Private Blood and Fire

[Thelma Goth]

To summon the Baron, a bocor must make a blood sacrifice. No cutting of the palm would do in this case; he would not accept such a meager offering. Titus paid a local farmer for an old pig destined to be slaughtered anyway.

One cannot casually conduct an animal sacrifice in the middle of a resort town. Luckily Summerhaven was surrounded by thick forests, which provided ample cover from the prying eyes of nosy tourists. Thus, the Bizango made their way into the wilderness. Night had fallen and it was wonderfully dark. Their colorful procession passed unnoticed by the squirrels and birds, who went about their business as nature intended.

Byron picked the spot, a clearing smack dab in the middle of the woods. He sprinkled powder on the mossy ground in the shape of the Baron's veve: a stylized Necropolitan tombstone flanked on either side by coffins. The symbolism was about as subtle as a brick through a window, but then so was the Baron himself. When he was finished Byron gestured to Titus, who held the squirming pig in his scaly claws. "Proceed."

A dagger flashed. Blood spilled on the powdered leaves, hot and earthy-rich. Byron's lips parted in a fanged smile, his mouth watering at the smell. He raised his eyes to the skies and spread his arms, his voice echoing through the valley.

"I call on you, Baron! I, Byron Devorak, your chosen. Come to me! Join with me!"

The change was swift and sudden; one moment he was standing tall, and in the next he lurched forward on his hands and knees, feeling as if he had been kicked down from behind. A strangled moan escaped his lips. He'd done this before, many times, with dark joy in his heart. But now, after Werdegast's murder, he was filled with resentment. Hatred, even, for the being he had once worshiped.

It did not matter how he felt. The foreign spirit took possession of him utterly, seizing control. Any defiance was immediately trampled, his body bridled and forced into submission.

The being which rose to its feet was a different creature altogether. Two souls looked out of his gray eyes. The bocors bowed in reverence to their patron loa, now occupying Byron's body. He flexed his fingers, relishing in the physicality of his form, then scanned the faces around them. "One of you is missing. Where is Mr. Crowley?"

"He has fled," Titus answered, lifting his lowered head. "We have been unable to find him."

"He cannot flee from me." The Baron waved a hand. The air rippled and split, and from the tear emerged Anton Crowley. "There. That's better. I like my rainbow to have all of its colors."

Anton's expression contorted in surprise, then fear. "M-My lord--"

"Be still. The Baron speaks." The Baron's tone was mischievous, but with a threatening undercurrent. "Well, you have my attention. What is it you want?"

Folasade stepped forward. "Byron has caused too much trouble. We need a new Grandmaster..." While she spoke, the Baron stalked toward her, closing the distance between them until their bodies were nearly touching. Folasade's breath caught in her throat. She was trembling, frightened... and yet terribly drawn to him.

"Folasade," he purred her name slowly, tasting every syllable. "You want so badly to be of use to me, don't you? You long to be my chosen, to be mine. But you are not worthy."

She shuddered. He swept his gaze over the others. "I made Byron your Grandmaster. Do you dare defy me? None of you have what it takes to be my chosen!"

The bocors cowered in fear. "I-I would never do such a thing!" Anton stammered. "Please, my lord Baron. I have no part of whatever is going on here..."

"Stop begging, Anzati," the Baron snapped, then smiled cruelly at him. "You are more dignified than this, I know it. As for the rest of you, cease this foolishness. Byron is my chosen. He speaks for me. His hand is my hand. You will obey his counsel and respect his decisions."

Even as the Baron spoke to them, he carried on a very different conversation within Byron's mind. <I know the secret desires of your heart. The things you won’t admit even to yourself. I can give you what you want most.>

<And what might that be?> Byron asked.

He felt the Baron smirk. <Thelma.>

Byron’s heart pounded in his chest. He despised the Baron, but he wanted Thelma even more. <What's in it for you, Baron?>

<You have admired her from afar, yearning and pining for her—yet unwilling to admit your affections. But you do love her, Byron. She is drawn to you, but she fears you. Just as she fears her own nature.>

<Why does this concern you?> Byron asked irritably.

