Chapter Thirty One
Theodore
I don't sleep. With Rosalie's bare skin against mine, I have no desire to. I know too much of death to believe in any sort of afterlife other than the one I was given, but this could very well be the reward that the hymns promise: the weight of Rosalie’s head on my chest, her hair fanning out over my arm, her body warming my own, the muted sighs of a deep sleep. If I were to spend my eternity with her resting in my arms, I would be glad to stay awake through it all.
She squirms against me, lips turning downwards and parting. I reach across my body and smooth the worry between her brows with my thumb. I trace soothing circles between her shoulder blades. It’s not enough to chase the nightmare away, but she settles into me with a sigh and doesn’t wake.
The souls still stir within me, louder than they were hours ago, but instead of letting them drag me into their discontent, I focus on Rose's skin on mine and the taste of her still on my tongue. We could stay like this, I realize, but only for her eternity, not mine. And then I'd be dragged back, as I'm always dragged back. The ceasefire is temporary, but it doesn't have to be.
If I were to hold until Rose's deal expires, Morrigan could horde an insurmountable number of souls. She's already been culling her followers; how long until it's impossible for me to catch up? To stand a chance? And if there is a chance now, how could I not take it? For Elias, for Gemma, how could I not try?
Beyond the window, the sky lights with the threat of morning. The familiar snipping of hedge clippers and shuffling of landscapers starting their duties sifts through the courtyard.
The noise makes Rose stir, and despite my arm tightening around her, she wakes. Once her eyes focus on me, a deep blush sweeps across her cheeks. She slides away from me and reaches to the floor to pick up her discarded clothes. I watch her skin stretch over her spine and lock my muscles to keep from tugging her towards me.
"What time is it?" she asks while she dresses.
I lace my fingers behind my head, in no rush to grab my own clothes. "Early."
She scrutinizes me over her shoulder, scoffing at the muscles I'm definitely not flexing. "You don't own an alarm clock?"
"Why should I care for the ceaseless march of time?"
She rolls her eyes and, fully dressed, settles on the bed but over the blanket. "You're insufferable."
"And immortal. And extraordinarily handsome, and an attentive lover…" I reach to cup her cheek, unable to resist the urge to touch her. She turns her face away. I frown but pull back.
Her blush hasn't faded. She doesn't look at me when she says, "Get dressed, please."
I sit up. The blanket drapes over my hips but stays pinned by her weight before it can reveal more. "What's wrong?"
She doesn't answer right away, instead fussing with the edge of the blanket. I'm about to start digging through her thoughts when she says, "I'd like to see Liam before we leave, and if you want to come with me, you have to be dressed. Unless you're trying to scandalize the entire estate."
"Rosalie."
"And I think you should try to make amends with Azmaveth. He scares me, but he cares about you a lot. Obviously, or he wouldn't have taken me in the way he did."
"Rose."
"Do you think Marcella will come with us or stay here? I don't mind her company, but she seems happier—"
Frustration rears its hideous head. Before I can resist the reflex, my hand shoots to grab her chin. She tries to dodge, but I'm faster. I make her look at me. "Tell me what's wrong."
Unable to move her head, she glances at her still-bandaged wrist and then back to me. "I…" She tries to shake out of my grip. I let her, only because her eyes are wide and frightened. Only because I recognize that look, like she's not sure I won't hurt her. Because I did hurt her. "Last night was a mistake. Another mistake in a long line of mistakes I've made. I don't want you to think it meant more than it did."
I narrow my eyes. "What did it mean?"
"That we were both scared and in need of comfort."
It isn't not true. Still, I know better than to let her dismiss the obvious. I'm not Henry. "You're a terrible liar."
She snaps, "You'd know about lying, wouldn't you?"
We both go still, like if we look at the elephant in the corner, it'll trample us both. The truce we've built is fragile and dependent on tiptoeing around the reality of the situation: she is stuck with me, and I am stuck with her, and we both have the capacity to make the other's life miserable if we're willing to sacrifice our own happiness.
