In that moment it was just her, the reaper, and a room cold as frost. The temperature stole movement from her limbs and she dropped to her knees.
Death is not something to be controlled. You need to learn this, Signa. You need to understand.
“I know you can do it.” She was pleading, and she didn’t care. “We saved her once, and we can do it again. Just one more time, please.”
Is there someone else who deserves death more?
The words were a test. If she wanted to spare a life, she needed to take one in exchange. Perhaps it would be a random one. Perhaps it would be one of her own choosing. Whoever it was, Signa would not allow Blythe to die that night. Rising back to her feet, she pushed through the searing cold and the shadows that urged her back—and put herself between Death and her cousin.
Don’t be a fool. You’re cruel to make her hold on like this. There was truth in what he said. Blythe was a walking corpse, ghostly skin clenching desperately to protruding bones. She couldn’t so much as tilt her face to look at Signa, her body too exhausted to continue this fight.
“It’s okay” was all Blythe whispered, over and over again, the softest, tiredest refrain. “It’s okay. It’s okay if I go.”
Sweat slicked across her neck and down her back, her clothing damp and sticking to her skin. It didn’t have to be like this. Now that they knew Marjorie was the poisoner, Blythe could finally heal.
It would take only two words. One single command, and Blythe would have another chance.
“Do it.” Signa’s words were firm, meant not for her cousin but for the reaper who looked on. “She’s not dying today.”
Do you understand what this means? There was no judgment in his tone, only dedication to ensuring that she understood the gravity of her decision. You are toying with Fate, Signa. You’re playing God.
“I don’t care,” she said, and she meant it. “Do whatever you must, but if you care for me at all, then help her.”
He cast one long look at Blythe, the shadows around him thinning as he bowed his head.
Very well.
At once, Blythe’s breathing began to steady.
The reaper disappeared, and in his wake, he left a sleeping girl, a baffled man, a red-faced woman, and a girl who had just damned another soul without a moment’s hesitation. One who stood before all of them, power thrumming through her blood.
Signa could get drunk off that power. Could drown herself in it, it felt so good.
“Are you a witch, girl?” Marjorie asked, voice shattering like a fallen teacup. “What have you done?”
Signa needn’t say a word. Elijah was beside her, his eyes wild and face purple as he shook with anger. “Show me your hands.” It was he who must have taught Blythe how to wield her words, for had the estate been smaller, his voice alone would have brought it to shambles.
Marjorie drew a step back. “Elijah, I’d never—”
“Take off your gloves and show me your hands!” He crossed the floor, each step more murderous than the last, barely restraining his rage. Marjorie drew several tentative steps back, and Signa quickly flattened herself against the wall as he took hold of her wrist and yanked off the glove. He took one look at her fingers and dropped her hand, disgust and pain written clear across his face.
“You’ve never cared for Blythe.” His words dripped with venom as he leaned into her, so close his chest pressed against hers. “You never cared for her, just as you never cared for Lillian. She was a good woman, Marjorie. And these children are innocent. How dare you lay a hand on them? On Percy?”
The noise that came from the back of Marjorie’s throat was a strange one, something between a gasp and a snort. “The fact that you think I did anything to them is ridiculous and you know it. I’d never lay a hand on them!”
His jaw clenched, and he pointed to the door. “I want you to leave.”
Marjorie gripped the door’s frame as if to stake her claim upon the room. “You can’t do that.”
“I can do whatever I please.” The flickering of the oil lamp shadowed Elijah’s face, hollowing his cheeks. “I don’t want to see your face near Thorn Grove. Leave now, or I’ll call for the constable.”
Marjorie’s chest caved in as though the wind had been knocked from her, and she scowled at Elijah as if he were the devil himself. “You’re making a mistake.” Marjorie spun to Signa, whose blood turned cold. “And you. You’ve no idea what you’re doing, child. You know nothing at all.”
A young woman followed by Death didn’t easily feel fear. But in that moment, the feeling sank deep into Signa’s core, forcing goose bumps like a rash across her skin.
Fortunately, Marjorie was gone the next time she blinked.
The moment the door shut behind her, Elijah’s knees buckled. The sound that tore through him was warped and broken. It was enough to shatter Signa’s heart and make her hands ache to reach out to him, to tell him that all would be okay. Blythe had survived the latest attack of this poison, and soon it would be out of her system. But this level of heartbreak was something she’d never experienced, and something that could never be put into words. The man before her had shattered, and there was no picking up the pieces.
THIRTY-EIGHT
ELIJAH DIDN’T ASK FOR AN EXPLANATION. HE ASKED ONLY TO BE LEFT alone with his sleeping daughter, and Signa was more than willing to oblige.
The veil over what she’d done began to dissipate, clarity sinking in. Percy would recover, and Blythe would live to see another day. The murderer was found, and all would soon be well again at Thorn Grove. But to make that happen, Signa had condemned another soul to death. She’d sacrificed another life in place of Blythe’s.
She chewed her nails to the skin as she paced down the hall, mind reeling. She knew she should care more, she should have regrets. But she’d make the same choice again and again if she had to.
God, what was she becoming?
When she reached her suite, the chill warned her that Death waited inside. He was pacing the drawing room floor when she opened the door, shadows dragging behind him like a cloak. The moment he caught sight of her, the shadows in the room rushed forward, hovering mere inches from her.
“Come with me.” It wasn’t a question, yet hesitation laced the command.
“Where?” was all she could think to say.
“It’s time for you to see what I do.” He extended his hand, beckoning. “It’s time for you to see that there’s more to death than you believe.”
The hand he stretched toward her meant so much more than just a hand. She knew that taking it would mean opening herself up to him and his world. It would mean accepting what she’d done and embracing this side of herself once and for all.
This wasn’t Death the killer who stood before her. This wasn’t the demon she’d built up in her head, spending too many years hating. This was the man who ferried innocent souls to their afterlife. This was Death, whose powers she shared. Who understood her better than anyone else ever could. She was tired of running from him.
Signa laced their fingers together as she tipped her head back to observe the souls floating around them. The more she watched them, the more she could make out glimpses of faces within. “Why don’t they look like typical spirits?” She gripped Death like a vise. He was bending the space around them as they moved, shifting to somewhere new. It felt like slipping through a pond and emerging dry.