Chapter Three
Theodore
I wake with the smell of rain-kissed concrete lingering in my nose. I can’t remember the last time I dreamed of anything other than my lungs filling with water.
Judging from the slant of the sun through the open window, it’s mid-morning. I don’t need to sleep just as I don’t need to eat, and the habit is one that Marcella teases me endlessly about. I’m immortal, I told her once. I’ll go insane if I have to be conscious all the time.
I don’t know if Az bothers with the ritual. I doubt it. Az is a very busy man. I’ve long since lost track of how many humans he employs at the house. How many hours does he spend every day making bargains? Does he ever sit alone in that private study and count the souls owed to him like bank notes? Or count the ones he’s already claimed? Do they writhe inside of him like an incurable itch, like flies underneath his skin?
Not to mention the financial logistics of running an estate this large. Marcella and I were given complete freedom to use the credit cards Az gave us when we arrived. Marcella takes full advantage, buying jewelry, clothes, and more recently, books. I balk at her bill any time I catch a glimpse of it, but Az doesn’t even blink at the outrageously high number.
My card mostly collects dust in my wallet. I’m far from the thief I used to be, but sometimes I bring something home for Liam or stop for food while I’m in the city.
A note that had been stuffed in the crack of my bedroom door drifts to the floor. I pick it up and grin at the familiar looping handwriting.
There are leftovers in the fridge. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and bake it for 10 minutes. Use the broiler for a minute or two to crisp the skin. I’ll be at home if you need anything.
Of course Anya noticed that I left dinner early. As demure and subservient as she might act around Azmaveth, she’s quick-witted and sharp and, above all else, compassionate. The note and the offer are an apology for a wrong that isn’t hers to take blame for.
Az and Marcella are waiting for me downstairs. They sit on opposite couches, leaning in towards each other. He’s wearing his black three-piece suit and fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. She’s dressed similarly well, face made up and dark red lips turned down. They both sit up straight when they see me.
“Good morning,” I say, chipper. If either of them mention the events of last night, I’ll bolt. Or explode. I’m not sure which would be worse.
They glance at each other and then back at me. Az clears his throat. “We have a visitor.”
Dread settles heavy in my stomach. I scan the room, and when I find nothing, I peek out the windows. Wind tousles the flowers that line the fountain out front. New blooms, the landscapers must’ve been working for hours already. Humans mill about, conversing in small groups and preparing for whatever tasks they’re assigned. Nobody I don’t recognize.
“Seems like they left,” I mumble, dragging my leaden feet towards the dining room.
Az calls after me, “Theodore—”
No. No.
Uriel has his feet propped up on the table, leaning back in the chair—my chair—so that it’s balanced on its back two legs. That’s my food, too, the leftovers that Anya saved for me. He looks exactly as horrible as the last time I saw him, which is to say that he looks carved from marble or oil-painted, waxy and uncanny. I half-expect horns to pop up from beneath his cropped dark hair or a forked tongue to slip between his teeth when he flashes them at me in what could be considered a smile if I squint and swallow my surging terror. His eyes, so black that the pupil is consumed, raise to meet mine as he licks his fingers clean. “If I knew you were living in such luxury, I would have come to visit sooner.”
It’s an easy, practiced movement to stow away the fear that follows his grin, a smile that only ever precedes pain. I plaster the bored, thinly amused smirk on my own face and drawl, “A shame that being Morrigan’s lackey doesn’t come with such perks.”
He sits up and swings his legs off the table, rising with a quickness that makes my throat tight. “I came to escort you.”
A confused huff of a laugh escapes the mask I’ve donned in this vile creature’s presence. “Escort me where, exactly?”
His grin widens, but it’s Az that answers. He and Marcella stand a cautious distance behind me. “Morrigan wants you to accompany her,” Az says.
I stuff my hands into my pockets, hoping that the movement is quick enough to hide their trembling, and offer an irreverent, “No, thank you.” I start to turn. Uriel is in front of me before I can blink, his hand tightening on my bicep.
“Let me rephrase. You will come with us.” The temperature in the room plummets. Goosebumps raise on my arms. Uriel flicks his eyes down to my skin, marking the human reaction with a scoff, and releases me.
“Why?” Despite my efforts, the word comes out as a plea.
A whisper in my head, Marcella’s voice: You can help the rebels. You can warn them.
“It’s not my place to ask questions,” Uriel says, unaware that Marcella can, apparently, speak into living and dead minds.
