Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

12. Glass Shattering Revelations: How to Ruin a Party

POV Jane Doe.

So here I am, arm-in-arm with Lady Witherspoone, the Duchess of Dysentery herself, nodding along as she prattles on about the joys of starvation. "Oh yes, there's nothing quite like the feeling of your stomach eating itself," I simper, laying it on thick. "Truly, the most exquisite agony!"

Inside, I'm rolling my eyes so hard they practically do a 360 in my skull. This desiccated old bat is nuttier than squirrel turds, but hey, you gotta play the game, right? And if that means tongue-bathing the asscheeks of Avernus's elite, well, sign me up for the brown-nosing Olympics.

Just as I'm contemplating gnawing off my own arm for an excuse to escape, Lady Witherspoone lets out a little titter of excitement. "Oh, Baron Bilehelm!" she trills, waving over a portly gentleman who looks like he's been pickled in his own gastric juices. "Do come and meet my delightful new companion!"

The Baron oozes over, his jaundiced eyes raking over me like a slug on a lettuce leaf. "Enchanted," he wheezes, brushing his wormy lips against my knuckles. I suppress a shudder, pasting on my most vacuous grin.

"The pleasure's all mine, Your Putridness," I coo. "I was just telling Lady Witherspoone how fascinated I am by the legendary ailments of Fevermire. The creativity, the artistry! You Plague-Popes truly are the Picassos of Pestilence."

Baron Bilehelm preens like a maggot-ridden peacock, his chest puffing with pride. "Ah, an aficionado of the finer afflictions! How delightful! Why, just last century, I myself developed a most exquisite strain of necrotizing fasciitis. The screams, dear girl, were positively operatic!"

I make appropriately admiring noises, even as my gorge rises. These Fevermire freaks get their jollies in the sickest of ways. But before I can inquire further about the Baron's pet projects, a lean, rat-faced man in moldering robes slithers up and whispers something in Lady Witherspoone's ear.

Her eyes gleam with a greedy, eager light and she titters behind one skeletal hand. "Oh my, such scintillating news! I really must attend to this at once." She turns to me, her death's-head grin stretching wide. "My dear, I've so enjoyed our little tête-à-tête. You simply must come to my manse for dinner sometime. I'll have the chef prepare a special menu, just for you!"

I blink, momentarily thrown. Dinner? In Wansurn, the literal kingdom of starvation? Is this some kind of sick joke? But I quickly recover, dipping into a curtsy so low I'm practically kissin' carpet.

"You honor me, my lady," I gush. "I can think of no greater pleasure than to dine at your exquisite table."

Lady Witherspoone preens, her yellowed teeth flashing in a death's-head grin. "Oh, you are a treasure! I'll have my people contact your people to make the arrangements. Until then, my sweet!"

And with that, she swans off in a swirl of tattered skirts, leaving me alone with Baron Bilehelm. I turn to him, my smile still fixed firmly in place. "Now, where were we, Your Putridness? Ah yes, the delicate art of designing deformity!"

The Baron chuckles wetly, a sound like boots squelching through mud. "Ah, the young and their enthusiasm! It warms the very cockles of my necrotic heart. But come, let me introduce you to some old friends of mine. I think you'll find them most simpatico!"

He leads me through the crowd, his grip on my arm cold and clammy through the sleeve of my gown. We approach a striking couple clad head to toe in blood-red leather, their exposed skin cross-crossed with scars. Carnagen, if I have to guess - these two radiate violence like a bad smell.

"Baroness Goreshriek, Lord Mutilador!" Bilehelm booms. "Allow me to present the charming Miss Jane Doe. She's new to our little circle, but already showing such promise!"