"I don't regret it," I say carefully. "It's fine if you do, but I need you to know. I don't."
She hesitates, which is enough of a victory that I throw the blanket off and start shuffling for my clothes, beginning to dress.
"Understood," she says.
I bite my tongue to keep from mocking her.
There are more people in the manor than there were yesterday. Mortals, so I pay them little mind. They give us a wide berth, dipping their heads and scooting as close to the wall as they can when we pass. None of them saw my arrival yesterday, but my outburst was near enough to the homes they were sequestered in that they might've caught a peek.
Good. They should be afraid of me, of knowing me. Of me caring for them. They know what happened to Anya.
Rose walks a step ahead of me, down the stairs and through the foyer to the sitting room, then out the back door. It's bright out now. At the far end of the property, birds flee from the now-dying oak tree. I don't know if it's the slam of the door or my presence that drives them away, but it's too quiet with them gone, though there are groups of workers huddled about. None close enough to halt their conversations but close enough to look at us, marking our path. Making sure they're not on it.
Marcella isn't around. Maybe that's why it's so quiet. At dinner, she told me she'd spend the night and morning finding the rebels who still linger in the city and telling them to return to wherever they came from, or to find somewhere new if they came from Morrigan's camp, and warning them that future communication will be sparse if it exists at all. I don't believe that she'd sever her connections so cleanly, but she's smart enough not to make it obvious.
I point Rose to Daniel's house without her asking. The front-facing wall of Daniel's assigned lodging is as bare as the day he moved in. Some of Azmaveth's mortals hang string lights, sun catchers, or wind chimes. They prop hand-painted signs or pictures in the windows, stake flamingos, and set up lawn chairs. It's a way for them to retain some of their individuality while their soul is spoken for, and the practice has flourished since the last time I was here.
Az encourages the decorations— meaning, he doesn't discourage them. But Daniel hasn't partaken.
"He might not be awake," I say as Rose raises her fist to the door, but that doesn't stop her.
This is a side of her I haven't seen, but the boy flares with pride within me. She was like this before she was weighed down by the sludge of grief, I realize. She's sharpened and scrubbed clean by the knowledge that Andrew still exists, even in this meager form.
Three short knocks draw a shuffling and a groan from inside the house. When Daniel opens the door, he's wearing loose cloth pants and a matching buttoned shirt. I didn't think he'd be one for a pajama set, but I don't know him that well.
"We'd like to talk to Liam," Rose says.
Daniel looks at her, then at me over her shoulder, then back at her. The fear and sleep-addled confusion is clear enough on his face that I don't need to decipher the rhythm of his thoughts, but I do. His are the only ones radiating from this house.
He says, "Alright. I'll… wake him up."
At the same time, I say, "He's not here."
Both of them glance at me with raised brows, so I gesture behind Daniel. "Go ahead. Check."
He does, disappearing back into the house.
"You're being rude," Rose chides.
I shrug. "You're the one who knocked on his door at the crack of dawn."
She sighs, which reminds me of the ones I tasted last night, which reminds me of her dismissal this morning, which makes my fingers twitch at my sides.
"I don't want to fight with you, Theo."
I could say, Then what do you want? But instead I offer a curt, "Understood," and turn my attention towards Daniel's approaching—and rather disheveled—figure.
"Pillows stuffed under a quilt to look like a body." Daniel shakes his head. "He's not here."
Rose starts, "Then where…"
But I'm already walking away, towards the house with the tricycle out front, the only place he'd be able to slip into without alerting the other mortals. Had I not been here yesterday, I might've stalled at the memorial out front, but instead I crack open the door and peek inside.
He's curled up on the couch with the dusty throw blanket pulled up to his ears. From the steadiness of his breathing and the dull pulse of his thoughts, I can tell he's sleeping, so I gesture for Rose to wait outside. I enter on silent feet, stepping over the scattered toys.