<Because she needs an heir.> The Baron's thought-speak didn't mince words. <Her empire hangs in the balance. If she loses control of the underworld, there will be chaos. That does not benefit you, nor will it benefit me. I can help you win her heart and save the dynasty.>

<How?>

 

[Thelma Goth]

​

Meanwhile...

​

Thelma stood in the ruins of her shop in the city of Lamont, miles away from Summerhaven. It was the last time she would ever visit the place which had once been her sanctuary.

So much had changed in her life these past few years. The massacre at the Citadel felt as if it had happened in the last century. Her time in the NJO, a decade ago. Now that the GA had fallen, even the status quo of the galaxy was little more than a memory, growing more distant from the present with each passing moment.

She sighed and walked over to the remnants of her workshop. Her sewing machine lay overturned and broken on the floor, blasted to bits. She stepped over it carefully, reaching the hutch against the wall. Bolts of fabric lay in the shelves and cubbies, stained with dust, soot, and carbon scoring. She rifled through them, finding a bolt of white satin which was miraculously intact. Tucking it under her arm, she opened a drawer and retrieved her old sewing kit, the little tin full of needles and pins and spools of thread fitting perfectly in the palm of her small hand.

Finally she sat down and began to cut the fabric. She didn't really have a clear idea of what this garment would be, but she knew her measurements by heart. The Force would guide the rest. She would sew this garment by hand, the way she had been taught by the Barbaroi sisters so long ago.

 

[Jaina Grayson]

The atmosphere in Lamont was full of tension. The fall of the Alliance meant that Necropolis, for the first time in generations, was factionless. That meant no protection from invasion. At any moment, a foreign power could arrive from hyperspace and lay claim to their world. Or worse...

But the fear in the air didn't seem to affect Jaina as she breezed down the street in her landspeeder. It had been about a week since Aramis proposed to her, and she felt like she was hovering through the clouds rather than slightly above gray pavement. Everything seemed a little lighter, a little brighter. For once in her existence, the biotic woman was truly happy.

She had already begun planning the wedding. It would be a small affair, more of an elopement than a big party. Aramis wasn't on good terms with most of his family, and Jaina had nobody, so they had kept the guest list limited to close friends. Despite this, Jaina was determined to go all-out, sparing no expense. She would have her dream wedding, whether anybody showed up or not.

Today she was going dress shopping. She had already decided she would have a dress custom made to her measurements. Her research determined that the best tailor in town - maybe in the entire galaxy - was none other than Thelma Goth. Helluva name, that, especially for Necropolis. Before heading to her shop, Jaina switched to her Civilian Form. Deep down she may have felt that her Warrior Form was her "true" self, but that didn't mean she was comfortable with that truth. Nor did she want to get married in it. No, her Civilian Form was the one Aramis had proclaimed his love to, though she didn't dare ask him which one he preferred...

Once she was ready, she headed for Thelma's shop immediately, eager to commission her gown. But when she arrived, she found the storefront in shambles.

"What the..." Jaina murmured incredulously, climbing out of her speeder. Her orange eyes were fixed on the broken glass and busted door of the shop. "Am I in the right place?" Even though she could see the sign underneath the rubble, she checked Holo Maps to be sure. The address was correct.

She stepped over the rubble around the entrance and into the shop. It was in similar disarray, full of dust and debris. "Looks like this place was shot up..." she noted to herself, following the trail of destruction deeper into the building.

 

[Jaina Grayson]

When she turned the corner to the workshop in the back, she found Thelma sitting there sewing. Both women were startled by the other's presence, reaching for their respective weapons: Jaina her vibroaxe, Thelma her lightsaber.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Thelma demanded.

"My name is Jaina. I'm here to commission Thelma Goth. But uh, it looks like this place is no longer in business..." She trailed off, looking around at the wrecked workshop. "What happened here?"

"Someone wanted me dead," Thelma answered. "They sent hunters here to kill me. I got away, but the shop was destroyed. I haven't had a chance to clean it up, and now I never will."

"Oh." Jaina put her weapon away. "Sorry to hear that. I take it you're Thelma?" As she studied the little redhead's face, she immediately noticed the paleness of her skin, her long and thin fingers, and the pinpricks of purple light in the middle of her pupils. Thelma was a Psy-Pire, though not a purebred one. She was some sort of mix. Interesting...

