Cold Feet

Death was cold. Death was still. Death left rot in the air and a chill in anyone’s veins. 

That was why the Congregation of Tenebrous Warlocks chose Dies Nivalis, the coldest day of the year, to present the newest Congregation inductees to the horde. 

“It’s fitting. Nothing says ‘Death’ more than the sub-zero temperatures of Dies Nivalis,” Maman had said to Odette that morning as she helped tame her hair for the ceremony. Odette’s inherited curls were particularly unruly, as if they’d sensed her unease and balled up into a rat’s nest on her behalf. Luckily, Maman had long perfected a spell that had them unknotted and straightened in no time, just enough to where a flat iron was unnecessary. Considering Odette was one uncooperative hair strand away from vomiting up the granola bar she’d scarfed down for breakfast, she appreciated the extra help.

“Come on, Odette. It’s okay,” Noel had beamed, in all of his blazing energy, on the elevator down to the lobby of their flat building. He’d grabbed her shoulders so hard she could feel his manicured nails through her puffer jacket. “You’re okay. This is a big deal.” 

Odette had asked Noel to make the 10 block trek with her to the Shrine of the Goddess Queen Death solely for that warmth he radiated. Ever since they were children, he’d always had a fiery optimism that drew her to him. Typically, Odette had to go digging for such cheer, and typically, her attempts were fruitless. On a day where both her innermost thoughts and the chill in the air were dead set on freezing her in place, she needed her closest friend to play heater in more ways than one. At least until we got to the Shrine. 

Though, she had spent most of the previous night thinking of ways to convince the Congregation to let her have him on the altar with her. That had felt more important than sleeping. Not that she would have slept much even if that hadn’t kept her up.

While his assurances helped in the moment, Odette also realized that it was easy for Noel to see the best in the situation. He’d been presented to the Assembly of Emberous Warlocks as an inductee three summers ago; one of 30. He’d already gone through this. He knew what to expect. He hadn’t been a nervous wreck about it. He didn’t need to commit a crime to be offered the invitation.

The Shrine’s towering spires cut four bold black gashes in the gleaming, snow covered Parisian skyline; a striking reminder of the witchkind presence in the City of Light. The clamorous crowd that had gathered outside the 20-foot-tall dark wood doors also lent to the gravitational pull that pillar of brutalist gothic architecture seemed to have. There were already so many people gathered—camera crews, reporters, and onlookers of all species alike—that Odette could see, even from a block away, that dozens of officers had blocked off the streets bordering the Shrine steps.

Every major publication and their mothers were likely lined up to bear witness to the ceremony, the expected turnout whenever a warlock house presented their inductees. As the most magically inclined of all species, witches electing to devote their versatile abilities to a different species or god was a substantial cultural deal, one that even had other creatures interested. By tonight, Odette would see her face, and those of the 20 other inductees joining her on the altar, plastered across every primetime news station on television. Tomorrow, maybe even circulating in the major papers. Both thoughts left her tasting granola-flavored bile.

Had Noel not been there to usher her through an officer-guarded side gate toward the back entrance, she would have turned heel and sprinted all the way back home. She wanted to tell him as much, but they were bombarded by three of the Shrine Wardens before they made it up the steps to the door. Mutters of “Good, good, you’re here! We thought you were going to be late!” and “The hair team is ready for you; we want you looking clean before she arrives!” were passed around as she was pulled away from the protection of Noel's presence and ushered inside, where the expansive back Shrine area had been converted into a styling house fit for a high profile fashion show.

“I’ll be right in the front row with your mum and grandparents!” Noel called when Odette strained to look back at him. He flashed that smile that loosened the icy unease that encased her heart. 

“You’ll be fine!”

I’ll be fine, she told herself. She let the phrase play on repeat in her head as she watched two nymphs with neon-colored hair tighten hers into two French braids. She muttered it to herself between the passes of eyeshadow and lipstick being applied to her face by a thin satyr with more piercings than she’d ever seen on another person. “This dark smokey-eye look is gonna make those red eyes of yours pop, even through your glasses,” he said while he drilled his brush into one of the dozens of palettes he had strewn across his makeup station.

The phrase had lost its luster by the time Odette was fitted into her ceremonial gown. The cuffs on the bishop sleeves felt too tight, the lace-up back squeezed the air out of her lungs and left her struggling to make up for the loss, and the void-like silk material left her feeling colder than she was before. Naked, even. “I’ll be fine,” she told her reflection in the floor-length mirror of her dressing room. 

“Ten minutes!” a Warden’s voice seeped over the open top of the stall. “Please ensure your robes are fitted correctly before lining up!”

