Chapter Thirty Four
Rosalie
I know when Theodore leaves because the crickets start singing. When he's around, there's only artificial noise: the television turned on, a radio, or the whirring of the fridge. But the melody of the natural world, of birds cawing and insects chirping, is absent when he's near. I'm not sure if he notices or if it's a phenomenon he's grown blind to, but the moment he's gone, the harmony of nature swoops back into rhythm.
I've just finished washing my hair when the cricket that lives behind the washing machine begins chirping.
With a sigh, I finish washing myself and dry off quickly. I'm glad he feels secure enough to leave me by myself, but I'm alone so often, and it gnaws at me. This is what I wanted, though. The freedom to do whatever I'd like, the security to know I have a place to return to. I offered my soul to his enemy, and he still cares for me. There's nothing I can do that would drive him away.
Like Andrew, he's seen the most unsavory parts of me and chosen to stay. I've seen him, all of him, and didn't flinch. Even with his secrets, even though he hides and hesitates and dodges, there's a bond between us that can't be severed by any mortal means. He won't walk away, and neither will I, and that's the foundation. It's not love. It's stubborn determination with a hint of foolish pride. But it's working. Sort of.
If I told Theo about the cricket, he'd find it. He wouldn't kill it, since that's not his nature— and it would bring bad luck, which we have enough of already. His uncalloused hands would scoop it up and deliver it outside where it can hop and chirp, never to be stifled again from his presence.
Or the cricket would die as soon as he touched it. I don't know how his power works. But it wouldn't be on purpose, and that's the important part.
I don't look for the cricket. It's not bothering me, and the sound is nice. A reminder that there's a world beyond the one I've sequestered myself in, and it goes on in Theo's absence and despite my own.
After I get dressed, I settle in the living room and flip through channels. We have cable, which is nice, but we kept the box television. It cuts to static sometimes, and I have to stand and smack the side of it to fix the connection, but I refused Theo's offer to replace it with a newer model. I wouldn't change anything about this house. Not while he still gets that wistful look in his eyes when I mention Cora.
This life isn't sustainable, but I don't have it in me to think long-term. Will I be sixty years old on this couch, waiting for Theo? Going into the city and buying stuff I don't need with his money for the tiniest sense of autonomy? How long can I stay like this, frozen, not moving forward or regressing?
But how can I leave when Andrew is so close? Almost as close as he was when he was alive. He keeps me here more than Theo does, though most days I can't manage to differentiate between the two of them.
I settle into a sitcom, a rerun, to carry me away from those thoughts. My life is good. Not just fine, but good. I'm happy, and I don't regret the choices I've made, even if the banter on the television makes me yearn for Mike's easy laugh and Emily's ceaseless commentary.
I could go to them. I have the car keys, and I know my way around well enough to navigate out of this neighborhood. If I show up at their door, they'll take me in. They'll ask questions. They'll pity me and coddle me and think they're protecting me, and it'll be alright for a while because it's always alright for a little while. Then I'll get restless the way I'm restless now, and I'll leave again, and I'll hurt them again because they won't understand. They can't understand.
I'm selfish, so I consider going to them anyway. The episode ends. I slump against the couch and wait for the next one to start.
Between the third commercial break and the simple but satisfying resolution, a crash sounds in the kitchen. I shoot to my feet and crane my neck to look, but there's no movement. The house has gone silent save for the droning of corny dialogue and the occasional laugh track. I should've kept a light on. Facing a possible intruder is bad enough, but in the dark?
Andrew loved horror movies. Something about being frightened in a controlled environment. He said it was a form of escapism. I told him that a hammer to the forehead would also be a form of escapism. I'm scared enough, all the time. I don't need to scare myself on purpose.
Now, though, I wish I paid better attention.
I glance around, seeking a weapon or something to defend myself and finding nothing but a throw pillow and an empty glass soda bottle. Theo keeps his house tidy, and the condensation rings on the coffee table are my fault. I could brandish a pillow as a shield and the bottle as a baton, but anyone who would burgle the residence of the Heir of Death is either friendly or so powerful that any attempt to protect myself would be fruitless.
The only weapon I have is my wit, and it hasn't been much of an asset lately.
I slink towards the kitchen on the balls of my feet, a hand over my heart like I can calm it from the outside, and peer in—
My careful approach crumbles. I rush in, righting one of the chairs that fell on its back and put my hands on Theo's shoulder to steady him as he sways. He has a palm on the table, fingers curling into the newly charred wood. He's shaking.
He doesn't look hurt, but he never looks hurt. There's a glow to his skin, not like his usual lightning but like someone is shining a flashlight from underneath except it's everywhere, illuminated beneath his clothes and on his face. It's not quite blinding, but I have to squint to look at him fully. His eyes catch mine, and they're dark again, and I know, somehow, what he's done. What I'm meant to do.