"In the flesh." Thelma set the scrap of fabric she had been sewing aside, unaware that Jaina had already deduced her secret. "You said you wanted to commission something?"

"My wedding dress," Jaina replied. "But if you're not up to it, that's fine."

Thelma's violet eyes brightened. "A wedding dress? I haven't made one of those since Corazona von Ascania got married the first time." She sighed. "That marriage went out the window."

Jaina, who had no idea what she was talking about, scratched her head. "So, is there a chance you can make mine? Budget doesn't matter. I can pay for any expenses. I'll even have this place fixed up for ya."

"That is very kind of you. But I don't think I'll be staying here much longer. In fact, you may just be my last commission..." Thelma pulled out a large datapad and stylus. "Do you know what you want for the dress?"

Her words were foreboding. Jaina filed the info away for later. "Oh, I'm bursting at the seams with ideas!" she joked, pulling out her own datapad. "I've got some reference pictures here..."

 

[Jaina Grayson]

If anything, Jaina had too many pictures representing too many ideas, with very little cohesion to bind them together. She wanted to honor her Atrisian heritage and the Necropolitan traditions of the planet she called home, but she also wanted to incorporate Hapan influences as well. And what wedding gown was complete without a bit of Naboo royal fashion?

The result was a mess of different styles, fabrics, and designs. She couldn't even decide on what color she wanted the dress to be. White was classic, but what about blue? Silver? Gold? Purple? Pink, or even black? Rainbow?!

"Well, this is... a lot," Thelma said, pausing to take a break. She had made numerous sketches in the past couple hours, none of them quite what Jaina wanted. "Maybe you should narrow down your list a bit more. Pick only the elements which matter most to you."

"That's going to be tough." Jaina ran a hand through her hair. It had been a surreal consultation, planning her wedding dress in the midst of the shop ruins. But it had also been fun. "Are you tired?" she asked.

"No. Just... hungry."

"Heh. You're a Psy-Pire, aren't you?" When Thelma looked startled, Jaina gently added, "It's okay. I'm a Psy-Pire too." In fact, she had been spliced with the DNA of the Arch Psy-Pire herself, Nine Lives. Or at least, the original biot she had been copied from was.

For a moment Thelma seemed ready to deny it, purely out of habit. But then the tension in her shoulders relaxed. "I suppose it would be obvious to another one of our kind. But... Your aura in the Force is strange."

"Probably because I don't have one," Jaina replied cheerfully. "Well, what do you say we go grab a bite? It's the least I can do after taking up so much of your time today."

"That's kind of you..." Thelma muttered. "But I don't feed."

"What do you mean?"

"I only eat human food."

Jaina blinked incredulously. A Psy-Pire could survive on "human food", as she called it, but they'd be perpetually malnourished and would have to eat constantly just to maintain basic functionality. From the looks of her, Thelma was barely able to do that. "Starving yourself isn't healthy," Jaina said, her tone gentle. "I know it can be difficult to catch prey--"

"I have no choice," Thelma interrupted. "If I feed, I'll go crazy. That's what happened to my mother." She met Jaina's gaze, sorrow in her eyes. "I don't know how it is for you, but that's how it is for me. I lose myself in the memories I consume, whether sentient or animal."

"That sounds... intense." Jaina's own feeding was nowhere near as overwhelming. The memories she consumed were basically just converted to pure energy, a fuel to power her biotic matrix. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother."

"She's dead. We had to kill her." Thelma seemed to be retreating inward, closing herself off from Jaina. But there was a little light at the end of the tunnel. "It is nice, being able to meet another Psy-Pire. I don't see many of our kind anymore."

"No, you don't," Jaina agreed. Even the Progenitor had seemingly disappeared with the fall of the GA. Jaina started gathering her things, figuring this was her cue to leave. But she didn't want to depart on such a bleak note. "You know, Thelma - maybe all you need to do is find someone with memories worth absorbing. Someone you wouldn't mind becoming."

Thelma didn't respond, but Jaina thought she detected thoughtfulness in the redhead's gaze. "Contact me when you've decided on what you want for your dress," she said. "I'll be waiting."

