XLV. Silver or Lead (Plata o Plomo)

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Lolita heard nightly prayers.

Embellished in ornery and scorn, the night called to Lolita. Ghosts whispering in the wind. A bell tolled in Aquinasʼ Tower, fashioned in the center of the Rose Gardens, and as Robin stepped on the golden rimmed balcony – gripping Lafayette Royceʼs forty thousand dollar check tightly – the richness of the bellʼs pristine chimes grew intoxicating. Enticing as song: effervescent, innocuous. The bells were musical, serenading the Sirensʼ Moat and the cold opulence of Prince Manor with a carnality. Robin closed her eyes as the carnality of the darkness laced her into the Nightʼs arms. Intricately, artfully. The bells chimed, the Motherʼs Moon glistened with silvery omnipotence.

When the Motherʼs light donned on Aquinasʼ

Tower, gracing it with tears from the Nightʼs

sky, the wailing of the Faith's Sisters brought upon an angelic sorrow to the Order of the Dragon. Aquinasʼ Tower strung together its pearly dress with the lasciviousness of a French courtesan, and as its powdery hair glistened in the night, the Tower's head still had fallen. Death, that was the source of the screams. The Faithʼs Sisters – the Orderʼs nuns – they were grieving the death of someone in the tower Robin was entranced by. Mourning someone important. Incense billowed from the windows of Aquinasʼ Tower, the Mists from Hevene kissed the perimeter of Prince Manor, and they screamed just as loudly as the Faithʼs Sisters did.

Thatʼs where Lolita heard nightly prayers.

And in the decadence, thatʼs where Lolita heard a raspy chuckle, too. Low and lush in its Catalan roughness.

"Mmm, this oneʼs greedy."

"There was a Japanese lilt in this manʼs tongue – lusty and forceful. Predatory, the man looked down at Lolita, with Herculean arms and tattoos that were grotesquely carved into his arms with a grisly, violent edge. Remedios DeMarcus, Robinʼs brother, he was a man with a risqué hunger. His eyes were shiny as pools of coal oil, venomous as a viperʼs, and he was intimidatingly built. His skin had spent its youth baking in the Japanese sun, his body worn with the fleshy, pulpy scars Mexican freemasons sawed into his body, and when he touched her chin, she practically heated up at the delicacy, the intimacy.

"She prefers girls, Remedios."

Greed was the gratifying feeling of Remediosʼ

kisses. With a feverish need, it consumed her. Remedios tore at her dress, freeing her br*asts from the Valhallan fabric with an animalistic hunger, and plundered. Sprawled on his lap, Lolita felt his stubble brush her face with intoxicating fervor and gasped. Their lips kissed one anotherʼs with bruising intent, their grunts addictive, their writhing bodies and her pornographic whines absolutely insatiable. ​His kisses were so rage-filled, so ravenous, so rambunctious and rough that it whipped him into control. Gliding her fingers into his hair, Lolita gripped the silky black curls with a hungry hatred, and yanked by the roots. Greed was the gratifying feeling of Remediosʼ kisses, but Lolita, too, was greedy.

So, so, greedy.

"She prefers political power. Like I said; greedy."

And with that, Remedios brushed his fingers against Lolitaʼs abdomen. Trailing inside her slowly, suddenly, capturing her gaze with the carnal, carnivorous look in his eyes. Remedios DeMarcus was poison, a fruitful red wine that was as toxic as it was tart, and when she gasped against his mouth, the poison felt delicious. The friction of his fingers heaven incarnate. He moved with the grace of a pianist, with the precision of one, and his precision are addictive. Her breath hitched, her back arched, his fingers filled to the brim, to the hilt, and she lost herself in the poisonous delight. Wrapping her lips around a Swedish strawberry, Robin leaned back and listened to her brother pleasure Lolita, licking the chocolate clean. She stared at the two of them subtly, frowning, her voice laced with anger.

"You have a husband, a mistress, and sixteen children with both of them, brother. You should try being a bit more discreet."

"You shouldnʼt worry, little sister. Junjie and Xia have paramours of their own, and they are very happy with our arrangement," Remedios mused. "You always worry. Itʼs starting to show, and you know these Americans. How they act. How paranoid they can be. You show weakness and they will stab you in the back with the first chance they get. You need to stop worrying, little sister. Peter Tudor is dead. Good riddance to the man."

A beat.

Robin moved away from her brother.

"You never worry about anything, Remedios."

The old heat from the Towerʼs fire burned like the new blood spilled by the DeMarcus siblings, shrieking against the blackening sky. With a sky filled with smoke forewarning the forthcoming of something dark, Lolita watched the Orderʼs saers burn Peter under the bane of the lifeless moon. Flares mounted towards the clouds, a plume of smoke and ash rose to the sky in a mushroom cloud, seeking, taking, claiming lives in itʼs wake, Lolita listened to the sharp hiss of Peterʼs molten body. In the bloodiness of the Everlasting Night, Remedios sought warmth in comforting his little sister, and Robin sought comfort in alcohol along the Corinthian balcony of Le Petit Trianon. Remedios spoke softly.