He's not yet tall enough to be too big for the couch, but he will be soon. Even in sleep, the pinch between his brows is too old for his round face. I sit at his blanket-covered feet and let my hand hover above him as if I could comfort him. As if he'd let me.
I couldn't protect him before. And now, the only way to keep him safe is to be as far from him as possible. To keep Morrigan's attention elsewhere.
Is he safe here? With Az? But where else could he go?
Liam's breath stutters. He blinks awake. I pull my hand back, but he already noticed the movement. He scrambles upright, huddling against the opposite arm of the couch with his knees tucked to his chest. "Theodore? Are you… Is this…" He pulls the blanket tighter around himself. "You're… okay?"
Everyone keeps asking me that. "I watched Cosmo and Clover yesterday. The episode with the clones."
"They're not clones," he says quickly. "They're doppelgangers, and it's Cosmo's fault anyway. He wished for everyone in the town to look like him and forgot he had real magic." He averts his eyes and fusses with the tassel on the throw blanket for a beat. "That show is stupid."
"You used to love it."
"Yeah, well," he glances at me, "I used to love a lot of things."
Marcella might not have taught him to throw a punch, but the words land like one. "I should've been there, mon petit. Every day, I regret that I wasn't."
"What about after?" He sits up straighter, emboldened by my deference. "What about the years when you could've picked me up and didn't? You were in the same city. You were so close, and you didn't come back. Et je t'ai attendu, parce que… parce que…" He shakes his head. "Because you promised. You promised to come back, and you didn't. Do you regret that, too?"
I hesitate. So he has practiced his French. Hearing my native tongue stirs a horrid feeling in my gut, one I've been trying to ignore since I stepped through the front door. "Je suis là maintenant."
His next blink draws tears. "But you're leaving again. Aren't you?"
He has always been too observant for his own good. Instead of answering, I try to shift to the offensive, slipping into the familiar pattern of a chastising guardian. "Daniel is trying to take care of you. You can't sneak out without leaving a note. It'll worry him."
"Take me with you." He leans towards me with wet cheeks. "I'll be good. I promise. Don't leave me here again. Don't let them send me away again. If you have to go, let me go with you."
Maybe he isn't safe here, but he's safer, if only marginally. "No."
He draws back like I struck him. "Rosalie said I could go with you."
"Rosalie doesn't make that decision. I do, and I'm saying no." At the hurt scrunching his face, I soften my tone. "I need you to stay here because I need to know that you'll be alive when I come back. If anything happened to you…" I trail off, nipping the thought before it can bloom. "Daniel will take care of you. Az will take care of you."
He slouches, defeated and so small. I want to pull him close and tuck him under my arm and promise that nothing bad will happen to him ever again, but I've already made one promise I can't keep.
When he speaks again, he sounds as young as he is: "I don't know why I'm not good enough to be with you."
I don't reach for him, but I do open my arms. He collapses into me, a sob pulling from his chest. He's apologizing through snotty inhales and rasping exhales. For what, I'm not sure, but I hold him anyway.
He's just a kid. I've ruined him.
"Three months," I say, because I have to say something. "Be strong for three more months, and then I'll return, and we can go wherever you like. You, me, and Rose. Deal?"
The way his face lights, he'd offer his soul if I asked. The deadline is as much for me as it is for him. I've dallied enough. Three months is ample time to pluck through the souls owed to Hayes' and Gemma—Elias didn't make any deals, which is unsurprising—and confront Uriel. Kill Uriel. Though he's already dead, he's as alive as I am, so I force myself to think the word. I'm going to kill the people who were unfortunate enough to stumble into business with the Mortae I've already killed, and then I'm going to kill Uriel.
And then… And then, I'm going to kill my mother. In three months.
Part of me curls inward at the declaration. A stubborn, stupid part that needs to be excised if I'm to follow through. I should've done this ages ago, but I was afraid. I am afraid.
I will not be so weak again. In pretending to be brave, I become brave. Maybe Rose has taught me something.