“I don’t want any part of this,” I say in answer to them both.
Uriel puts a hand on my shoulder. I tense my muscles to keep from flinching away from the possessive touch. “You’re doing this to yourself. Denying your very nature—”
“Stop,” I snap. “Not another word.”
The interruption amuses Uriel, but he obeys. “I’ll be back at dusk. Don’t keep me waiting.” In a swirl of darkness, he’s gone, vanished into whatever horrible shadows he travels through.
I take a steadying breath and turn to face Az and Marcella. “I did what she asked.” I pull my balled fists out of my pockets and cross my arms to hide the quiver in my fingertips, but it travels up my arms and shoulders, betraying me. “I don’t understand.”
Az reaches for me. I step back. “Did you know?”
Pity lowers his brows. It’s all the answer I need.
“You’re worse than she is, disguising cruelty as kindness. At least she shows me the dagger before she drives it into my chest.”
“Theodore,” Marcella warns.
I whirl to her. “And you! You’re worse than both of them. So eager to light a fire, but you don’t consider that everyone around you will burn, too.”
She points to herself. “Kettle,” she twists her hand to gesture towards me, “pot.”
I swat her hand away. “I wish I never met you.”
Azmaveth lunges. I flinch, anticipating the blow, but he wraps his arms around my torso, pinning mine to my sides, and squeezes. The fight drains from me like a wave crashing against the shore and then retreating. He holds me like he can keep me intact. “Does anything in nature despair except man?” he whispers.
I have kept busy trying to survive. But I cannot imitate the trees. I cannot let it go.
He pulls away, raising one hand to rest on the back of my head, the other wiping away a tear with his thumb. I’m not sure when I started crying. “Do what they ask of you. Keep yourself safe, and when you get back—”
“When you get back,” Marcella says, “we’ll make her pay.”
It must be Friday. The business district is barren, only a few stragglers rushing through to get to their next destination. The passage of time means as much to me as the salmon means to the river. I’ve had fifteen thousand weekends. A man about Anya’s age takes a bite from a sandwich and loses the receipt to the wind. He scrambles after it. I catch it with my foot, pick it up. He thanks me when I hand it to him.
I walk with no real destination in mind. The longing sparked by last night’s dream has transformed into an insatiable frustration that is, unfortunately, entirely my own. I’ve never known peace like that. I’ve only experienced gifted joy, and what is given can be taken away. Death loves to take.
A woman brushes my shoulder as I pass and mumbles an apology, her head low and feet quick. If she was offered eternity, would she jump at the chance? Would she slow down? Would she raise her head? I know the answer even if I detest it. It’s the nature of all living things to protest their demise.
But this— this is not a life. To walk under this sun and know what awaits me once it sets, to know what always awaits me…
I try not to think about it as I turn away from the city, veering towards a suburb. It’s midday, so very few cars are parked in the driveway. The houses are modest but not unkempt and mostly silent save for the occasional hum of air conditioning.
I pause in front of an unassuming house in a line of unassuming houses. An oak tree likely older than the neighborhood casts shadows on the front door, and a rope that might’ve held a tire swing at one point dangles from the strongest branch. The grass is browned by the impending winter and trampled by feet too lazy or eager to walk on the cobblestone path. A tug in my chest like a string wrapped around a rib urges me forward. I plant my feet, tilting my head towards the cloudless sky.
My emotions are my own, but apparently, my body is not. The boy pulls at me again, but his presence isn’t overwhelming like my murderer’s. More like the urge to clear my throat or shake my leg. I can ignore it, but it takes effort. I should ignore it. I should turn around. I should walk back into the city and buy a gift for Liam and pick up food from a place where the employees know me by name, and I should find a park bench and sit there until I can’t sit any longer, and I should head to the estate with just enough time to make it back by dinner. I should pick a fight with Marcella and pretend to be annoyed when Az chastises us, and then I should spend the night in his office speaking only in quotes from a book that he read to me before I could read it myself. I should go home.
A voice that is both mine and not mine whispers, You promised.
I move around the side of the house to a window. The curtains are drawn, but a small opening allows me to peek through. The walls are painted light purple and almost entirely covered with unframed photographs held up by pieces of tape. They feature an array of faces, youthful and wild, but two are consistent: a girl and a boy.
The boy.
In the bed, the girl in the photographs—the girl from the dream—is curled up on her side with her knees tucked into her chest. The duvet is shoved towards the bottom of the bed. She shivers, and something in my chest lurches, urging me forward.
