by Jen Printy
“Just a sip will do,” Death says, offering Leah the cup.
“No!” Aided by a burst of adrenaline, I grab onto Pacal’s arm with the hand of my uninjured arm. Catching him off guard, I’m able to pull down and create some space. Then, reeling my head backward, I strike my captor solidly in the nose. His grip loosens, but he doesn’t release me.
Pacal’s hot, sulfur-laden breath growls at my ear, followed by a fist delivering a crushing blow to my left side. Pain ripples through me in successive waves, and my knees buckle.
“No more! Get him out of here,” Death hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ll decide what to do with him when we’re finished.”
In desperation, my gaze darts to Leah as Pacal hauls me away toward the shadows between the columns. The world around me compresses until I see nothing but Leah’s face, the scene around us fading away. And for a fleeting moment, there’s only Leah and me.
I love you, her voice whispers in my head.
I love you, too.
“And I’m sorry.” I should have never smashed those pills. I believed… It doesn’t matter now. I was wrong. Her voice shatters into a sob, breaking the spell and thrusting us back into the here and now.
“Wherever he sends you, I will find you!” I shout as Pacal drags me from the room.
Once in the seclusion of the shadow, Pacal presses the thumb of his free hand deep into my wound. Dizziness crashes over me, and he clamps his hand over my mouth to stifle the scream.
“No more trouble out of you,” he growls. “I don’t want to miss the show.”
The pain waxes and wanes, and an acute numbness spreads, starting in my toes and fingertips and extending into my arms and legs. My thoughts become fuzzy, as though I’m watching everything from a distance behind a curtain. Any moment I’ll wake up from this dream, with Leah curled by my side. Seconds pass like hours, but everything remains the same, reality barring my escape from this nightmare.
Through the thin veil of the shadow, all I can do is watch. Eyes full of tears, Leah stares at the spot where Pacal and I disappeared as if she’s desperate to see me one last time. Her fraught expression turns resigned, and she turns back to Death.
Leah grips the ornate cup with both hands, and pressing the gilded rim to her lips, she drinks. Death retrieves the chalice and steps back to wait. At first, Leah shows no reaction. She turns to say something to Artagan but stops. I’d thought she was pale already. Now all traces of color drain from her cheeks, leaving her face dead white. She falls to the floor, body convulsing and mouth frothing.
As Leah’s fit subsides, a screech reverberates through the nave, shaking the walls and rumbling beneath my feet. My stomach contracts in terror as a shadowy mass rises like a mountain of black mist. I quell a shudder, my heart rate picking up speed as memories of my dealings with this beast flow in. The creature’s vaporous tendrils roll out along the floor. The black-cloaked group begins a soft chant, and the candles dim. As the creature curls back in on itself, it takes on a more humanoid form. Two vermilion orbs emerge from its shadowed depths, materializing into a set of eyes full of a dark intelligence.
Leah cries out, attempting to crawl backward, but she makes limited progress before the creature lunges. Clutching Leah by the ankle, it soars high into the air. Black vapors whirling, the shadow beast tosses Leah repeatedly, but each time, unlike with Vita, none of Leah’s precious flesh and bone tears away. As it grows frustrated, the creature spins faster, taking Leah with it. Each unproductive toss is accompanied by an earsplitting wail, rising in pitch, like that of a terrified child. The shadowy being drops Leah in a crumpled pile on the floor, and in a torrent of wind and vapor, it disappears through a nearby shadow, letting out a final bloodcurdling screech as it flies away.
Confused mutterings build out of the wake of silence. I stare at Leah’s unmoving form. An unbalanced array of emotions—shock, fear, distrust, and even hope—shoots through me in less than a second. I lunge forward, but I’m held back by Pacal’s firm hold.