"Deal," Liam says, wrapping his arms around my waist. I rest my chin atop his head and hold him until he tires of it. It takes hours.
Az is waiting in the garden. Rose must've told him to meet me, since he rarely leaves his office during the day, or at least that was his routine when I lived here. She pointed me to him and then ducked inside with Daniel, asking if he had a coffee machine. His flustered confirmation almost made me smile.
Liam is holding my hand like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. I could. I won't.
We round the corner of the hedge barrier and find Az sitting on one of the benches, head tilted towards the sky. His ankle is crossed over his knee. He's wearing one of his fine suits beneath a long coat with red silk lining and a stupid cravat fluffed around his throat.
"Enjoying the flowers?" I call.
He turns to me, stiff. Once he spots Liam, he relaxes, as if I can't kill him while the kid is here.
I could. I won't.
"The gardeners do fine work," Az says. "And so subtle, too. You'd hardly know they're here unless you're looking. They move about like ghosts." He tilts his head at Liam. "Hello, child."
Liam ducks behind me, half-hidden by my body. This is the man who killed his mother while he watched. I squeeze his hand and say, "You choose your slaves well."
"I suppose so." Az slides to make room on the bench, inviting us to sit. We don't. "Have you come to brandish your sharp tongue again? I assure you, I've heard worse insults than you can manage, boy."
Though his tone is level, there's a wariness about him that wasn't present before. Mentioning his wife and child was petty and cruel, and it sullied his image of me. In his eyes, I'm supposed to be better than my mother. I'm meant to be a paragon of justice, not vengeance.
But justice is vengeance in white armor, and I'm tired of pretending otherwise.
At my stubborn silence, Az sighs. "Will you at least tell me where you're going this time?"
"So you can inform my mother? Not likely."
He nods and looks away, watching an insect land on a blossoming flower. "My loyalty is not a fickle thing. I promised it to her when I was reborn, and it remains. You're right not to trust me." He folds his hands atop his knee. "I don't wish to be involved in your mischief unless I can convince you to abandon it completely. But I will say this: your mother isn't wasteful. She wouldn't expend so many resources to stop you if she didn't think you could accomplish your goal. Do you understand?"
"She's scared of me?"
A smile ghosts his lips but doesn't manifest. "For ages, human stubbornness has thwarted death. Balms and superstitions evolved into procedures and medications. An entire field of study has erupted with one goal: to halt the inevitable. They press their fragile bodies against the door to keep the wolf out, knowing they're going to lose. They're going to fall, but they fight anyway. And you?"
When he looks at me, there's an admiration I haven't seen in years, one borne of observation and expectations met. It makes my skin crawl, like he knows what I'm capable of. Like his belief isn't founded on untested faith and a rumor spread by Mortae who haven't even met me.
"You have that stubbornness about you," he says, "but you won't fall. Is that enough to frighten Death? Perhaps. Enough to worry her into action, at least."
I won't frighten Liam by saying it aloud, but I send my reply into Azmaveth's mind: She could just kill me.
He straightens, eyes widening. So Marcella didn't tell him about that ability, probably for the same reason I won't tell him about Cora's house. I don't need to pull his answer from his thoughts. I already know what he's going to say.
She could. She won't.
Nestled behind me, Liam releases my hand to tug at his ear and lets out a soft, "Ow."
I tip up my chin. "Liam is moving into the main house. He can have my room. You're going to treat him as you would me or Marcella. He'll eat dinner with you every night and be given an allowance. You'll protect him as you would us."
"He'd be better off with the mortals—"
I hold up a finger to silence him. "You're going to hire tutors. The best you can find, and if you can find none, you'll teach him yourself. He's been out of school for too long. If I return and find that you haven't followed these instructions—"
"You don't need to make threats, son. I'll do as you ask."
"He's not your servant. He owes you nothing. You owe him more than you're able to give, but you're going to try. Clear?"
He's silent, befuddled by my demands. Then, slowly, he bows his head, exposing his neck like he would to my mother. "As you wish."