Ten minutes. Ten minutes until ceremony start. Ten minutes until she was to be presented to a room of Congregation members, her family, her friends, the press, and perhaps the entire country. Maybe the world. Ten minutes until she would stand before Hela, Death herself, and be accepted as a Tenebrous Warlock. Accepted for what she’d done. 

The longer Odette dwelled, the more her reflection seemed to melt. The six-by-six dressing room felt smaller than it had been to start, and the low chatter from the stylists and other inductees was drowned out by her heartbeat wailing on her eardrums. She couldn’t tell if she was struggling to breathe due to the tightness of her dress, or because of how thick the Shrine air had become. Inhaling sapped the energy from her soul and exhaling depleted her ability to form higher thoughts. But she did know one thing was certain. 

She was not fine. That was the thought that carried her back out to the snow laden garden and crisp Dies Nivalis air. 

It clung to her lenses and pierced her throat as she struggled to stop hyperventilating, giving her a new sensation to focus on that wasn’t the hollow dread that had opened in the pit of her stomach. The heels she’d been given to wear sunk into the snow with each step, and she could feel it soaking into her stockings. It was a one way ticket to a fight with toe frostbite, but that was an ailment she’d gladly trade her panic attack for. 

Odette stumbled over to an iron bench, set amongst some dormant black rose bushes, and threw herself down into it without bothering to swipe off the six inches of powder that had accumulated on the seat. She pressed her shaky palms into her blushed cheeks, willing herself to simply stop shaking. Willing some sort of spell to come to her; one that would halt her panic and leave her feeling refreshed and ready to take on the ceremony. Nothing of the sort came. All she could do was sit and listen as her shallow breaths gradually built into sobs. She hoped the satyr’s makeup was waterproof. 

A crunching twig jolted her upright, just in time to meet a piercing yet rheumy grey gaze. 

Odette had met Hela a couple times over the course of her witch studies. The demon goddess was as all the demon royals were; tall and striking. She towered over Odette’s diminutive 5'0 form and had an ethereal sternness etched into her features, one that could only be found on one of demon blood. That much was visible even through the mascara-laced tears that stained her cheeks. 

“I–” Odette stammered. Hela beheld her with a look of indifference before her brow twitched upward, as if she were waiting for a follow-up. Astonishment left Odette tongue tied, allowing her to only say the first thing that popped into her head. 

“I don't think you’re not allowed to be out here.”

A grin of unexpected joy split Hela’s pink lips, revealing the serrated blades she called teeth. “It’s my Shrine,” she snickered. 

Smooth. So fucking smooth, Odette. “That’s–”

Only then did her brain jumpstart itself, and only then did it occur to her she was sitting before the very being she was about to devote her power to. With a burst of energy she didn’t know she had, Odette scrambled back to her numb feet, hands clasped in the way of a warlock greeting their patron.

“M-my apologies, Gracious Hela, I wasn’t–”

Hela shook her head and swatted her hand. “Sit the hell back down; I’m not interested in the stupid formalities right now.” She sniffled and ran a clawed finger under her eye. It was amazing she didn’t accidentally poke it out. “I have a full day of that ahead of me and would like to not be reminded, thank you.”

Dropping her hands and doing as she was told, Odette finally had a clear enough head to take in her new patron’s appearance. Clothed in black, black, and more tight-fitting black, and adorned with enough chains to make a dominatrix jealous, she didn’t look much different than she had in their past meetings. Her silver hair was tied back in a high ponytail, which Odette wasn’t quite used to seeing. All of Hela’s likenesses, whether drawn or sculpted, typically depicted her with it down. And without tear streaks marring her sculpted cheeks. 

“Are you…” Odette started to say, only to be silenced by a glare. The Death goddess snapped her claws, and a vanilla cupcake manifested in her palm. She swiped the frosting off the top of it with her finger and shoved it into her mouth, knocking more black tears loose. 

“Do I look okay? Don’t answer that.”

She kicked the bench with a booted foot, sending the snow to the ground, before sitting down. A sigh riddled with threatening sobs fell out of her just before she went to town on the rest of the pastry. 

“A little secret; patron to future warlock.” Her words were garbled due to her full mouth. “I can’t fucking stand this shit. I do it to save face, keep the engagement, but I wish, I wish, I was in bed.” She swallowed, the tension in her body deflating when she exhaled. “I hate being in front of everyone. The attention gives me the fucking ick. It makes me want to start another plague.” She leveled a glance at Odette and took in her startled expression. “Not that I will, I’m just saying. I haven’t stopped crying since I woke up; I’m over it.”

Odette watched her summon another cupcake, chocolate this time, and cram the entire thing in her mouth. Hela apparently didn’t lose her appetite when she got anxious; something Odette couldn’t relate to. A single granola bar had already been too much. She couldn't imagine two cupcakes and probably counting.