A wheezy gasp erupts behind me, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristle. The grip loosens from around my neck. Pacal’s large frame reels at my side, clinging to my shoulder to steady himself. His black eyes are as round as saucers. I watch in disbelief as the irises turn from vacant pits to a lively, rich mocha brown. As he arches in pain, blood mixed with saliva foams from his mouth in a gurgled burst as a crimson-covered blade spears through his upper abdomen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Pacal lies sprawled at my feet, his vacant brown eyes staring, boring straight into mine. The blood leaking through his T-shirt just beneath the sternum confirms I’m not hallucinating. Pacal, one of the unkillable Soulless, is dead. I turn to find my liberator. However, whoever it was has vanished, denying me even a glimpse. I force my attention away from the gruesome scene and stare through the veil of shadow toward the nave.
The room’s tenor has changed. I sense it even through the thin barrier. Gone are the ceremony and the feelings of spirited anticipation, leaving concern and confusion in their wake. In the middle of the room, Death and the council members huddle together in an intense discussion, not noticing me. The Soulless are notably absent, including Muan.
Leah stands, leaning on Artagan for support, flanked by Serevo and Thanatos’s protégé. The circles under Leah’s eyes have grown darker in color. Her lips pressed tight, every now and again her glance flickers away from the group toward the spot where I disappeared and now stand hidden from view. Even in the face of the perilous unknown, she’s worried about me.
Teeth clenched in fierce determination, I hobble out of the shadow, my broken arm folded across my chest. My feet feel like weights. The smallest step takes immense effort, making me sweat freely.
Leah’s gaze turns in my direction. Upon seeing me, she breaks free of Artagan’s support and rushes to my side before either Serevo or Thanatos can react. Her gaze fixes on my mangled arm, a welter of emotions wrestling for mastery of her features. From the look of her eyebrows knitting together into an unmistakable scowl, worry wins out.
With my uninjured arm, I pull Leah to my side and say, “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.” Even I can hear the lie in my words. I’ve never taken this long to heal.
Leah’s frown deepens, but before she can speak, Death’s voice floods the room.
“You are full of surprises, Jack. I’ll give you that. It’s not often I’m taken unaware. I’ve underestimated you.”
All eyes now glued on Leah’s and my reunion, Death steps away from his children and glances toward the shadows at the rear wall where Pacal and I disappeared moments ago. “No coward either, it seems. Although you’re a fool for returning.”
I smile, baring my teeth, but I force myself to keep my commentary private.
In silence, Death advances. Akio follows behind him, drawing his sword as he matches Death’s slow, steady stride.
“This has nothing to do with him,” Leah blurts out. Although her voice is shrill from fear, she makes a move to step forward. I grab hold of her, and in a burst of utter desperation, I swing her behind me to take up a defensive stance in front of her. But in a moment, Leah is at my side again, her hand grasping mine.
“Together,” she says, and I nod.
Death comes to an abrupt stop, several paces still lying between us.
“Scared? I can hear the speed of your pulse from here,” he says, eyes locked on me. His amiable grin widens into a contortion of pearly teeth, full of contempt. A growl rips through his chest, causing his children to flinch or step back. Then I watch in disbelief as Death bursts into a pillar of black flame. The heat scorches the floor and sends blistering hot air into our faces. An odor that was only hinted at before—earth and sulfur and decay—overtakes the room. It smells as if the hollows of Tartarus itself have opened before us.
A dark outline of a figure—tall and cadaverously thin
—rises through the flames, first doubling then tripling in height. As the master of the underworld steps forward, the cinders of Death’s ordinary facade fall away, shrouding his shoulders and cascading to the ground, becoming a veiled robe.
Paler than a skull, Death’s skin is translucent—so sheer I can see working muscles and black veins underneath. The long robe seems to shimmer with his movements, fleeting glimpses of distorted, tortured faces appearing in the flowing fabric. It’s almost as though I hear moans and muffled wails of the damned emitting from it.
He stares at me, and somehow I stare back. His eyes flare like the tips of red-hot pokers, and in them, I see my end. Pain isn’t enough any longer. My death is the only thing that will squelch his anger now. I’m sure of it.
Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Artagan thrusts himself forward. Kemisi jumps into his path, and with the force of one of Otmar’s legendary berserkers, she pushes Artagan back. Otmar catches him by the arms to restrain him.
