.”
Harrow rolls her eyes.
“Are you ever going to let me return the favor?” Ianthe asks. Harrow’s eyes drop back down to her breasts again and Ianthe preens, pushing herself up onto her elbows slightly to push them closer towards Harrow. “Tit for tat, and all,” Ianthe adds. Taking a chance, she slowly runs a finger down Harrow’s bare arm. “I promise, Harry, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Ianthe is expecting to be refused. Harrow is doing a grand job of convincing herself that this all means nothing if she doesn’t let Ianthe touch her back, but Ianthe has seen the ragged, aching desire in her eyes and her actions—and she wants this, too. She’s just a stubborn little bitch about it. Ianthe runs the finger back up, slow, Harrow’s eyes tracking the movement all the while. Ianthe’s finger freezes—just a beat—when Harrow rasps out quietly, “Okay,” after sucking in a deep breath.
Ianthe doesn’t waste any time for Harrow to talk herself back out of it, and she climbs on top of Harrow in a second, rolling her hips into Harrow’s as she drops her mouth down to Harrow’s lips. The groan that fills her mouth in response is delicious. When Ianthe snakes a hand down and feels just how wet Harrow is, she lets out a groan of her own and then bites down—hard—onto Harrow’s lower lip.
“Fuck,” Harrow hisses.
“If you like,” Ianthe says, and unceremoniously slips two fingers inside and begins to thrust.
“Ianthe!” Harrow bucks up and her arms grasp Ianthe’s shoulders, eyes blown wide in surprise. “Oh…” she breathes, “Oh, oh, fuck.”
“You should have been letting me do this for weeks, Harry,” Ianthe coos and adds a third finger, thumbing her clit. Harrow doesn’t ever go easy on her—that’s not their dynamic—and Ianthe isn’t gentle with Harrow, either. She’s demanding, with her fingers and her mouth she pulls the orgasm out of Harrow with the same demanding focus she gives pretty much everything else in her life. When Harrow blinks and tries to catch her breath, Ianthe lowers herself down and pulls Harrow’s clit into her mouth and sucks hard. She’s not done.
She’s got a lot of time to make up for in order to get even. And unlike Harrow, she actually knows a bit about what she’s doing. Oh, Harrow has learned a lot these past few weeks, and it was all wonderful, but Ianthe has been dreaming of touching Harrow for months and she’s taking every advantage that she has.
She gives Harrow a moment to collect herself after the second orgasm. But she does not stop touching her—Ianthe’s fingers run up and down Harrow’s arms, her stomach, and it’s all… so glorious. Ianthe isn’t done. The stupid little mark on her neck might fuck everything all the way up, and Ianthe will be damned if she doesn’t get a chance to make Harrow feel everything first.
Ianthe sits back slightly and feels her magic pulse inside of her. “Not done quite yet, Harry,” she grins.
Harrow lifts her head and notices exactly the flesh magic that Ianthe is in the middle of working up and her eyes widen. “You crass Third Bitch.”
Ianthe’s grin widens. “Tell me you’ve never tried it? Not even on your own? It’s the first thing that flesh adepts try.” Her clit swells and grows and Ianthe doesn’t feel sated after her own two orgasams, courtesy of Harrow. She doesn’t need her necromancy to get herself hard. Harrow’s eyes, locked in on her, her chest heaving in anticipation, are doing that all on their own.
“Of course not,” Harrow snaps, but she hasn’t moved her gaze once and her pupils are blown wide with want. “Ninth House is nowhere near as promiscuous or hedonistic or blasphemous as yours.”
“You come from dullards, yes, we know,” Ianthe bends forward and captures Harrow’s mouth in a searing kiss; her tongue enters Harrow’s mouth the same moment that she pushes herself inside of Harrow’s pussy. Harrow clings to her, stubby nails somehow managing to dig into Ianthe’s back, and it’s all that she can do not to come just from this—from the feeling of being inside of Harrow, draped over her, having Harrow cling to her. Knowing the mark on her arm exists and what it means.
“Ianthe,” Harrow rasps, voice brimming with need.
“Yes, Harry?” Ianthe holds her hips very still, teasing.
“Ianthe,” Harrow hisses in frustration.
“Yes?” Ianthe repeats. “Did you want something, Harry?”
Harrow huffs, angry and stubborn and possibly unwilling to beg. But Ianthe isn’t going to budge, no matter how much she desperately wants to. Harrow has made her beg for it more times than she can count. Ianthe doesn't beg for anyone. Fair is fair, if this is going to ever be anything more. And if it’s not, then Ianthe wants Harrow begging even more.