 

[Thelma Goth]

As soon as she heard the door slide shut, signaling Jaina's departure, Thelma heaved a sigh. She returned to her desk and picked up the white satin she had been working with. The cutting was finished, the pieces lying together on her desk.

Her dressform had been destroyed in the shooting, but she had a spare one hidden away in a closet. She retrieved the mannequin and began pinning the fabric to it. As she did, the silhouette took shape, clarifying the image in her mind. Off-shoulder with slight draping across the bust, an empire waist and elegant mutton sleeves. It could easily have been a wedding gown...

She sensed a familiar presence approaching. Moments later, the door opened and in walked Byron Devorak. Thelma's brow furrowed. "You didn't tell me you were coming here," she called out. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," Byron muttered, picking his way through the rubble at a hurried pace to reach her in the back. "Nothing is wrong, my dear. I simply wanted to see you. Perhaps I should've called, but I came straight here..."

A feeling of apprehension began to churn in her gut as he stepped into the remains of her office. Byron looked disheveled and breathless, as if he had run all the way there. And his eyes... "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"I said I wanted to see you, didn't I?" He flashed her a fanged grin, and the strange intensity of his gaze lessened. Flicking his magnificent Cloak behind him, he perched himself on the edge of her desk. "I just came from a meeting with the Bizango - that is what we call a gathering of the great bocors of Dahrtag. I am the Grandmaster of the Bizango, the Baron's chosen. But my fellow bocors wanted to demote me. Imagine!" He laughed. "Good thing the Bizango isn't a democracy. They had to summon the Baron to ask him to pick another Grandmaster. He refused, of course."

Thelma was unfamiliar with the internal politics and rituals of the bocors. She could sense the Dark Side in Byron, and assumed the same went for the rest of them, but she couldn't help her fascination. "Were the others angry?" she asked.

"They were terrified. The Baron is a wrathful loa, not to be crossed or trifled with. They were lucky he let them go unscathed." His smirk faltered, a shadow passing over his face. "I wasn't so lucky."

"Did the Baron hurt you?" Thelma asked, eyes widening with concern.

"Nothing so simple as that." Byron rubbed his hand over his thigh, weighing his words carefully. "The truth is, I don't want to be the Grandmaster anymore. Oh yes, I have so much power, all thanks to the Baron. But I can only use it in ways he approves of. I can move mountains, but only if he wishes it. I can kill my enemies with a wave of my hand, but only if they are also his enemies. I can even stop people from dying, but only if he wants them to live..."

She watched transfixed as a tear trickled from his pale gray eye. Vampires do not often cry; it is not in their nature to grieve or lament. They can weep but once in a thousand years. She never would have thought she would see Byron shed a tear. "What is it?" she whispered, taking a step toward him and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Werdegast," he murmured, taking a deep steadying breath. "Your great-grandfather. He was my boss, but he was also my friend. When he lay dying, I tried to use my power to save him. But I couldn't. And then I realized that the Baron wanted him to die." He met her gaze. "Do you know what it's like, losing your religion?"

 

[Thelma Goth]

"Yes." She sat down beside him. "I felt that way when I left the Jedi Order."

"I thought they cast you out once they found out what you were." In other words, that she hadn't left willingly.

She shook her head. "They bent over backwards trying to find ways to help me. They wanted me to stay. But I knew better. There was no chance that I could ever be like them."

"And yet, you're still fighting against your nature." Byron reached out to caress her cheek with a gloved hand. "Though it leaves you half-starved and too weak to defend yourself. No wonder you hide yourself away here..."

Though his words cut her to the quick, she didn't shrink from his touch. "I helped them kill my mother," she softly confessed. "Her nature made her go insane. I wish things were different for her. I want things to be different for me..."

"Stop fighting it."

"Don't you understand? I can't. I'll end up just like her--" She started to turn away, but he cupped her face, forcing her to look at him.

"Do you know the real reason why your mother went mad?" he asked. "She tried to be good. She would only consume the worst memories she could find, the sort of horrible things anyone would want to be rid of. What a martyr she was, helping all those people to forget, taking on their burdens - until all she could remember was the suffering of others. No wonder she went mad. It killed her soul."

"How do you know that?" Thelma whispered in disbelief.

"Search your feelings. You know it to be true."