I tighten my grip around Leah’s hand, still secure in mine. Her fingers have grown icy cold. I plant a thought into her mind. When Death strikes, it will be at me. I want you to run. Don’t look back. Just run.
I give a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure my words have sunk in.
Leah stares up at me, her eyes full of doubt and tears.
“Paradise, remember,” I whisper, squeezing her hand.
Pulling in a deep breath, she nods, and I shift my attention back to Death, satisfied that at least some hope remains.
Death holds out a skeletal hand. With a quick bow, Akio relinquishes the sword to his father. Thin lips curled back in irritation, Death readies the sword to strike.
I steel my nerves.
A deafening crackle echoes through the expanse as if a bolt of electricity splintered the air right over our heads. Three figures materialize in front of Leah and me, blocking Death’s approach.
Hooded, each holds in their grasp a long, golden rapier. I stare dumbfounded when I realize Death and the council members are all standing immobilized, petrified in mid-movement. Their shadowed faces are frozen in shock and anger, all except for Artagan’s. A triumphant smile—expansive and smug—lies frozen upon his lips.
I hover protectively at Leah’s side. One newcomer, the largest of the three, swings his head and peers at us around the rim of his hood, revealing a Grecian profile and a pair of striking eyes. Their color takes me aback—a radiant, glistening silver.
As my momentary fascination crumbles away, I make use of the sudden change in the situation. My grip tightens on Leah’s hand, and I spin around to find an escape through the closest shadow but instead find myself looking down into another set of eyes—sharp, youthful, and full of concern.
“Sally? What the…? Where did you…? How?” My focus settles on a rapier she clutches in her pudgy hand. Every detail of the sword matches the ones belonging to the strangers, from the intricate, sweeping pattern of the handle to the long, thin blade, with one notable exception—blood coats the blade. My wide eyes return to her face. “It was you.”
“Sally! Let’s go!” the silver-eyed man says, the authority in his voice unmistakable. “I can’t hold him much longer.”
“No time for explanations now, dear,” Sally says, wiping the blade on her skirt and slipping the rapier into a sheath strapped about her waist. Then she vanishes from my side, only to reappear behind Leah and me. As she lays her hands on our shoulders, I have just enough time to glimpse Death breaking free of his petrified state before the scene flashes from sight.
It’s as though I’m falling upward, like gravity no longer has a hold over us. The ground beneath me has disappeared, a howling wind rushing past my ears. Around us, colors churn. I feel Leah at my side, then we speed upward and then jolt sideward. Without warning, my feet slam into the ground. My knees buckle, and my back strikes the floor with a forcible smack. A wave of white-hot pain shoots up my arm. I clamp my teeth into the soft tissue of my cheek to suppress the scream that barrels up my throat. A small room with faded floral wallpaper rotates dizzily overhead. I close my eyes and drift.
A voice breaks through the lethargic haze. “Help me get him into the chair.”
No, I think groggily, and then I feel hands lifting me. The pain following the movement jolts me back to the surface. My eyes snap open, and I find myself sitting in a straight-backed chair in a small parlor filled with overstuffed furniture and doilies galore. A fire crackles behind me, its heat warming my back.
A petite woman with short-cropped blond hair that sticks out in every direction kneels beside me, grasping my arm. I attempt to pull away.
“You need to hold still. Nadya is only trying to help,” Sally says, taking a step into my view.
“Leah? Where is she?” I force out past my cracked lips, trying to glance around the room.
“I’m here.” Leah slides to my side and takes hold of my hand with both hers. “Now, let them help you.”
Too tired to speak, I bob my head.
Nadya cuts the fabric of my sleeve up past my elbow with a pair of scissors. Then she peels back the bloody sheath and examines the wound first with her eyes and then with her fingertips. I focus my attention away from the injury and try to concentrate on Nadya’s face. Her features are well defined and angular. The smooth ivory skin of her forehead wrinkles every now and again as her fingers explore, assessing the damage. I suck in my breath whenever she touches a particularly tender spot. Each time, she apologizes before moving on with her assessment.