“Please,” Harrow says, through gritted teeth.
“Please… what?” Ianthe coos. Harrow pinches her hard and twists one of Ianthe’s nipples. “Oh, Harry, save that for later, we’re focusing on you right now,” Ianthe teases. “Though I know how much you love them.”
“You fucking bitch,” Harrow snaps.
“Takes one to know one, love,” Ianthe says, and starts kissing her way down Harrow’s neck. Harrow tries to move her own hips, thrusting herself up into Ianthe, but she quickly grabs Harrow’s hips and holds her down. “Ah ah ah,” she teases.
“Ianthe!” Harrow whines. Actually whines. She writhes underneath Ianthe and looks so desperate for Ianthe that she feels warm all over.
“Use your words, Harry,” Ianthe demands. “You’ve got so many of them stored up inside of that lovely, clever little brain of yours.”
“Please,” Harrow begs.
“Please, what?”
“Please, fuck me,” she rasps. “Please, Ianthe. I need you—”
Ianthe thrusts and captures Harrow’s mouth again. Cutting her off. She’s unrelenting. The feeling of being inside of Harrow is too much, too overwhelming, too perfect, that she almost can’t breathe though it. Harrow is clawing at her, and making so many perfect noises that Ianthe cannot believe that she waited this long. She cannot believe that she didn’t make Harrow let her do this weeks ago. She never wants to stop. She wants to stay like this forever. Fuck God, and all the Resurrection Beasts, and the end of the world, and all of it. Ianthe doesn’t give a damn about anything but this: her and Harrow, moving together as one and lighting up every nerve inside her body. She’s determined for Harrow to come before she does, but she’s so close it’s almost painful.
“Ianthe, Ianthe, Ianthe,” Harrow begins to cant and then they both come, Ianthe only half a second after Harrow. She collapses on top of Harrow, totally spent as she holds onto her frame. She’s still catching her breath when underneath her, Harrow—who had been boneless and quiet and still holding onto Ianthe—freezes. “What’s on your neck?” she asks, with a voice as brittle as her beloved bones.
Ianthe doesn’t move her face from the crook of Harrow’s shoulder. She keeps her face directed down into the pillow, so she doesn’t have to see the look that accompanies that sound of Harrow’s voice. “You know what it is,” she says. “I saw yours, three nights ago.”
Six skeletons rip Ianthe off of Harrow and slam her down onto the floor. “You’re lying,” Harrow demands from where she’s now standing upright, on the middle of Ianthe’s bed.
“How would I be lying about it?” Ianthe scoffs. “And fuck you, I was very comfortable.” She swats at a skeletal hand that’s reaching for her.
“You saw mine and then drew that on. You absolute bitch.”
“I did no such thing,” Ianthe bites back, pushing herself up off the floor and kicking another skeleton away. “Use your necromancy.” Despite the absolutely murderous look in Harrowhark’s eyes, Ianthe pushes her hair out of the way and tilts her neck for inspection, exposing herself.
Harrow grabs her, because as much as she is a stubborn little bitch, she cannot stand not knowing things. While she takes a moment, Ianthe closes her eyes and concentrates, readjusting her body back to it’s neutral state. They’re definitely not going to get to do that again tonight, unfortunately. Not now.
“This is a mistake,” Harrow breathes, but her voice sounds so small that Ianthe nearly has the idiotic urge to pull Harrow into a hug.
“Unfortunately, it’s not. Though, if it makes you feel any better, that was my first reaction, too.”
“Fuck you,” Harrow says.
“You already did,” Ianthe teases. “Many many times.”
“Mandible,” Harrow says. Then she stalks out of the room, fully nude. She doesn’t look back at Ianthe once.
…
…
Gideon does not manage to murder Harrow in the days that follow.
Ianthe doesn’t get the chance to try and protect her, and Harrow does not come to her bedroom at night. She looks as exhausted as the time that she didn’t sleep for six nights straight, and Ianthe is deeply annoyed at how worried about Harrow’s wellbeing she is. All she can do is leave extra food out for Harrow, distract Gideon whenever she can, and wait.
Harrow spends a solid week completely ignoring her, getting up and walking out of the room whenever Ianthe comes in.
So, Ianthe is surprised when she just comes barging into Ianthe’s bedroom without warning a week later. “Let me see it again,” she demands.
