Chapter One
Persephone
At 11:03 a.m., on a cold February morning, I take my last breath.
In only thirty seconds the river has filled my car, seeping in through cracks to pool at my feet before creeping up my legs and body. I’ve tried using the buttons to lower the windows, but the water has affected the electrics, and they’re not working. I’ve hammered on the window with my shoe, but the heel thuds uselessly against the glass. I’m in a steel prison, and it’s only now that I realize I’ve been given a death sentence.
Oh my Goddess. I’m really going to die.
With my mouth in the inch of space left below the roof, I inhale as deeply as I can. At the same time, the overhead light and the clock on the dashboard go out. My heart hammers, and I submerge into the dark, icy water.
I force my eyes open, but I can’t see anything. I claw at the car door, but although I pull the handle and push my feet against the door, it refuses to open. My lungs burn with the effort of not breathing.
I bang my fists on the window, my mouth opening in a soundless scream. I can’t hold my breath for long. I’m not a swimmer. I’m not even particularly fit. I have puny arms and no strength in my upper body.
The seconds tick by with my heartbeats. I break my nails trying to scrape at the door frame, bang my knees on the steering wheel as I thrash and jerk.
And then, eventually, I can’t fight the urge not to breathe any longer. My body automatically inhales. A huge, wet paw clamps over my mouth, and water rushes into my lungs. I can’t tell if I’m breathing in or out.
I twist and flail in the water in a barbaric replica of a synchronized swimmer going through a routine, but everything is growing hazy. I can’t tell which way I’m facing, or where the door is. At that moment, I accept the terrible truth. This is how it all ends for me. I am going to drown.
Finally, I stop moving and hang limply in the water, like a piece of clothing tossed into a still lake. My limbs float up around me, and my body twitches—a nervous, automatic reaction, because I’m beyond movement. Bubbles emit from my nose and mouth and float to the roof of the car. My open eyes stare off into the darkness.
My brain flicks through images like a tourist through postcards. Mum, Dad, work colleagues, childhood friends, my dog that died ten years ago, Tia, my flat, the office, places I’ve been on holiday, beaches in the sun, Dartmoor in the snow. I’m conscious enough to know that death is imminent. Not conscious enough to do anything about it.
This February is what they call a Black Moon—a month without a full moon, which only happens once every nineteen years. Kimi told me it’s a time of contemplation and darkness. My last thought is I guess she was right.
The world slowly fades away.
There’s no tunnel. No bright light. No line of relatives waiting to greet me.
I’m standing in a large clearing in the middle of a forest. Tall trees encircle me—oak, beech, ash, birch, and holly. I’m in the Grove, which is part of the Forest of Dreams—the magical haven I visit when I meditate, to meet the Goddess and her Consort, to carry out rituals. It’s a creation of my mind; at least, I thought it was. Usually, I picture a summer’s day, with the forest full of wildflowers, birdsong, and animals—roe deer, rabbits, dragonflies. Now, it’s dark and quiet, nighttime. Through the leafy canopy, the sky is black, with no sign of the moon. The light comes from one lantern in the middle, on the ground, and small lights in the air around us, glowworms, or maybe fairies.
Someone is kneeling on the grass by the lantern. It’s a woman. She’s bent over, her face in her hands, and I can hear her crying. I walk forward, my bare feet silent on the grass.
The woman has shoulder-length brown wavy hair. It’s the same color as mine, just a little shorter. It’s my twin sister, Tia.
I stop, confused. Am I dead? That makes no sense, because Tia is alive. And yet here she is. Sobbing uncontrollably.
I kneel before her. “Tia?” I put a hand on her head, and finally she raises her face. Her eyes are full of sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and puts her face in her hands again.
“What’s the matter?” I’m full of fear. “Tia, tell me what’s wrong.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
In the distance, a deep banging, cracking noise fills the forest. It’s incongruous with the quiet Grove. I want it to go away.
Tia lifts her head again and takes my hand. She looks anxiously in the direction of the sound. “Kia kaha,” she says. I don’t know the words; I don’t know what it means. She looks scared and backs away on the grass.
I follow her gaze to see an animal watching us. It has a long nose, pointed ears, and a shaggy mane. It’s a huge gray wolf. Its eyes are icy blue. It opens its jaws, snarls, then leaps at me.
Its teeth clamp around my ankle, and it begins pulling me away from the Grove. I kick and scream, but its bite is firm, and I can’t release myself. I shout my sister’s name, but she remains huddled in fear, too scared to help.
The banging noise grows louder, until it’s deafening. And then, suddenly, a chasm opens up in the forest floor, and I’m falling into it. The wolf releases me. I fall, down, down, down into the darkness, grasping at nothing, growing colder and colder as the Grove disappears above me, a dot of light that finally winks out.
*
I cough and vomit up half the river. Strong hands turn me onto my side. My fingers sink into grass crunchy with snow. Incredible pain racks my body as my lungs squeeze and force the water out. Oh, this is worse than dying. I want it to stop. I want to go back in the water, back to the Grove.
“Easy.” A man’s voice. He hooks a finger around strands of my hair that are stuck to my face, pulling them back behind my ear. “Just breathe. In and out. That’s it.”
I don’t want to breathe. It hurts. I curl into a ball and retch repeatedly, until all the water has gone, and still my stomach cramps and my lungs burn.
“Slowly,” he says. “You’re all right. You’ll be all right.”
My brain is a clunky old computer rebooted with Control-Alt-Delete. It takes a moment for the neurons to fire, for whatever is inside me—my personality, my thoughts, my soul—to wake up. My head floods with memories of the icy water, the panic, the pain, the fear.
I push up to a sitting position, my chest heaving. “Am I dead?”
“No,” he says.
“I died, didn’t I? Is this hell?”
“God, no. It’s far too cold to be hell. We’re near Dartmoor, in Devon. Good old England. You’re alive. I pulled you out of the car.”
I blink, and my vision clears. I see him properly for the first time. His wet white shirt clings to a muscular chest and arms. Early thirties, maybe. Clean shaven. His hair is plastered to his head. It looks dark, but I think it might be light brown when it’s dry. His black trousers are soaked. Next to us, a pair of black boots and a black jacket rest on the snow-covered grass where he must have taken them off before he dove in. The jacket bears a large square label on the back that reads POLICE. A black cap lies a little further away, upside down, as if he tossed it as he stripped off his jacket.
I look into his eyes. They’re bright blue, the color of the winter sky behind him.