"The saers gave him wyvernʼs milk that the Scholars harvested. Pyro saw to it himself. A fresh, pure remedy to ease his pain. Heʼs dead, Robin. Thereʼs no way it can be traced back to us."

Lolita watched the moon burn brightly, caught up in the intimate conversations of the dark hours. Robin was pensive, the silk of her see-through robe billowing in the breeze. Most within the Order would be absolutely outraged and deeply disturbed to see their siblings dressed in a s*xual way, but Remedios took no mind to it. Almost as if theyʼd seen each other this way before.

"Was he peaceful, in his final hours?" Robin asked.

Remediosʼ eyes hardened at that question, leaning against the balcony as she sipped her red wine with the same hardness.

"Why do you care, hermanita? Peter was a vile, disgusting man with a sadistic agenda. Peter violated you, took advantage of you, p*mped you out to the Princes. You were nothing but a docile little wh*re in that manʼs eyes. Oedipus made man. Screw him. You owe Peter Tudor no favors."

Looking ahead, Robin closed her eyes and Lolita felt her pulse quicken. Racing through her, surging through her, as a rapidly played instrument would await an orchestral heartbeat. Fear ran through, raw in its omnipotence, and when Robin stilled, Lolita swore she picked up on it: on Robin figuring out Lolita knew Latin American Spanish, knew the Spanish of the Gods before they conceived the Andalusian tongue. The fear she felt was beautiful, a high that knew no bounds, the thrill of the the rush, and in the chaos...

Any means of protest, of suspicion was doused in a wave of gut-wrenching terror that foreshadowed what came next.

The Queen had a thousand eyes.

And she was most certainly watching.

"Night has a thousand eyes," Robin murmured, sullen. "Do you remember Caïn telling us that in Scotland?"

"He was our father, Robin."

"He wasnʼt a father, Remedios. A father doesnʼt have four children with one woman and stand idly by as his mistress rips his entire family apart. Caïn Dunkeld was many things, Remedios, but he wasnʼt a father."

"His ego got him in the end," Remedios countered.

Robin stared at the Tower with a renewed sense of malignancy, of venom. It was fascinating to Lolita.

"Desdemona de Mediciʼs cheap Italian p**sy got Caïn in the end, Peter Tudorʼa limp American d*ck got Peter Tudor in the end, Thatcher Princeʼs incendiary ignorance will get the Order in the end, Lady Luckʼs proclivity for violence will get the Hellbenders in the end. Filthy affairs and foolish political scheming are what gets everyone in the end."

"For night has a thousand eyes, and when the levee breaks, those eyes can be what creates a dynasty that lasts a thousand years, or can be what burns everything to the ground," Remedios finished, impatient.

"Yes. A thousand little eyes threaten our power, our family, Remedios, just like Caïn warned us. Peter Tudor was an emissary between the Order and the Hellbenders. A diplomat who could break bread between two feuding powerhouses that could rip the world apart. And now, heʼs dead. The Hellbenders are already wary of me, same with the courtiers in this Order. Business in South America is hostile because of the instability in the Order. How could you be so stupid?"

"Remedios snarled.

"A thousand little eyes and a child m*lester are all weak, insolent harpies flocking to whoever f*cks them into power and wealth. Peter Tudor handed Henri, his son, his textile companies in the Congo that he co-owns with de Medici. Deep-rooted in African slavery. In his wake, he also left a sh*t-ton of corruption allegations at his sonʼs feet. He and the Patrician are apparently using hush money from the textile revenue to push for abortion. The Tudors and the Hawthornes, members of the Faith, theyʼve been warring over that scandal. Peter Tudor left this world a greedy man. Weakening his familyʼs position will make it easier for us to get what we want. What weʼve always wanted. The Hawthornes and Henri Tudor are more homicidal than we are. Itʼs perfect bait."

She cupped his face with her hand and her eyes with a knifelike sharpness. Not tenderly, not with endearment, not with a sisterly comfort. Breathing him in, as if she were sizing him up, Robin gripped him ​– hungry for new blood, fresh blood, true blood. Remedios glared with an ethereal air ghosting over him, and when Robin let him go, Lolita swore her heart skipped a beat. In lust, in anticipation.

"No, Remedios. Itʼs too easy."

He stifled his laughter. Hysterical, insane. Madness swallowed his eyes, subtle tears as his sharp teeth cut through the tense silence with brute force.

"Too easy?"

"Reina Santiago is alive, Remedios. She knows about us; Peter knew about us. What weʼve done, what Iʼve done."