“What’s got you in a mood? You’re going to ruin your makeup crying like you are.” 

Odette quirked a brow, more astonished by the comment than the demon queen’s disheveled demeanor. That was a bold coming from someone rendered a raccoon equivalent due to excess tears. “Speak for yourself.”

Hela barked out a laugh so loud that it made Odette flinch. “I am.” She scraped some frosting off the corner of her lip, then sucked it off her fingertip. “So?”

What was there to say? Hela was the very being that invited her to be here, and she’d done so personally. It wasn’t often that a witch was personally invited by the patron themselves to be a warlock. So, how could Odette confidently tell her potential patron that she was terrified to get up in front of everyone and make it all official?

“I…I’m in the same boat,” she bit out. “I don’t want to be in front of everyone.” 

That wasn’t technically a lie.

“Why?” Hela asked accusingly, voice stuffy from the snot that had accumulated inside her nose. She was on her third cupcake now, lapping her pointed tongue over the dollop of frosting on top. “I thought you liked performing.”

“I’ve had enough time in the limelight since what happened. I’m also over it.” Odette was shaking her head before she realized it.

Hela’s leer oozed dubiety. “You didn’t do anything wrong, so why would that—?”

“Hela, I killed someone,” Odette snapped, words striking like a taut rubber band upon release. “I didn’t want to, but I had to. You know this. Why are you drilling me?”

Sympathy eclipsed the cynicism on Hela’s face, and she pressed her lips into a tight line as she hummed out a long sigh. She didn’t respond for a passing moment, leaving both of them to sit and dwell on the cold in silence.

“It was you or him, Odette. You‘re right, you didn’t have a choice. He attacked you. What were you supposed to do?”

Of course Odette knew the answer to that. At the end of the day, she didn’t regret her actions; not for a second. But, knowing that was why she’d be standing on that altar; that everyone in the audience would know what she did and what had happened to her...it made her want to become one with the ground. She couldn’t stand the thought of a thousand scrutinizing gazes in the audience, likely knowing every gross detail of what had deemed her worthy to be extended the personal offer of becoming a Tenebrous Warlock. 

Hela cleared her throat, effectively yanking Odette out of her haze. 

“Look,” she said. “I know you don’t have the best relationship with the concept of consent.” She uttered the last word cautiously, as if saying it aloud would cause Armageddon. “But if you don’t actually want to do this, walk away. I extended the invite because I felt you aligned with what I look for in a warlock; the life taking in this case was a small aside. A necessary one at that. But you’re by no means required to go along with it.” She tugged on her turtleneck, pursing her lips coyly. “I’ll be sad about losing my favorite, but I would never stop you.”

Blinking, Odette tensed. “I’m your favorite?”

“I always have a favorite. Although, I like you better when you’re angry. You’re more fiery like that,” Hela said. “Fright doesn’t suit you.” 

She inhaled a leveling breath, brushed off her hands, and stood up. She used her sleeves to wipe the mascara off her cheeks, leaving Odette to wonder if that was why she’d made black her signature color. She could wipe her makeup-soaked tears on her clothes and nobody would ever know. 

“Well. Have to go greet the ton,” she announced with a grating imperious inflection in her tone. She slanted one more curious glance at Odette, lips tilted into a wry yet tired smirk.

“I will admit, I would feel slightly better about doing this if I knew I was doing it with someone else who’d also had a nervous breakdown in the snow. Solidarity.” She sniffled one last time and shrugged. “Just saying. Also, the dress looks very good on you. Your mother and friend might really like to see it.”

She disappeared between Odette’s blinks, and the air settled as if Death had never been there.

While the interaction was brief, there was a lot for her to ruminate on. She no longer felt the deep dread that had driven her outside in the first place, as it had been replaced by a bubbling confusion. She didn’t know what to do. What to say.

She supposed it was reassuring to know that the goddess herself wasn’t keen to do the ceremony. It was altogether calming to know that, if she really wanted to, she could get up and walk home. Wipe her hands of her discomfort and pretend she was never here. Go home and bundle up in her blankets until the sun went down.

But, the interaction had also left her with something else: a reignited determination. Fright doesn’t look good on you. I would feel better about doing this if I was doing it with someone who also had a breakdown in the snow. What things to hear directly from a goddess.

Odette glanced toward the door back into the Shrine. Surely the ceremony was close to start. The Wardens were probably lining everyone up now, assuming they’d already said their greeting prayers to Hela upon her gracious arrival.

She exhaled as deeply as her potential patron had, watching her breath dance on the Dies Nivalis breeze. Then, she stood up.