 

[Thelma Goth]

Thelma closed her eyes. He was right. Or maybe she just wanted him to be right.

She could feel the power crackling in his Cloak as he swept it around her. But they didn't teleport away from the ruined shop. He simply held her close, wrapped in his enigmatic embrace. She breathed him in, smelling the earthy forest and the crisp mountain air and the sharp tang of spilled blood.

"Feed from me," he whispered in her ear.

Thelma's lips pulled back in a pained grimace as her fangs descended, her body betraying her. They gleamed like metallic purple daggers against her flushed lips. A strangled whine escaped her. "No..." But any resistance she might have had was feeble now that she knew the truth. She had starved herself for so long, and for what? Foolish pride. That was the true sin which she shared with her mother. Ego masquerading as morality.

"Find a happy memory. I have more of those than you might expect." He smiled at her. It was not the cruel and malevolent grin she was used to seeing on his face, but a kind and gentle curve of his mouth. It was more seductive to her than the most suggestive smirk. "I want to give it to you."

That was all it took. The last of her resolve broke, will giving way to need. She leaned forward, tilting her head into the crook of his neck, and bit down.

 

[Thelma Goth]

Several heartbeats passed. Byron bore the sting of her fangs in his neck and the accompanying paralysis with bated breath, his thoughts racing.

The Baron said this would work. All that is needed is for her to feed from me. Then she will be mine...

At last, Thelma pulled away. Blood darkened her lips and coated her teeth. She breathed deeply, seemingly in a trance as her malnourished body responded to the sudden influx of food. Her sallow skin became like smooth porcelain. Her auburn hair regained its coppery luster. The hollows of her skeletal frame filled out with new flesh, and the pinpricks of violet light at the center of her pupils glowed brighter than they ever had before.

She smiled, almost giddy... then frowned. "Byron. What did you do?" she asked hoarsely.

"You'll have to be more specific," he replied coyly. "And really, it seemed to me that you were the one doing something just now."

Thelma's brow furrowed. "I... I shouldn't have done that." She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, smearing the blood on her lips. "You shouldn't have told me to feed on you..."

"My dear, you were quite literally starving. Don't be so hard on yourself." Byron focused on the bite marks on his neck and used the Force to heal himself. "See? You did me no harm."

"I took one of your memories," she insisted guiltily. "A good memory, no less. You've lost it forever."

"Everyone forgets things." He reached out to pull her closer. "Anyway, I forgive you."

She shied away from him. "You don't even know what the memory was of."

"Then tell me, why don't you?"

"A forest," Thelma began, speaking slowly as she remembered what he had lived. "It was dark and deep and dangerous. But you weren't lost. It was your home. You felt safe there, as you never have before." She let out a little sob. "It was your happiest memory, Byron. The happiest I could find. Now do you understand?"

Byron's smile had faded. Not only could he not remember what she was talking about, he couldn't sense the memory's loss either. There were no gaps in his recollections of his life. At least, none that he knew of. But that didn't mean he hadn't lost something.

A price had to be paid. There always was one with the Baron. Nothing he gave was ever free. But the knowledge of what to do, what to say to make Thelma his forever? It was worth the loss.

At least, he hoped it was.

Once again he reached for her, this time taking her in his arms. She stiffened as he pulled her into his lap, then went soft when he kissed her mouth. He could taste his blood on her lips.

"I said I forgive you."

 

[Thelma Goth]

Thelma felt boneless in his arms. She had been in love before, was even engaged at one point. But that was before everything fell apart. She could still remember what her betrothed had said. Maybe we shouldn't have children if they'll be like you. What was the point of loving, then? What was the point of marrying, if not for the future?

Though she had rejected him, she had taken his words to heart. Maybe she wasn't meant for love and life. Maybe she was meant to die out, to waste away alone. What she wanted didn't matter. The opposite of desire was death.

But she wanted to live. She wanted a future. Children, a home, a husband. All the things which had been promised to her by her parents. All the things she had been taught to believe in, to hold sacred. To desire.

Byron stroked her hair, his voice echoing in the ruins. "Thelma Goth, daughter of Genevieve and Frederic, blood of my master... my friend. I love you and I will serve you in all the ages of your life."

