Chapter Twenty Five
Rosalie
There are hands on my face and neck, prodding gently enough to draw a wince but not a cry. Light flickers beneath my shut eyelids, dim and dancing. I've been placed on a firm bed with sheets that smell freshly laundered. My feet are bare and freezing.
"She'll live," says the person inspecting me, a man with a stern but quiet voice.
"Sure," someone says from farther away— Marcella. "In what state, though?" It sounds like she's speaking through shut lips, like she's chewing on her nail. "If she has brain damage, he'll never let me live it down."
The man near me sighs. "I do have more pressing matters to attend to."
"You owe him."
This squashes the man's protests. He presses an especially tender spot on my temple, sending ripples of pain across the side of my face. My eyes fly open. I jerk away, scrambling upright and crossing my arms over my chest.
The room is lit by two candles sitting on a cluttered desk near the door. Unframed posters are pinned haphazardly to the walls, most crooked, some of bands that I recognize. The only piece of framed wall art is a child’s drawing of two stick figures, a taller one with a cape and a shorter one on his shoulders.
I was right about the bookshelf, at least. The crowded shelf is pressed against the wall beside me, almost as an afterthought, partly obscuring the window that looks down onto the courtyard. It's still dark outside, but the sky is climbing to the lighter navy that announces the sun's imminent arrival.
The door leading to a bright hallway is open. Marcella is gone.
Azmaveth isn't as tall as I expected him to be, but he still looms over me. His deep brown hair is slicked back and secured in a knot at the base of his neck. Emily would probably ask him what gel he uses to smooth flyaways. He's not quite frowning at me, but his lips are tight, creating a hollow in his already sharp cheeks.
"Don't be frightened," he says.
"That's usually what people say when someone should be frightened." I scoot backwards, aiming for the headboard. Instead, pillows squish against my back— a truly obscene amount of pillows.
"You've tangled yourself in our lives so thoroughly that I'd struggle to get rid of you. For that, congratulations. I'll shelter you because it's what he'd want, but don't mistake my hospitality for kindness."
"Save your breath. Marcella already gave me this speech."
He turns his back to me and starts towards the door. "Your food will be delivered. The washroom is through the door on your right. It should be stocked with the essentials. If you require anything else, let one of the housekeepers know."
"Am I a prisoner?"
He hesitates, a hand on the door frame. "I suppose not."
I lean forward. "Then I'm free to leave?"
"Walk the manor if you please. Don't bother the landscapers."
"Where is he?"
He's gone before the question fully leaves my mouth.
I slam back against the pillows and immediately regret it. Despite the cushion, the motion sends a throbbing pain down my head and neck. I clench my teeth and squeeze my watering eyes shut until it subsides, rubbing my palms against the bed sheets.
This must be Theo's room. It still smells like him, like the moment before a thunderstorm. He never wanted me here, and after Azmaveth's lukewarm welcome, I can guess why.
It isn't that I think Azmaveth will hurt me. I'm just not positive he won't hurt me. Theo's story about his friend hasn't slipped my mind. It'd be hard to forget, as it's one of the few things he's told me about his time here.
For example, he didn't tell me he kept a journal.
I slide to the edge of the bed, maneuvering around the ridiculous amount of pillows, and set my cold feet on the dark hardwood floor. Nausea creeps up my throat. I wait for it to settle before standing and moving to the desk.
Clutter is piled between the two candles like a shrine. Old receipts, outdated magazines, and post-it notes litter the otherwise clean mahogany desk. Not a speck of dust, though Theo hasn't been in this room in months.
At the center of the pile of papers and odd keepsakes, a lightly worn journal balances on top of one with a tattered cover and yellowed pages. I reach for the older journal, careful not to let any of the unbound pages fall out. The spine is little more than a cluster of fraying threads. How many artifacts like this does Azmaveth own? This house could be a museum— or a mausoleum.
I shouldn't snoop. Not only because it's wrong, especially when Theo never wanted me here, but because the paper looks like it'll crumble to dust if I breathe on it wrong. It's beyond invasive, looking into his personal belongings without his permission.
Reading my mind and pretending he doesn't is invasive, too.
The first page of the crumbling journal is nearly indecipherable. Names, I realize after a beat. Camille Deveau Alexandre Deveau, hastily written on the same line. The ink blots in places like he was pressing down hard. I trace the smudges and scribbles with my index finger.
There are more names below, but none are so furiously scribed. As I flip through the pages, the handwriting becomes neater, more meticulous. Letters stop blending together. Every name gets its own space, and some have comments attached. They must've been added later as the set of the ink is different, and the writing is less frantic.
I'm not arrogant enough to think that I'm the first living person Theo has grown attached to, but the sheer volume of people who he offered affection to makes me stumble back, falling to sit on the bed. There are hundreds.
Elias tried to warn me. The journal says nothing about what happened to the people memorialized within, but given my own experiences, I can guess.
A tiny voice in my head that sounds remarkably close to Andrew's asks, Does it matter? Knowing what you know now, would you have made a different choice?
