Chapter 12: Dead Dads and Dumber Diplomacy
The dining hall of Lord Valemorne—the Undying Duke, Necromancer Emeritus, and Lucien's eternally dramatic father—was shaped like a coffin and just as inviting.
Maribel tried not to stare too long at the chandelier made of bone marimbas or the centerpieces, which appeared to be the animated skulls of former dinner guests still trying to finish their soup. The atmosphere was one part haunted opera, two parts cryptic family reunion, and one unfortunate dash of black-market taxidermy.
"I can't believe you grew up here," she whispered as they were escorted in by a chorus of banshees in lacy aprons.
Lucien, dressed in a velvet suit that made him look like a scandalous funeral director, sighed. "Believe me, it explains so much."
The guests were already seated. An archdemon with impeccable table manners was politely sipping flaming brandy. A vampire duchess scowled into her goblet of imported moonlight. And at the head of the table, wearing a smile that could curdle goat's milk, sat Lord Valemorne himself.
"Ah, my son," he said in a voice that suggested he was either thrilled or preparing to sacrifice Lucien to summon a dark god. "And the enchantress. How delightfully forbidden."
"Father," Lucien said with a courteous nod. "You look… well-preserved."
"Flattery," Valemorne crooned. "My favorite dessert. Please, sit. Sit! We have bones to pick and reputations to scandalize."
Maribel took her seat beside Lucien, subtly casting a protective charm on her wine glass. She wasn't sure if the vintage would kill her or ask her to dance.
Valemorne's new bride glided into the room a moment later, trailing lace and fog. She was tall, willowy, and translucent—clearly a ghost. Her eyes glowed lilac, and she had the energy of someone who had died during an operatic betrayal and never got over it.
"Maribel," Lucien murmured, "meet Isolde, Lady of Echoes and third wife of doom. Please don't compliment her hair. It'll start singing."
Too late.
"I adore your updo," Maribel said politely.
The hair burst into arias.
Dinner was a disaster.
The first course tried to bite her. The second floated ominously. The third made lewd jokes about soup spoons.
And yet somehow, the most unsettling thing was how normal the whole ordeal felt to Lucien.
Maribel watched him laugh dryly at his father's bone jokes, dodge political landmines about necromantic policy, and gracefully steer conversation away from the topic of "inter-species romance laws." He was composed, calculating, utterly in control.
She hated it.
Because she knew what it meant.
Lucien had grown up under pressure, under expectations so intense they had calcified into armor. Around his father, he became something else—less soft, less open, more... tactical.
Maribel hated that he felt like he had to hide here.
And worst of all, Valemorne noticed.
"Still hiding your feelings behind dry wit, my boy?" the lich lord said between sips of soul wine. "You get that from your mother. She loved a good mask."
Lucien tensed beside her.
Maribel jumped in. "At least he's not hiding behind undeath, enchanted wigs, and undead bureaucracy."
A beat of silence.
Then Valemorne burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, I like her. Fiery. You're keeping this one, I hope?"
Lucien hesitated for the briefest second. It was small, almost invisible—but Maribel felt it like a slap.
She stood. "I need some air."
She didn't wait for permission. She didn't look back.
The balcony overlooked a sea of haunted gardens. Phantom roses wilted in perpetual gloom. A skeletal peacock paced silently, watching her with empty sockets.
Maribel leaned on the railing, trying not to cry. She was stronger than that. She was braver than that.
But it still hurt.
She didn't hear Lucien approach. Didn't feel him until his cloak brushed against hers.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Maribel didn't answer.
He tried again. "It's not that I'm ashamed of you—gods, Maribel, you're the best thing in my life. It's that I've spent so long pretending to be something I'm not that... it's hard to be myself in front of him."
"You didn't even defend me," she said quietly. "You just let him talk like I'm some kind of... novelty."
"I didn't want to make things worse."
Maribel turned, fury in her voice. "For who, Lucien? For you? For him? Because you sure as hell didn't think about me."
Silence.
Then, to her surprise, Lucien pulled something from his coat pocket. A small silver charm shaped like a star.
"I was going to give you this after dinner," he said. "It's... a binding ward. A promise. My promise. That I won't run. That I won't hide."
Maribel looked at it, then at him. "Do you mean it?"
Lucien nodded. "Every word."
Slowly, she took it, fingers brushing his.
And just like that, the fury faded. Not gone, but gentled.
"I'm still mad," she said.
"Fair."
"But I love you."
He smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Behind them, the skeletal peacock exploded for no apparent reason.
Neither of them flinched.
Back inside, Valemorne watched them from the shadows, his expression unreadable.
Isolde drifted beside him. "They'll break the old ways, you know."
"Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe they'll simply survive them."
"You always did favor the dramatic."
"I'm dead, dear. Drama is all I have left."