I don’t move. Even staring through the window is a violation beyond what I’m comfortable with. I may be the heir of Death, but I’m not immoral. Even if I did go in, what would I do? What would I say? What am I doing here, and why can’t I walk away?
Her body trembles again with a shudder or a sob, and again that soul nags at me. Maybe I will go in, just for a moment. I’ll cover her with the duvet and leave. Or maybe— maybe I’ll stay.
To do what, though? I’m not practiced at comforting people that aren’t dying, and this girl is very much alive. Sad, but alive. Crossing the threshold would only tempt Morrigan’s cruelty. I haven’t forgotten what she did to the humans I cared for so many years ago.
There is nothing that belongs to me. Not the room where I spend hours staring at the ceiling, not the bed or the bookshelf, not the chair at the dining table or the people surrounding it. Not even my own actions. For all that I boast about refusing to kneel, I have knelt. But I will not let her take this.
She shivers for a third time, and I lose my resolve. Like a whisper, I move through the window, stopping at the foot of the bed. Up close, she looks impossibly more fragile. Her eyes are shut, the skin around them splotchy and swollen. I wish she would open them. I want to dive into the honey of her eyes and hold and be held. I want to tell her everything. To beg for her forgiveness and have her tell me that it’s unnecessary.
I want her to look at me and not see the soul that guides my hand to untangle the duvet and pull it over her shoulders, careful not to jostle her. After a moment, she stills.
Rosalie. The name comes to me like embers being stoked into a blaze.
Unnervingly close footsteps echo in the hallway. I steal one last glance at her face, half-hidden by a mess of brown hair, and offer the only words I can think of to soothe her, words that come from the soul pressed against my skin as if it might burst free. Be brave. I’ll come back for you.
There are many words I would use to describe Marcella: standoffish, egotistical, stubborn, arrogant—but definitely not patient. We sit together on a bench overlooking the water, watching the sun’s slow descent. People walk by with phones pressed against their ears, pushing strollers or carrying bags of food. A group of teenagers are settled beneath a tree near the water, far enough away that I catch the tone of their conversation but not the words. One of them says something to make the other two howl, filling the air with a carelessness that I’ve never tasted.
Marcella snaps her fingers in front of my face, demanding my full attention. I only have a few hours left to master this new skill— or at least become proficient enough that it might benefit me. “Will I be able to hear Morrigan’s thoughts?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply, staring at me until I understand. She hasn’t spoken aloud since she first explained the differences between human and Mortae thoughts and how to decipher each. I’m already skilled at the former, but the latter is much more complicated. “Human thoughts are like electricity,” she explained. “Mortae thoughts are more like… raw energy. Like the power that the moon holds over the tide.”
Whatever the hell that means. I’m frustrated and exhausted and dreading every second that brings me closer to Morrigan, but I press on. I’ll take any advantage against her, even if it leaves me with a dull ringing in my ears.
Sorting through the energy of Marcella’s thoughts is like flipping through the pages of a waterlogged book with fingers drenched in syrup. It takes me an embarrassing amount of time to put together the two words that she’s practically screaming at me. Probably not.
“Very helpful.” I rub my temples and lean back against the cool wood. “Who taught you this? Morrigan?”
Marcella’s reply comes in the form of energy floating between us almost tangibly for how loudly she’s thinking for my benefit.
“Please just talk. I need a breather.”
She frowns. “You said you wanted to learn.”
“I want many things,” I snap, “and I have time for none of them.”
“Her highness doesn’t have the patience for nor the interest in any thoughts aside from her own.” She mirrors my posture, leaning back against the bench. “I killed a neurosurgeon once.”
“Oh, are we bragging now?”
“Real nasty guy. Preyed on his patients. I played the long game with him, really wormed my way into his life so that I could savor the look on his face when I—” She shoots me a wary glance. “Anyway, he told me once that the brain is a conductor, and thoughts are just impulses that run through. We hear the hum of static, so I figured, why can’t we hear thoughts, too?”
“That’s—” Impressive. “Quite a leap of logic.”
“It was a fruitful leap.” She leans forward, bracing her forearms on her thighs. “Have you considered what I’ve asked of you?”
“Helping the rebels?” I almost laugh. “I’ve done horrible things to stick around this long. I’m not going to jeopardize it for some cultist fantasy.” She almost looks offended. I snort. “What’s their plan? Find a conduit that might not exist, pump them full of power, and then what? Nobody can stand against her.”