The silhouettes of Aquinasʼ shadows kissed their faces as Robin leaned against the balcony, hands folded along the railing. Ash skirted along the planes of hard muscle and the harsher skin of the Orderly architecture, and to that, Robin clenched her jaw.

"The Ellises, the family that governed the Order before Thatcher Princeʼs mother Guinevere did, they built an empire like their forefathers before them. By recreating history, by tempting fate, by slaughtering their way to the top. Manipulation and bloodshed are things Desdemona Prince has always known. She runs the Order with her husbandʼs iron fist, and will do whatever it takes to keep her and her husband in power. Peter and Reina would be soft targets for Desdemona if they were on her radar. Itʼs too easy."

Remedios drummed his fingers against the desk.

"Peter Tudor was a businessman. He knew when to tell his secrets and when to hide them. He and Desdemona werenʼt confidants; hell, it was rumored he trusted the children he took to bed more than an entitled Italian heiress."

Robin stared ahead.

"Peter Tudor gave his son his fortune for a reason. He wh*re his way to the top of the Orderʼs court for a reason. He doted on religious filth and patricians for a reason. Itʼs too easy. Night has a thousand eyes, and Peterʼs daughter is back from the dead to find a thousand more."

Another beat. Lolitaʼs eyes lit up with mirth at all the dirty laundry that was aired. Grabbing a half-empty bottle of foamy, frothy dishwater soap, Lolita applied it to the floors in brief sprits and listened to the Faithʼs Sisters lament their sorrow: endlessly crying, sobbing, tears gushing. The linens were stark and crisp, the kettle of coffee – black and raw – singing, just like Robin DeMarcus did.

Lolita listened intently.

"What if he told someone about your plans? Or what if Reina poisons the Order with rumors about who murdered him, about how he died? What if he told someone, Remedios?"

"And who would he tell?"

"My fiancé. Desdemona. Even in Milan, she has an army of spies at her disposal. They have the most to lose, and the most to gain, from her."

"If Peter told your fiancé or your mother-in-law, both our heads would be mantelpieces in Sebastianʼs study and his marriage proposal to Katarina dʼAragon would be set in motion. Whatever Peter knew or didnʼt know died with him. Pyro confirmed his death to be of natural causes. If Reina Santiagoʼs next move is to conspire to ruin us with her brother, not a person alive will believe her childish gossip. And life will go on."

To that, Robin eased up a little.

"And Ruth? His wife?"

"Sheʼs a Hijazi noblewoman. Their divorce made her spiral into dementia. I doubt she even knows or cares."

Like a moth drawn to a flame, Robin watched the Tower. Mournful tapestries flowed from the tower like cigarette smoke from blackened lips, and adrenaline floundered around in the breathless, chilly air. A divine taste, a harkening taste. Lolitaʼs blood grew cold, leeching off of her veins as Robin spoke the way her mother was rumored to speak.

Calculatedly.

"Doubt is the one luxury I cannot afford, Remedios."

But night had a thousand eyes.

A thousand little eyes that burned around them and Robin could afford the luxury of torture, of suffering, of revenge. She always craved it the way she craved the Motherʼs blood. The manors around the Seadragonʼs Palace lurked about, the sacrosanct paranoia of Hallowʼs Eve veiled by the shadowsʼ brides, the wine was their heavenly demon, their holy pride, anchoring them to Aquinasʼ bay. And when they all had a moment to breathe, and Lolita had a moment to continue her clean little façade, Remedios stared on, watching his sisterʼs murky stare fade into the distance.

Unsettled, Lolita stared back and realized why her stare faded into the distance. Robin was staring directly at her.

Lolitaʼs heart dropped.

She knew, she knew, she knew –

"Doubt is a disease that infects the mind. Peter Tudor is dead, and all those little eyes are on those who are on the Scottish throne. Doubt will poison people against us, and doubt will poison them against the Princes."

A beat.

"Weʼre evil people, Remedios. Thereʼs no coming back from that. "

"Evil? No, little sister, we arenʼt evil. Who can say weʼre evil when the Order has always played dirty? Who can say weʼre evil when we play their games better than they do? No, weʼre not evil. They are the evil ones. Blood is all they have ever known."

When Remedios motioned for Lolita to fetch him a cup of old Joe, Robin and Remedios escaped the chilly violence of the storm with the skin of their teeth. When the foamy coppery droplets of coffee splashed his frothy glass, the storm waged on outside. Like a duplicitous December, the storm grew insatiable like Lolitaʼs hunger for Robinʼs body, for her politics, for her beauty – and the snow fell in large, damning flakes. Crystallized shards cascading towards them with a sharp desire to stave away from all humankind.

Remedios, on the other hand, his eyes were gilded in Catalan gold. The Wolf of Westhill, with his motherʼs Cuban blood thundering through his eyes scornfully.