Ianthe rolls her eyes, but she pushes her hair out of the way and allows Harrow to inspect her again. “You know they cannot be faked, Harry,” Ianthe says, almost gently, but not quite. “Whenever they are, they’re always found out with necromancy.”
“Flesh magic,” Harrow sneers. “Which you excel at. If anyone could provide a convincing fake, it would be you.”
“Why Harrowhark, I didn’t think you cared,” Ianthe bats her eyelashes dramatically.
“I am merely stating facts. It’s not a compliment.”
“Ah, but it is.”
“It is not.”
“Whatever you say, Harry. I didn’t fake it. Corona found it on our tenth birthday. I’ve been horrified to have a pelvic bone on my person ever since.” Ianthe looks Harrow in the eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, relax. I don’t let anyone make my decisions for me, certainly not something as stupid as fate.”
“You were fucking me for weeks before you knew?”
“The other way around, but yes.”
“Tridentarius, promise me on Coronabeth’s life that you are not lying to me right now. You didn’t fake it.”
“Fuck you, Nonagesimus,” Ianthe says, as cruelly as she ever has said anything to the woman.
“It’s the only thing I would ever trust you on,” Harrow says, unabashedly.
Well, she’s got her, there.
Ianthe looks Harrow directly in the eye. “I promise on Beth’s life that I didn’t fake this stupid bone, and I didn’t know about yours until last week.”
Harrow falls back down onto her knees, looking like someone has hauled off and slapped her. “Fuck,” she breathes.
“We could,” Ianthe says, brightly. This is getting far too serious and embarrassing for her tastes. “I’ve only been properly inside you, once. There’s so much I still have to show you, Harry.”
Harrow’s pupils dilate even as she crosses her arms and tries to look like a boring, disapproving nun. “We will not speak of this again?” she demands. But Ianthe can see the desperate pleading in her eyes. This is too much for her, on top of everything else going on, right now. Ianthe had known that. Had prepared herself for it.
It still stings.
“Happily,” she agrees, too cheerful and a bit demented sounding. Harrow’s eyebrow raises, almost in concern. “Now, are you going to let me fuck you again, or not?”
Harrow’s eyes immediately drop down to Ianthe’s crotch. “I suppose that would be amenable,” she says, primly. It doesn’t conceal the way that her chest has gone ragged, voice a little breathy.
Ianthe pulls Harrow down on top of her, clothes discarded and flesh magic quickly working as she kisses Harrow soundlessly. Harrow’s mouth immediately goes to her breast when Ianthe releases her, and she groans and leans up into the touch. Fiddling quickly to align herself, she slides up into Harrow and delights in the catch of her breath and the bite of her teeth. Harrow can bite her any time that she wants. Ianthe would let Harrow eat her alive, if she wanted to. Even if that’s not really Ninth’s style. Neither of them are Ninth or Third, anymore. Not really. They’re something else entirely and immortality is awaiting them, if they stay smart and careful.
Harrow rolls her hips and starts to fuck Ianthe with purpose. Ianthe holds on. Her palms are clinging to Harrow’s upper arms, fingers pressing against the ilium mark. Ianthe leans up and bites it, like she always said that she would. The difference here, is that she doesn’t bite it off. She wants it there, as much as that thought scares her. Harrow pushes her back down into the bed and increases the pace of her hips. “God, Harry,” Ianthe moans. “You’ve gotten really good at this in the last five seconds.”
“I’m a quick learner,” Harrow says, a hint of smugness to her tone.
“Yes, you are.”
Harrow’s palm grips Ianthe’s neck. She squeezes, just the slightest bit, and her own finger brushes against the spot where Ianthe knows her mark rests. Harrow’s eyes lock onto hers. The rhythm of her hips is unrelenting and delicious. Harrow holds eye contact as she leans forward, and then she bites Ianthe’s mark, too.
Knew what Ianthe was doing, then. Not much gets past Harrowhark the First. Experimental brain surgery or not.
Harrow increases the pace as she bites down on Ianthe’s nipple. “Harry!” Ianthe gasps, coming the moment Harrow’s teeth bite down. Harrow might not want to talk about it right now, but she’s not actually going to ignore it—not forever. They’ve got a very long lifetime ahead of them.
Ianthe can be patient.
Harrow comes a moment later, Ianthe’s name on her lips, and Ianthe beams. Yes, she can be patient. They’ve got all the time in the world.
Ianthe opens her mouth, and bites down onto Harrow, a smile pulling on both their lips.