“Nobody has tried. Do you really want to live like this for another three hundred years? Another thousand?” She turns to face me fully. I cast my eyes down, shame and fear mingling so thoroughly that they become an inky knot in my chest. “If we don’t act, we will live in the shadow of her boot for the rest of eternity. I refuse to believe that you can accept that.”
What other choice do I have? “How long ago did you join them?”
“Join them. I founded them. She slaughtered my Tomas like a lame goat and left him to die alone in the cold. I’ve been waiting to return the favor.”
My eyebrows shoot up. She never speaks about Tomas. “This is about revenge?”
“This is about liberty.”
I do laugh at that. “A revolutionary. Fitting. Are you going to start slicing up snakes next? Join or die?”
“I’ve seen empires fall before. It can be done. It has been done.”
“I swear, if you’re about to start waving a flag and singing about the redcoats—”
“Name your price, Theodore.” The sharpness of her voice stuns me into silence. “If you’re unwilling to help on principle alone, I’m not above bribing you.”
I consider. Marcella, a rebel leader. Morrigan would turn Az’s manor into ash if she found out. None of them would ever be safe again. Even having this conversation puts her in danger, not to mention the consequences for Anya and Liam and— “There is one thing.”
When I’m done explaining, Marcella shoots a thought at me, one word that I recognize immediately. No.
I expected this reaction, but she listened patiently while I recounted the story about the soul that watched from behind my eyes and how it pulled me towards this girl, this girl whose name made my blood sing. I shouldn’t have gone into her room, and I definitely shouldn’t have lingered when I did, but… “Do you want me to join your suicide mission or not?”
“I will not sign this girl’s death warrant. If Morrigan finds out—”
“She won’t find out.”
“Of course she will. If you care about this girl at all, even as a human being that deserves to live, you will not bring her into this. You will not see her again. You will not even think of her. Do you understand?”
The condescension in her tone makes me bristle, but I bite back the words that spring to my tongue. Now is not the time to argue with her. “I made a promise.”
“You made a promise to a boy who is dead. You’re not bound by anything.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
She throws herself backwards, sinking into a slouch. “You’re an idiot.”
“So you’re not going to help me?”
“Of course I’m going to help you.” She closes her eyes, sunlight dancing on her face— her real face, her human face. “I will keep her alive until you get back. Deal?”
Anya’s door is unlocked, but I knock anyway, balancing the wrapped box on my hip. The trip to the toy store outside the city cost me precious time, but I could be gone for weeks or even months, and Liam’s birthday is coming up. The kid deserves a gift.
After a moment, I’m greeted by the sound of small feet padding to the door. There’s a quiet grunt and then it swings open to reveal Liam’s chocolate-smeared grin. “Thee-dore!” he screeches, flinging himself at my legs.
I ruffle Liam’s hair with my free arm. “Hey, little man. Causing trouble?”
He shakes his head, bumping his cheek against my thigh. My chest squeezes at the familiar script of our greeting. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to say those words again.
A voice shouts from the other room, “What did I tell you about opening the— Oh.” Anya dusts flour-covered hands on her jeans, leaving soft white streaks. She surveys me for a moment, eyes flicking between the gift and my face, then inclines her head. “What’s wrong?”
Everyone in this damn house can read me so easily. I force a smile. “Does something have to be wrong for me to visit you?” She moves to the side so I can enter.
The house is cluttered with evidence of an ongoing childhood. A happy one. Dinosaurs and dolls litter the floor. Crayons are tucked into couch cushions and spread haphazardly on tables above half-finished drawings. The television is on but muted, playing a cartoon about a magician and his pet rabbit. It’s one of Liam’s favorites. “He’s like you,” Liam said one afternoon while we watched together. “Magic.” Then he shoved his thumb into his chest. “I’m the rabbit.”
I said, “I’d need a bigger hat, buddy.”
I blink the memory away, carefully setting the box on the couch. “I brought an early birthday present for Liam,” I say.
Anya raises an eyebrow. “His birthday is two months from now.”
“I know.” I run a hand through my hair. Anya frowns deeply, motioning for Liam to go to the other room. He wraps his arms around my legs in protest. I squeeze the boy back and say into Anya’s mind, I’m leaving for a while. Anya sucks in a sharp breath, but I silence her with a look. It might be… difficult here. Az will keep you safe, but I want you to be careful. Only go to the house when necessary. Don’t linger, and don’t draw attention to yourself.