"I don't want a servant," she said. "I want an equal." Her violet eyes roamed over his face. "Feed on me."

He raised his chin, his brow furrowing. Clearly he hadn't expected this. But it was a welcome surprise.

"Drink from me," she continued. "Then you'll be mine, and I will be yours."

His fingers entwined in her hair, pulling her head back and baring her milk-white neck. She swallowed, feeling his breath ghost over her throat as he leaned forward... and bit her.

He didn't take much. "I ate earlier," he explained afterwards, licking her blood from his lips. "Well, now that we're even, what shall we do?"

"Take me to my great-grandfather's house," she said, looking around the destroyed shop. "I want to be in a place less... desolate than this."

Eager to please, Byron leaped to his feet and wrapped his Cloak around her, teleporting them elsewhere...

 

[Jaina Grayson]

Already miles away, Jaina zoomed through the air in her personal airspeeder, a refurbished vintage red XJ-6. She had the top down, the wind in her hair, music blaring - on top of the world!

She was thinking about changing her last name after the wedding. Grayson was a generic surname, chosen so that she would have something to put on legal documents. It meant nothing to her. But it would mean a lot to Aramis, she thought, if she were to take his name rather than the reverse. Granted, Vaelor was his married name; it had come from Entora. She would have to ask him what his, er, maiden name had been.

Slowing to a stop, she arrived at the next place on her list: a florist. Couldn't have a wedding without flowers. Stepping out of the speeder, she headed inside...

 

[Jaina Grayson]

... Only for her comms to start ringing the moment she stepped across the threshold. It was Mara. Activating her comlink, Jaina sighed. This had better be important. "Hey girl. What's up?"

"The Patriarch is gone!" Mara all but screamed into the receiver. "No one can find him or contact him. Ourabora isn't answering either. I haven't even been able to reach the General!"

Jaina quickly ducked into the solitude and privacy of a nearby alley. "Slow down," she said. "Are you safe?"

"I-I think so. I'm on Stalsinek IV, at the Aurelai family estate. The place is falling apart, but I wasn't sure if I could stay with the Khals anymore." Mara sounded like she was having a panic attack. "Force, what if the Queen Mother has found out about Secciah? Syreeta could be in danger!"

"Okay." Jaina pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let's start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened."

"I don't know. Every other member of our operation is missing. The Patriarch, Ourabora, the others - it's like they all just disappeared overnight. Everyone except for Syreeta and me." Mara paused for a long moment, and when she next spoke, it was through tears. "The whole Hapan operation is collapsing. Right when we were so close to a breakthrough..."

As Mara had reported to Jaina, Syreeta Ming was working with the mysterious "Patriarch" to kill and replace significant members of Hapan society with rebel operatives. Ourabora Fal'shivvy, a Ducha and one of the Queen Mother's most loyal henchwomen, had been replaced by an agent of the Patriarch codenamed "Margaret". But if all of their operatives had suddenly disappeared, then they were dealing with a real crisis.

"How well have you been covering your tracks?" Jaina asked. "Would the authorities have any reason to suspect you?"

"I've always been careful. It's Syreeta I'm scared for. The Patriarch didn't know it at the time, but Secciah Khal was dying from dementia. Her family were all preparing for her death - only for her to be miraculously healed once Syreeta took her place. It's always been suspicious, but now it's even more questionable."

"I see. Have you talked to Syreeta?"

"She's here with me."

"Put her on."

Moments later, Jaina's holoprojector lit up and a hologram of Syreeta - still in the form of the Ducha of Harterra - appeared. "Greetings, Jaina," she said with a bow.

"Mara's already filled me in on your situation. Have you decided how to proceed?"

Syreeta tilted her head. "I am considering pulling the plug. Secciah was never a good candidate for replacement, and I... I confess that I was never comfortable with the whole idea of replacing people. It has been difficult for me to lie to the people who knew her, pretending to be this person that I killed and... absorbed."

Yeah, Jaina could understand how that might be really weird and not fun. "I think you're right. It's time to let Secciah go. Make it look as if she died peacefully from natural causes." That at least would offer some comfort to her loved ones. Assuming she had any.

 

[Mara Aurelai]

On Stalsinek IV, Mara and Syreeta turned to face each other. "If you stop being Secciah, does that mean... I won't see you again?" Mara asked.