"The American people, the South American people, the European people, the Asian people, the Australian people, the African people, the Orderʼs people, they donʼt know whatʼs best for them. Theyʼre full of good intentions, but they donʼt know whatʼs best for them. Theyʼre full of naive intentions.

"Enslaved by foolish ambitions. They don't know what they want; what they need. We do.

We know exactly what they need. We have to hold their sticky fingers and wipe their filthy mouths and pamper and coddle and hug and kiss them to make them feel whole. We fatten their bodies with gluttonous food and we let their men fetishize our women for the humble privilege of not getting branded as criminals and being gutted like dogs once the abuse kicks in.

"We spread the American lie, propping them up and applauding their pathetic mediocrity just to feed our children. To keep them safe, to protect them. Writing their wildest dreams, crafting their fantasies while starving ours. We recite anything star-spangled and red, white, and blue, so our children never shoulder the load our ancestorsʼ sold their souls for, the price of survival. Of freedom. Of salvation.

"In Venezuela, people are so hungry there are rumors of cannibalism being reality. In Uruguay, water is so scarce itʼs being privatized: handed over to corrupt global empires. In C-uba, women that protest in the streets are beaten in prisons. You tread water for as long as you can, until you canʼt anymore, hermanita. So we give them the world.

"And to pay us back by calling us wet backs and spitting on the land we harvest for them and the puking out the food that fattens their bellies and abandoning the American dream by sending us to the slaughter – to the countries that want our heads on a pike – all to keep their white supremacist wet-dreams alive!"

Remediosʼ gaze hardened, borderline murderous.

"We are not evil. We are the nightʼs little eyes. We are the Orderʼs vicious cabaret. We are immortal. We are the broken backs of democracy. We are powerʼs kings and queens. We are Chaosʼmuse. We are the hell and the high water of this world. Did I not raise you to be better, hermanita? Did I not make you my most beautiful creation? Only to have you settle for second best? What did I say you had to be, Robin?"

"Remedios–"

"What did I say to you?"

"You have to be twice as good–"

"TWICE AS GOOD TO GET HALF OF WHAT THEY HAVE!"

Remediosʼ anger was all too consuming. Every word, every syllable, every phrase that flowed from his lips, those damned succulent lips, made rage flare through his sister like a flash flood. Wincing, Robinʼs eyes flushed with bitter, angry tears.

"Itʼs not enough to take the Order, Remedios. Peter Tudor is dead. "

"And may the Tudor c*nt rest in peace," Remedios muttered, scoffing.

"Not enough. The Robin DeMarcus I raised didnʼt settle for something not being enough. The Robin DeMarcus I raised would have ripped Peter Tudor apart limb-by-limb and bathed in his blood; the Robin DeMarcus I raised was a master manipulator. A doting daughter, a pliant fiancé, a blushing bride, a ruthless mother. The Robin DeMarcus I raised was a mass murderer and lured men and women to her bed with the same glorious horror.

"The Robin DeMarcus I raised wouldnʼt

mourn her firstbornʼs death and spend ten years weeping over the OʼMalley lover she betrayed. The Robin DeMarcus I raised would avenge them."  

"And what were you raised to do, Remedios?"

"I was raised to kill my enemies, little sister. To win at any cost."

"As was I, brother." 

Cocooned in the softness of Robinʼs whispery voice, Remediosʼ face hardened, his hands cupping Robinʼs forearms. Constricting them, cinching them. In that moment, all the chess pieces of Remediosʼ chessboard were sprawled on the desk. Obscured by a deadly, violent fortune. His words ghosted over them, prophesied by Satanic sermons, and as he stared at her with steely, vengeful, eyes, Lolita swore she saw Robinʼs grow just as bloodthirsty.

"Then letʼs take a howl at that moon together, Robin. Take a stab at these thousand little eyes. Desdemona Prince stole the future from us. She raped you, she killed your children, she tortured me, she ruined mine. Silver or lead, little sister. Silver or lead. Gold or death. Fortune or violence. Grief or revenge. You decide."

Silence. Bone-chilling, nerve-wracking silence. Thatʼs all sheʼd ever known, all the Odd Man ever knew, all the DeMarcus siblings ever knew. Silence.

The beginning of the end.

"Lead, brother," Robin choked.

Remedios grinned. Heavenʼs ill-gotten face, torn by greed and tormented by granular pain.

"Then, letʼs begin."

"How, Remedios?"

"Weʼre going to steal The Scottish Play. Weʼre going to take back what was ours."

Robinʼs face grew hollow. Hellʼs damned visage, ruined by agony and reaping what her lifebloodʼs sins had sowed.

"And how are we going to do that?"

A beat. A cheshire catʼs smile etched on her body. A slimy, slippery look as vicious as a Spanish vice.

"Weʼre going to invoke the Gods."