“When?” Anya asks. Liam glances up, aware that he missed something. The kid is too observant.
“Tonight,” I say aloud. We both look down towards the boy clinging to my legs. I take a tiny hand in each of my own and pull us apart, kneeling before him. “I kept my promise.” I jerk my chin towards the box on the couch. “You keep yours?”
Liam nods, glancing back at Anya. She puts one hand on his shoulder and the other on mine. “Theodore is going away for a while, but he’ll come back.” She says it more like a demand than a fact.
“I’ll come back,” I promise, “but you are going to have to be on your best behavior.” I emphasize the last two words with two taps on his nose. “No climbing trees without me, yeah?”
Liam shakes his head, eyes wide and worried. “Where are you going?”
I take a slow breath to keep myself from throwing my arms around him and never, ever letting him go. “You know when your mom tells you that you have to do something, and you really don’t want to but if you don’t, you’ll get in trouble?”
His brows furrow. “You have a mom?”
“Sort of.” I rein in my flinch. “Everyone’s got a mom. What I mean is, I have to go do something I don’t want to do because if I say no…”
“You’ll get your toys taken away?” Liam finishes for me.
I plaster a grin on my face. “Sort of.”
“Can I come with you?”
“I need you to stay and look after your mom. I need you to be brave and strong.” I make a show of flexing my biceps. Liam mirrors the movement with a giggle. “Can you do that?”
He nods, proud as a soldier given a mission. “I will. I will be magic, and mom will be the rabbit.”
Anya lets out a confused laugh at the reference, watching her son like he might disappear the moment she takes her eyes off of him. I stand, ruffling Liam’s hair again. Not for the last time. I won’t allow myself to consider that possibility.
“Stay for a bit,” Anya says, her voice a million miles from her thoughts. “We’re having sandwiches.”
The table is much smaller than Azmaveth’s. Three chairs are crammed together around it. Liam sits in the one next to me, feet tucked underneath him. In the kitchen, Anya plates the food like she’s serving a decadent meal instead of a late afternoon snack for a toddler. The smell of toasted bread fills the air like a bedtime story. I try to burn it into my brain so that I can pull it from my reserves of happy memories if things with Morrigan go the way I’m expecting them to.
Liam rises, pressing the entire upper half of his body onto the table. “No tomato!”
I rap my knuckles on the wood. “En français?” He doesn’t answer, so I start, “Je ne veux…”
“Je ne veux pas de tomato.” The words are clumsy and frustrated.
“Tomate,” I correct. Anya’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. She was the one that suggested teaching Liam my native tongue. I’m not sure if it’s more for his benefit or my own. “Que veux-tu?”
He sticks his tongue out. “Chocolat.”
Anya sighs. “How do you say, ‘stubborn boy’?”
“Garçon têtu.”
Anya turns and serves our plates before grabbing her own and taking a seat across from us. “Je t'adore, garçon têtu.”
While we eat, I let myself pretend that this is just another day. The sun isn’t slowly descending beyond the horizon. A devil doesn’t wait for me in the foyer. Nothing bad has ever happened to me or will ever happen again, not while Anya grins across from me and reminds Liam to mind his manners and wipe his hands on his napkin, not his clothes and take smaller bites or you’ll choke, my dear.
Anya and I linger at the table after we finish eating. Liam has no patience for our lazy conversation, so he sprints into the other room and resumes his drawing. We watch him for a moment, fascinated by the liveliness that thrives even under the cloud of the past. Anya turns to me and speaks quietly enough that he can’t hear. “You’ll be alright?”
I tap my fingers on the table. “I’m always alright.”
A wrinkle of worry appears between her brows. I haven’t told her about what Morrigan has done to me, what she asks of me, but Anya knows me well enough to see the fear that I’m masking. “Would Liam be safer if I sent him away? Maybe to live with his grandparents for a while?”
“No.” It doesn’t feel like a lie. “Azmaveth will protect him, and you.”
“You truly believe that?”
“I do.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “There are no words for how grateful I am that you came into my life, mon râleur. My circumstances are not ideal, but meeting you has been worth every moment.”
Her French gets better every day. I do hope she’ll keep practicing while I’m gone. “This isn’t goodbye, Anya.”
“I know.” She pats my hand once. “Forgive me for being sentimental. I’ll miss you dearly.” She releases my hand and sits back, blinking away tears. “Tell me, what would you like me to make you when you get back? Oh, never mind. I know what you like.”