“Blythe. It’s happening again, isn’t it? Whatever—whoever—killed you is back for your daughter. Is that right?”
Lillian blinked away, then reappeared beside a small bush of berries on the opposite side of the garden.
Signa sprinted toward her and opened her fist, where she still held a small handful of the berries, now half mushed into her palms. She stretched them out toward Lillian, whose eyes went black as Signa asked, “Poison? You think you were poisoned?”
Lillian’s spirit rocked with a violent twitch. Quelling her trembling, Signa dared to add, “Was it by someone at Thorn Grove?”
Another violent shudder. The sores on Lillian’s lips festered, turning from purple to a vicious black before they tore open with blood that ran from her lips, down her chin, and soiled the top of her gown. Her body spasmed, head bobbing in a furious and terrifying nod. “Who?” Signa demanded as Lillian’s eyes brightened, glowing. “Was it one of the cooks? A maid? The tutor? Was it someone you trusted?”
“Enough!” Death was there beside Signa, his shadows consuming her, drawing her back. “Do not press the dead, Signa. She doesn’t know.”
His warning came too late. The spirit’s neck bent and snapped as she jerked it from one direction to the next, shaking, nodding, twisting. Blood poured from Lillian’s mouth, and the moonlight caught the pulp of her shredded tongue as she threw her head back and screamed a sound so shrill and grating it brought Signa to her knees. The wind whipped the water from the pond and tossed the croaking frogs into the trees, marring the clean branches with their blood.
Death was before her, his shadows like armor blocking her from the carnage.
“What’s happening?” Signa gritted out, hands clamped tight over her ringing ears as she tried to see around him.
“You pushed too far.” The darkness expanded around them, creating a barrier. “Wayward spirits aren’t meant to recall their final moments. You never know how they might react.”
Signa leaned around the shadows to watch as Lillian reached down the back of her own throat and grabbed the awful heap that was her tongue. She clawed her grimy, soil-stained nails into it, ripping off pieces of flesh. She tossed the bloodied heaps to the ground and then went for another, as if trying to remove her own tongue in its entirety.
But then the wind stilled, and Lillian’s neck twisted back to its rightful place. Her eyes snapped to Signa, to the shredded bits of her tongue that were already fading. To the bloodstained trees where several frogs lay impaled.
She looked to Death then, and tears flooded into her eyes, black and bloody.
And then Lillian was gone, and the static in the air followed.
Death retracted his shadows from around her as Signa clawed toward the nearest tree and threw up. There was an iciness in her body she couldn’t quell, and her hands shook even as she pressed them against the trunk to steady herself. Outside the garden, Mitra whinnied at the sound of another pair of hooves in the distance.
“It’s time to go” was all Death said as he took hold of her shoulder, pulling Signa to her feet and back through the garden.
“Do you know who did it?” The words tumbled from her, a little slurred.
“If I did, I would tell you. I’m not all-knowing, Signa. When I touch a person, I see glimpses of the life they’ve lived. But I know only what they know, and while Lillian suspects foul play, she doesn’t know who’s behind it.” Gundry pawed outside the gate. He ceased his sniffing at once and looked up, tongue lolling out when he saw Signa stumble through the gate. He looked at Death, too, and his tail began to wag.
“He can see you?” After all she’d seen that day, she wasn’t sure why it was so surprising. She’d seen spirits interacting with animals before, but Death had always felt like a step beyond that. Like someone who shouldn’t even be real.
“All animals can see me,” Death said, patting the hound on the head. She almost thought she could see a hint of a smile peeking out from his shadows, but when Signa blinked again, he was gone.
There was so much. So much she didn’t know. So much happening that she could barely process.
She had Death’s powers.
Lillian had been murdered.
And now, to save Blythe, it was up to Signa to discover who had done it.
FOURTEEN
BY THE TIME SYLAS FOUND HER, SIGNA WAS LEANING AGAINST Mitra, gripping the reins to hold herself upright. Sylas’s hair was mussed and peppered with twigs, like he’d taken a tumble into the bushes. Beneath him, Balwin seemed delighted and not at all out of breath.
“Miss Farrow!” Sylas exhaled a relieved breath. “You shouldn’t have taken off like that!”
“It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep up,” she managed. She wiped her mouth with her forearm and sucked in gulping breaths of the cool air, letting it flood her lungs and cool her skin. She hadn’t realized before that interacting with a spirit took so much of a toll on her, but as it was, she could barely lift her hands. No longer could she feel Mitra there beside her, holding her up. No longer could she feel anything.
“Signa?” Sylas’s voice was faint. “Are you ill?”
“Quite,” she managed to say. “I believe… I believe I must have eaten something foul.” She couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop the press of cold deep within her bones. Couldn’t think of anything other than how they needed to hurry because Blythe’s killer was on the loose somewhere within Thorn Grove.
Signa groaned as Sylas hauled her atop Balwin. She had half a mind to protest as his arms wound around her waist to secure her in front of him on the saddle, though as it was she could hardly see straight. She tried not to flinch from his touch. Tried to accept the help and let herself remember that she couldn’t hurt anyone now that the belladonna had faded from her blood.
“If you’re going to lose your stomach,” he warned her, “make sure it’s not on my boots.”
She made no promises. It felt like someone had taken a cricket bat and bludgeoned her in the temple. Her stomach threatened to empty itself at any moment, and though Sylas had shed his cloak and settled it over her, she couldn’t stop shivering.
“What happened to you?” As kind as his actions were, Sylas’s voice had a hard edge. “Do you get ill like this often, or only when you disappear to frolic in the woods?”
“I would hardly call this a frolic,” Signa countered, curling her fingers in the offered cloak. “And no, it doesn’t happen often. I think I saw something in the forest.” She decided to slip a piece of truth into her next statement, just enough to sound a little bewildered. “It felt as though something in the woods was calling to me.”
With his chest against her back, she could feel his body become taut against hers. Her cheeks warmed, and she tried not to think about the inappropriateness of this situation or how strong his thighs felt around her, and instead on how he didn’t appear to be breathing. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing you should worry yourself—”
“I can judge that for myself,” she cut him off, feeling brave with Sylas in a way she didn’t often get to be. “Whatever it is, tell me.”