I should've. But would I?
With a steadying breath, I set the journal on the desk. I don't bother trying to shuffle the papers back to their original places. When he returns, he'll know I went through his stuff. Maybe it'll provoke him. Maybe he'll be honest for once.
"You can't be in here."
I startle, pressing my hand against my chest and turning towards the doorway and the chastising voice.
What the hell is a kid doing here? He looks to be barely double digits with a mop of sandy blonde hair and a frown too old for his round face. He says again, "You're not allowed in here."
"Why not?" I ask, deciding not to share that Azmaveth implied I'm only allowed in here.
"'Cause no one is allowed in here. Not me, either. Even though I said I wouldn't touch anything, and you're touching stuff."
"No, I wasn't."
He crosses his arms. "Now you're lying, and I never lie unless Marcella tells me to, so that's not fair."
"You know Marcella?"
"Of course I do. I live here."
I consider his defensive pride bordering on arrogance and the comfort in him accosting me. A kid lives here. A living, breathing child. I'm the first to admit to lacking any parental instincts, but I'm not a monster. From what Theodore has told me about Azmaveth, this isn't a place for a kid. I don't think this boy would take it well if I told him so.
I look towards the framed stick figure drawing, hung straight among the other crooked posters. “Did you make that?”
He peers into the room without crossing the threshold. “No.” His nose scrunches. “A baby did that.”
“But you knew Theodore?”
He puffs out his chest, arms still crossed. “Yeah, and he’s not imaginary, so don’t try to tell me he is.”
I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees, sensing an opening. “I thought Marcella was imaginary at first.”
His arms fall to his sides. “Good thing you didn’t tell her that.”
“I did.”
A smile ghosts his lips. “Did she get mad at you?”
The pain in my head has dulled to an ignorable ache as long as I don’t move too fast. Marcella wasn’t punishing me, or at least not in the way the kid is implying. There’s a larger game, a series of moving parts obscured from me.
I’m not a pawn. I’m an offering.
“I guess so,” I reply, standing. “Care to give me a tour?”
The hint of a smile blooms into a gap-toothed grin, confirming my suspicion that he, too, has been set to the side and told to behave while the immortals scheme. Even ten-year-olds crave responsibility. A stake in the game, a role to play, to speak and be heard. It's not charity, though. It's a bargain.
He leads me through a hallway lined with closed doors, pointing out Marcella's room across from Theo's and Azmaveth's office at the end. The rest of the house is well-lit despite the early morning. It's not the ominous lair I would've expected from one of Death's servants, but Theo has surprised me so thoroughly that I find myself not surprised at all.
The manor is huge, though. Two stories connected by a wide staircase that the kid leads me down. We land in a sitting room with tall windows that let in the sunrise. A woman brushes past us with her head down, carrying folded linens.
"Liam," she chides without slowing, "you're meant to be helping with breakfast."
Once her back is to us, he makes a show of rolling his eyes. "They can't boss me around, but they pretend to."
"Why can't they?"
He grabs my hand and pulls me towards the door. "C'mon, I'll show you the garden."
We follow a concrete pathway to the back of the main house and towards an area bordered by manicured hedges. The path drops into dirt lined by stones, ushering us into the garden. Flowers are organized by color in meticulous squares. Andrew could've named a few and pointed out if any of them are poisonous. When I ask Liam, he shrugs and offers a disinterested, "Probably."
He points out a cobblestone path branching from the one we're following. It cuts through the hedges and shoots towards the smaller houses at the back of the property, looping behind them before wrapping back towards the manor.
"Theodore used to run that path every morning," Liam says, putting his hands in his pockets. "I was little when he was here so I don't remember much, but people tell me things."
"You're luckier than I am, then."
"We're both lucky." He kicks at a pebble. "We used to watch cartoons together. I remember that. My grandparents tried to tell me this was fake. The house, the people, all of it. But it's real, and that's why I came back." The words spill out like he's trying to finish before I inevitably interrupt him. "People think because I'm a kid I don't understand who Azmaveth is or what happened to my mom, but I do. They think I don't know because I'm not scared. What they don't understand is that it's less scary when you're here. It's scarier when you're…" He trails off, nodding towards the edge of the property. "That's why I came back."
We walk in silence for a moment, his contemplative and mine careful. After I'm sure he's finished talking, I ask, "Your grandparents let you come back?"
"I didn't give them a choice." He smirks. "They got worried when I started killing the birds. When the neighbor's cat went missing, they made me go talk to someone. People at school were scared of me. Even the teachers. And then…" He glances at me sidelong. "I wasn't trying to be mean. I was experimenting."
My stomach flips, but I keep my face neutral. "Sure."
"Theodore didn't come back for animals. Maybe he would've for people, but I didn't get that far." Liam shrugs. "But he probably wouldn't have, because he was with you, right?"
When I don't reply, he laughs. "I'm not mad about it anymore, so don't worry. Besides, I'm here now, and he's coming back. Azmaveth says so. He says that a lot, but he means it this time."