After placing my arm across my lap, Nadya’s eyes slide to mine, their gray-green depths full of sympathy. “I can heal your arm,” she says with the utmost certainty. “But I’ll have to set the bone first. Because of the extent of your injury, there might be some long-term damage and loss of function. You will have a scar, a fairly substantial one, I’m afraid.”
“Someone told me once women like scars, even find them sexy. Hopefully, he wasn’t lying.” My mouth twitches as a flicker of amusement forces its way through the pain. I glance at Leah. Her expression is serious, and she doesn’t seem to find my attempt at wit the least bit funny.
Nadya snorts. “Well, at least Death didn’t damage your sense of humor,” she says and then glances at Sally. “We’ll need towels and hot water. Whiskey, too. Or laudanum, if you have it. Please tell Alasdair I’ll need his help.”
Sally presses her lips tightly together but then nods and slips with haste from the room. She returns a moment later with towels slung over her arm and two bottles in hand—a tall one filled with deep-amber liquid and a tiny cobalt-blue one.
A wiry, slightly effeminate youth carrying a basin of steaming water follows her. The light dusting of freckles across the boy’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose make him look young—fourteen maybe—but he carries himself with the confidence of someone much older. Behind him, the silver-eyed man ambles in. Although not much taller than me, he’s more sturdily built. With the hood of his sweatshirt now removed, I can see his face, not just the peculiar eyes. I’ll admit I’m surprised to find the rest of his features so ordinary—a long, straight nose, square jaw, and perpetual grimace on a pair of thin lips, evident by the deep frown lines, all topped with a full head of wavy black hair.
To Sally’s dismay, I refuse the opiates. I reach out and grab hold of the long neck of the whiskey bottle. The bottle feels heavy, as if it weighs hundreds of pounds. Despite my shaky grip, I’m able to lift the smooth lip to my mouth. I take several gulps and then cough and gag, but drain the bottle of its contents nonetheless. Soon my vision grows a little blurry around the edges, and my thought patterns sway off course now and again. Still, the liquor does little to numb the acute pain in my arm.
“Alasdair, you take him around the shoulders and hold him tight,” Nadya instructs and then looks away from the boy to the silver-eyed man. “I’ll need you to pull on the arm to dra
w the protruding bone back through the skin.”
My stomach rolls with unease, and I find it difficult to swallow.
Alasdair smiles at me as he pushes back a mop of red hair from his eyes. He slips a piece of leather into my mouth. “Bite down. Hard.”
I nod in thanks and understanding.
Following Nadya’s instructions, Alasdair steps behind my chair and seizes me by the shoulders, his fingers digging into rigid muscle. As the silver-eyed man’s hands wrap around my wrist, I squeeze my eyes shut and set my teeth into the supple hide, preparing for the worst. Nothing could have readied me for the utter agony. A scream breaks through my dry lips, and I fear I may retch. The taste of bile mixed with alcohol sours my mouth. The hands release me, and I slump back in the chair, my arm dropping to my side. My breathing comes in labored bursts.
The lilt of Leah’s voice hovering by my ear tells me it’s almost over. I nod once but keep my eyes closed.
A pair of small hands cups my forearm, pushing and probing. As the sharp pain mellows into a throbbing ache, a scorching heat devours my arm. Just as fast as the sensation arrived, it flashes away. At first, the absence of pain is all I comprehend. I open my eyes and peer at my forearm in wonder. I flex the muscles. A renewed strength pounds its way through my veins, as good as new. The only evidence that remains of the injury is a scar snaking in a jagged pattern up my outer forearm—similar to the one that adorns Artagan’s cheek.
“Amazing,” I say.
Sally smiles. “Nadya is quite a talented healer. She was a nurse during the Revolutionary War, requested by George Washington himself. And this is Tobias,” she says, patting the silver-eyed man on the shoulder the way a proud mother would. “We couldn’t have saved you without him. No one but him could have held Death back.”