"I don't know," Syreeta replied. "Perhaps we will meet again. But it may be a long time hence."

Mara was overcome with emotions she had never felt before. Sadness, grief, longing for her friend to stay and yet determination that she must go for her safety. She reached for Syreeta's hand. "I'm glad that I met you," she said tearfully. "And I'll miss you when you're gone."

Syreeta was moved by her words, clasping Mara's hand between hers. "There will be a ball on Naboo tomorrow night. Let's have one last hurrah. I'll pretend to get drunk and insult you."

Mara couldn't help but laugh through her tears. "I'll cry into the shoulder of some handsome cad."

"We'll have the time of our lives, pretending to be awful people."

"Oh, I'm sure there will be plenty of those at the ball. Let's pretend to be good instead, just this once."

---

They did just that, though a bit of true feeling winded up poking through the pretend. After dumping her trauma on Romin Renoux, Mara finished her wine and left the bar. She found Syreeta on the dance floor, pretending to be intoxicated as she busted it down granny style.

"Come on now, Your Grace. Let's get you home," Mara said, helping the elderly Ducha outside to the palace gardens. They sat down on a stone bench near a fountain, listening to the soothing sound of running water and nocturnal animals coming out after sunset.

Syreeta seemed restless. "Let's go back and dance some more," she said. "I don't want this night to end just yet."

"I can't stand to go back in there," Mara confessed. "They let a Sith princess in. I still can't believe it..."

"Have faith, Mara. Things will get better. Right now the galaxy is going through a... transitional period." Syreeta folded her arms, her shoulders sagging. "I hope my grandson will be all right."

"Ben?" Mara asked, marveling at how Syreeta had absorbed Secciah's memories. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He's back with the Jedi."

"His mother loves him, but once she becomes Ducha..." She trailed off. "Power corrupts. I'm afraid it will change her. She might suddenly see the merit of marrying her only child off to some Hapan princess who will hurt him. The same way his father was hurt."

Mara's brow furrowed. "Arlessa doesn't abuse Cedrin. Does she?"

Syreeta gave her a knowing look. "Secciah knew everything her children did. They couldn't keep any secrets from her." After a moment's pause, she revealed the truth: "Cedrin isn't Ben's father. General Kalen is."

 

[Mara Aurelai]

Mara stared at her in shock. "But how?" she asked.

"There is more to Arlessa than meets the eye," Syreeta answered. "A woman as brilliant as her would not have settled for a mere trophy husband, unless she had a good reason to do so. She married Cedrin to hide the affair she had with her sister's consort, and to protect their child from harm."

"I'm surprised Secciah let Ben live, knowing who his father was," Mara murmured. "Especially after he killed her daughter, his own wife."

"Secciah cared for her daughters in her own way. She saw that Arlessa loved Ben, and didn't dare raise a hand against him despite his paternity." Syreeta's expression grew grim. "As I said, I'm more afraid that Arlessa, in trying to do right by her son with her newfound power, will wind up doing harm instead. But I suppose the fate of House Khal will be out of my hands once I stop being Secciah."

"I imagine it won't stop you from caring about what happens to them," Mara mused aloud.

Syreeta nodded. "Perhaps I could check on them periodically. See how they're faring." She closed her eyes, then sighed. "All right, I think I'm ready. Let's get this over with."

They had agreed on how Secciah Khal would die, but Mara still felt a shiver at Syreeta's words. "Okay," she whispered, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I love you."

"And I love you, my friend." And with those parting words, Secciah Khal went limp.

Mara leaped to her feet, standing over the Ducha's collapsed body. She feigned shock and horror, but didn't have to fake the tears that sprang from her eyes. "Someone help!" she screamed. "The Ducha is ill! Get a doctor!"

But there would be no hope for Secciah Khal. The official legal record would state that she had died from a massive heart attack after a night of drinking and dancing. Her funeral would be held a few days later on Harterra, with her body being interred in the family mausoleum. There was a real corpse in the coffin, manufactured to look like the late Ducha with the help of Mara and the master embalming software she downloaded just for the occasion. But Syreeta, still carrying Secciah's absorbed personality and memories, left the Hapes Cluster behind.