A vendetta is a blood feud. It can last centuries – until the last descendant of one instigator or the other is dead and buried. It can also last about five minutes, if it involves the last of a line.
There is almost nothing else that can end one.
Vendetta. It's a pretty word, all spikes and curves and poison. If you look at it just right, you can see knives in it. Murder likes the word. She rolls it against her tongue experimentally.
Vendetta.
"I think that you should start wearing more interesting clothes." Murder says it offhandedly, sneaking a quick grin in at her dearest friend.
"How do you get more interesting than this?" China Sorrows rolls her eyes, plucking absently at a ribbon of lace that hangs from her sleeve.
"Leather might be a nice start. A few blades, maybe."
"What, you mean armor? No way in Hell, dearheart."
"It might suit you." Red lips part in a merry laugh. "Might not, too."
"Quite."
At seventeen, China is already beautiful, though far yet from what she will someday be. The combination of curves and harsh lines on her is somewhat awkward, her blue eyes a bit too large, and her limbs too gawky and long. Her handsewn clothing is about three centuries too advanced for her time, and her skin is much too pale. All the same, there is no denying her elegance.
Murder Rose, on the contrast, is quick and bold and brilliant in her appearance, all copper-silk skin and inky hair and red lips, built of curve after curve after curve. There's none of that porcelain-doll elegance to her, and her eyes are savage, but looking at her is the visual equivalent of being hit on the head with something heavy and shortly being fed an aphrodisiac.
Between the two of them, there is no male in the country on their side of the war who will be able to resist the lure, the rapture, of the Diablerie, though only very few will actually be admitted. China will make sure of that.
They refer to China as the leader, though they know it isn't exactly true, that the balance of power is pretty much even. It doesn't bother Murder, and it doesn't bother China. It's helpful to their cause, having it spread around that the great chief of the Diablerie is the most beautiful woman in the world. She isn't really, but it's a nice sort of rumor.
They do dreadful things. Murder commits her namesake, a thousand times over. She is brutal, she is demonic, she is amazing. By her side, toiling in the same battle, China knows she could never hope to compete with this being born of war, more dreadful and more lovely than any goddess.
The war ends, eventually, and Murder Rose is furious to find that her friend has abandoned her. She says as much, spitting the words with vehemence and hate.
China stares at her, all immaculate silk and serene eyes. She's here to prove a point, after all, though who to, neither of them is quite sure.
"So this is the end, then?" She forms the words graciously, thin lips twisting into a bitter mockery of the smile.
"Never. I declare a vendetta." There's something so childish, so sweet, about the jut of Murder's jaw that China actually laughs.
"All-right, then, Murder. A vendetta."
Murder knows she's not being taken seriously. She doesn't care.
It ends with Murder Rose's death. China was the victor, in the end.
She wishes she wasn't. After all, they were friends, even to the end, and there are some things that friendship should never come to. They are, incidentally, what it too-often does.
Let's rephrase that. It didn't end with Murder Rose's death, though it should have. It ended only when both participants were gone from the world they had shared, and joined again, to be friends once more. There are things that can break a vendetta, after all.
A/N: Okay, so it very carefully avoids the word 'love', as it had to be parent safe ( it was written for the Skulduggery Pleasant FaceBook Page Writing Competition, by the by), but feel free to read it as Sapphism. I sure did.
~Mademise Morte, May 20