“Then why did you agree to come here?”
He gives me an incredulous, arrogant stare. “I figured you needed to rest. Which is why I told you to sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
He leans forward, his fingers crowned around his knees. “You’re exhausted.” His stare drifts over me, as if he’s undressing me with his eyes. “I won’t let anyone hurt your fucking sister and friend, if that’s what it takes for you to rest.”
I push the blade into the floorboard. “I don’t trust your word.”
He cranes his neck back, shaking his head as he does. “Go to fucking sleep and stop arguing. You are no use to me exhausted.” He pulls his cloak hanging over the back of his chair, then throws it at me. I catch it, breathing in his musky, soft, woody scent. “I can manage a few sacrifices.”
“You said you won’t interfere with The Harvest.”
His stare darkens. “Should anyone come here, I will order them to leave. I don’t have to kill anyone.”
“What if they fight you?” I ask and he laughs, probably finding the notion is preposterous. “Fine,” I whisper, struggling to keep my eyes open. “Just for an hour.”
He nods and I drape his cloak over me, nestling into the pockets of warmth, his scent hugging me. My thoughts turn to Ari as I close my eyes, resting against the wall.
My poor sister. When she awakes, she will have to face what she did. The far-off look and trance-like movements from last night still haunt me—she wasn’t processing a damned thing.
Her innocence was the price to pay for saving my life. This is Death’s fault. I grit my teeth but swallow any harsh remark that bites its way up my throat. He may be our only way out of here, and I know better than most how to play the long game. I’ve done it with my mother for years, holding back what I really felt, losing battle after battle so I could eventually win the war and get out of that house.
None of the matters now, though. The rain is a lulling symphony, and as the room blurs, my eyes softly close. My magic buzzing alongside my heart, creating a steady, heavy sensation in my body. I pull the cloak up and over my chin, opening my eyes briefly when I find Death staring out of the window, sadness etched into every flicker of expression. For the first time since I’ve met him, he appears as just a man, and not a god.
My eyelids are heavy as I hazily look at the window again, watching each raindrop slide down the grimy glass. My lashes flutter, blocking out the gentle morning light until my head is lolling against the curved stone.
I can barely catch my breath when an abyss swallows me whole, and I am falling.
I clutch my throat as I fall endlessly, my body weightless, my heart thumping so fast I fear it may erupt through my ribcage.
“Help,” I cry dryly, but my plea is muffled by the void of blackness. I reach out, kicking my legs against the empty space.
I land with a heavy thud, and the air whooshes from my lungs. Struggling to take a breath in, I lay under the dove-gray sky, winded, staring at the colors moving between the clouds, like rolling waves but in the sky.
My chest screams in protest when I finally gasp a lungful of air. I groan as I turn onto my side. The tall grass withered.
A heaving cough steals my next breath, aching my struggling lungs. I slap my hand over my mouth and nose. Particles of ash drift to the back of my throat, the potent, charred taste doubling me over into a coughing fit.
Reaching for the torn skirt of my dress, I clasp a handful of silver silk. I run my fingers over the small, black crystals embroidered into the fabric, flowing over the contours of my body. As I glide my fingers up the floor-length gown, I reach the boned corset, the material shimmering as if the material was cut from the night sky. I turn my head, then lift my arms, examining the tulle cape, touching the high collar and diamond inset in the center. The cloudy, gray sky illuminates the glistening buttons running down the length of both arms. I extended my hands, examining the silver band, complete with a small, dark skull engraved into it—similar to Azkiel’s.
What in the Darklands? I have never seen a dress like this to even imagine it in a dream.
Unless this isn’t my dream.
I scan my surroundings, brows furrowed as I stare out over the smoky-pinched meadow. “Essentria,” I whisper, my lungs accumulating to the ash-captured world.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand erect when I realize I am standing in the same dream as last night, except the trees surrounding it have been reduced to piles of ash, scattered in the breeze, and everything is dead.
Lifting the skirts of my dress, the netted train dragging over the withered grass, I walk barefoot through the meadow. Everything about this place feels like I have been here before. The horizon of dark waters beyond the forest is so eerily familiar.
Is this Tenenocti? It looks so similar, yet so different, as if something has drained the island of life. I pause, holding my hands over my abdomen, my stomach churning.
Something isn’t right.
Goosebumps prick over my arms. I blink slowly, taking in the monotone world. Remembrance flickers in my mind again, and a curtain lifts in my mind. I swallow hard as decay magic spills from my heart, through my veins, seeping into every limb. My eyes bulge as I extend my hands, watching the dark gray covering my skin.
My lips part as I clutch the sides of my head. I clamp my eyes shut as visions flash through my mind. Azkiel’s face haunts my thoughts—those silver eyes crowned with concern—then Astraea, who is even more vibrant than her portrait in the church, with her long, dusky blue hair. Every inch of her shimmers, as if she is made from stardust.
Then, Cyna’s green, pointed eyes, reflecting my sins back to me, instill guilt into my heart. “Stop!” I yell as the puzzle pieces of the vision, or memories, cascade upon me.
Wake up. Wake up.
“Murder becomes you,” Cyna’s low, steady voice booms. “Essentria was wrong. You always belonged to Death.”
Death? As in Azkiel? Why the fuck is the God of Judgment here?
My eyes fling open, and I whip my head around, the decay magic thrumming stronger than ever, so much that I fear I can’t contain it. Guilt shreds every survival instinct into ribbons until it is all I can think about.
I clench my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t shatter, and with trembling arms and a quaking chest, I spot Cyna standing in my peripheral vision.
I spin to face him, a sob heaving from my sore throat. I open my mouth, but the words are smothered by the overwhelming grief, pushing through any desire to ignore it, to bury it.
“You do not belong in this world, Calista,” Cyna states, and I glare at him, every instinct in my body screaming at me to run as he strides forward, the grass crunching beneath his leather boots. His dark tunic is brought to life by the emeralds sewn around the corner, and his groomed, dark beard runs into his short, slicked-back hair.
“What do you mean?” A lump forms in my throat, and I try to swallow hard to remove it. Every breath is a labor, and I drop to my knees.
He crouches, his fingers curling around the knees of his black breeches. “You must accept your fate. Too many lives have been lost shielding you from it.”