Information filtered through a prepubescent is less than reliable, but seeing as I have no other options, I choose to believe him. "Did Azmaveth tell you where he is?"
Liam shakes his head. "Marcella knows too, but she won't say, and she always catches me when I try to sneak."
"Oh."
"You don't talk much, do you?"
I shrug. From behind us, a voice yells, "Liam!"
Liam grabs my hand and starts rushing away from the voice, not quite jogging but close. Footsteps shuffle against the dirt, approaching. Over my shoulder, I catch an exasperated man running towards us in what looks like an old steward's uniform, all buttons and layers. "Liam, I swear to—"
When our eyes meet, he stops short and bows his head. I tug Liam to a stop a few yards from him and turn back.
"We don't have to," Liam whispers as I approach the cowed man. "He can't boss us around."
"It's alright," I murmur. Then louder, "Did you need something?"
"I'm sorry," the man mumbles to the ground. "I didn't know you were— Is Liam pestering you?"
Liam's shoulders curl inwards. He slides closer to me, still holding my hand. I squeeze his in a dizzying wave of protectiveness. He's Theodore's, which makes him mine.
"Not at all," I say. "Who are you?"
"My name is Daniel." His arm twitches like he's going to offer his hand but decides against it. "I'm a driver for Azmaveth and Liam's guardian."
"Only until Theodore gets back," Liam huffs. "I'm gonna tell him you were mean to me. And to her."
Daniel pales. "I— I'm not—"
"I won't tattle if you look at me when you speak," I say. "Do I make you nervous?"
Daniel lifts his chin, eyes darting between me and Liam. "People talk. From what I hear, I'd be a fool if I wasn't nervous."
"And what do you hear?"
He shoots Liam a pointed look. I release the kid's hand and gesture for him to move further into the garden, earning a deep frown.
"I'm not a baby," he gripes.
"I know," I say. "Give me five and we'll continue the tour."
He sighs but slinks away, heading in the opposite direction than I indicated, towards the cobblestone running path. He dips behind the hedges, not quite out of earshot. Daniel doesn't seem to notice.
"His mom was a friend of mine," Daniel says. "When I first came here, I'd watch him while she worked at the house. He talked about Theodore like a god." He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, emboldened by Liam's absence. "I suppose he was. Is. But he was always so gentle with the boy, patient in a way that even I struggled with. Absolutely spoiled him."
"That sounds like him," I say.
"I suppose you'd know. Theodore has always been the kindest of them. Approachable. Well, as approachable as death can be, I mean.” He chuckles, then remembers himself and coughs, looking towards the ground. “They’re all— We’re treated very well. Mostly, we’re left alone until they need us for something. It’s not a bad gig, considering. It could be worse.”
"From what you hear."
He nods. "That was years ago. Then Theodore left, and Liam disappeared, and Anya…" He shakes his head. "Like I said, people talk."
A memory from what feels like a lifetime ago flits to the front of my brain. You know how he is about his pets. I lower my voice, too aware of the little ears perking behind the hedges. "She died."
"She was killed," Daniel corrects. "From what I hear, Theodore nearly tore the house down. Nearly took Azmaveth's head, too. So yes, you make me nervous."
"I don't understand."
He takes a moment to find the words, rocking onto his heels. “Azmaveth brought you in without question and hid you here. The three of them put on a good show of disdain towards each other, but anyone with two eyes and half a brain can see through it. You're not Azmaveth’s, and Marcella doesn’t bother making nice with mortals, so that leaves only one."
He leans forward like he's sharing a secret. "Theodore wants you safe, so they keep you safe. I don’t know why, and it’s not my business, but I do know that if something happens to you, if he even thought something happened to you… I pity the person who receives that punishment.”
My breathing shallows. It's not a new revelation, but the reminder makes my chest tight. Hayes suffered the consequences of that loyalty. "He's a good man."
Daniel averts his eyes. "Right."
"He's good. You said it yourself, he's the kindest of all of them. He wouldn't hurt anyone without reason."
"Of course. I apologize." He takes a step back. "Keep an eye on Liam. He's made a habit of showing up in places he shouldn't be."
I don't say, So have I.
Daniel points to one of the houses near the back of the property. "Once he's finished dragging you around, drop him off at my place. I'll be there this afternoon. No later than five o' clock, please."
I look to where he's pointing. "That's an early curfew."
"Azmaveth's orders. Nobody's allowed in the main house after five tonight, but he wants Liam tucked away."
"Why?"
"I assume our benevolent gods are expecting guests." He cocks his head. "They're setting the table for four. I figured you'd be one of them. He didn't tell you?"
It could be any of Marcella's rebels. Uriel maybe, though Marcella's conversation with him was more of a dismissal than an invitation. Or it could be—
"Oh, right," I say. "It must've slipped my mind."
Daniel narrows his eyes. "If you get into trouble, which I'm sure you will, can I ask that you forget my name?"
"Already have." I extend my hand. He hesitates but shakes it. "It was nice to meet you."
Judging from the thin film of sweat his palm leaves on mine, he doesn't feel the same.