I don't want to die. I think I say it aloud, because he puts his hands over mine. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't anticipating this. Waiting, as all living things wait, for the final toll of the bell. I'm not brave, or strong, or smart, but as the shadows build around us, struggling against the light of him, I fill my lungs and resolve to do the only thing I can.
I pretend.
Swimming through the darkness is as horrible as it was the first time. Theo's hands are over mine on his shoulders. His features are smudged like a painting smeared before it could properly dry, blurring and blending into other faces, ones I don't recognize. I startle, and my hands loosen on his shoulders, but he grips me tight, unwilling or unable to let me fall into the nothingness below and around us.
His voice comes to me like we're whispering underwater, and the mouth that moves isn't his mouth but finds the soothing beat anyway. "To the farthest star, mon cœur. I've got you."
I want to believe him, but when we're dumped onto the hardwood floor beside a fine but scratched dining table, doubt creeps into the infinitesimal space between our hands.
Behind me, Marcella says, "What the—"
Bile threatens at the base of my throat. Theo catches me as I dip to one side, scooping his arms under my armpits and pulling me close. I sink into him. He smells like the silence before a thunderstorm, like the inevitability of rain.
Over my head, Theo snaps, "Get Az."
Footsteps recede and return quicker than any living human could manage. I bury my face in his neck like we can stay here, in the moment before.
A calm but stern voice behind me says, "You traveled with a mortal?"
"Not our biggest problem," Marcella says. "What the hell happened?"
Theo's voice rumbles against me, pressed so close to him. "I had a chat with Uriel." I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see the afterimage of the glow on Theo's skin.
Marcella lets out a low whistle.
"There will be lingering effects," Az continues. "It's possible she will never be whole again. She could've gotten lost. A physical body in the spiritual realm—"
Marcella interrupts him. "I doubt there will be time for effects to linger."
I twist to catch Az in my peripheral. His posture is rigid, but there's a stark fear in the deep brown of his eyes. "Uriel's dead," I say, as if they haven't figured it out.
"And mommy knows," Marcella adds, "which makes it a very unfortunate time to be you, Petunia."
Theo sets me on my feet and leans back to meet my eye. "You're going to be fine."
Azmaveth says quietly, "You haven't done anything wrong, son. You've always been permitted to end him if you saw fit. If The First One is unaware of your intention—"
In unison, Marcella and Theo say, "She's aware."
Azmaveth doesn't seem the type to curse, and from the way Theo and Marcella both flinch, it doesn't happen often. It's not a reassuring sound.
I give myself ten seconds to panic. Theo must feel my breath pick up because he tightens his arms around me and presses a kiss to my hair. It doesn't curtail the scream building in my throat. I'm so small. How did I ever think I could stand among these giants? I can barely find my footing with the living, and I thought I could manage this? Stop this?
Then, I take the deepest breath I've ever taken and pull away from Theo. I raise my chin and wind my hands together behind my back. I turn to look at Marcella. She blinks at the sudden change in my demeanor, and in any other situation, I'd pride myself on surprising her. But she can read my mind, and she can see through the ruse.
I ask her, "Where's Liam?"
It takes her a moment to answer. "With Daniel. Sleeping."
"Go to him. Do not let him out of your sight, not for a second. Keep him away from this house."
There's a touch too much command in my voice, so much that she bristles. She doesn't argue, though. We both know how this night will end.
"What about you?" she asks.
I force myself to shrug. "My fate is sealed. His doesn't have to be. Go."
She steps forward and puts her hand on my cheek. Gentle, like one would stroke a butterfly's wing knowing it will be unable to fly after. "You deserve better than us."
I don't lean into the kind touch even though I want to. "It's not about what I deserve. It's about what I chose."
She nods and locks eyes with Theo over my shoulder. I brace myself for the ringing of their silent communication, but it doesn't come. They've said all they need to say. She pats my cheek a final time and heads out the back door to follow my orders.
Once she's gone, I face Azmaveth to give him a similar command, something along the lines of get the fuck out of here, leave us alone, if I have only a moment, give me that moment, but Theo addresses him before I can. "I understand if you're angry with me. I know Uriel was your… I know you two had history."
Azmaveth rubs his chin. "I'm old, boy. If I mourn every time a permanent presence reveals its impermanence, I'll never manage anything else." He glances at me. "How long do we have?"
"Minutes," Theo says.
The panic threatens to overtake me again, but I shove it down, twisting my fingers together.
Azmaveth nods. "What god do you pray to, Rosalie?"
The memory of one of my first conversations with Theo flits in my ears. A peach tart. "All of them."
"Wise. I hope you find one who listens." He starts towards the foyer.
Theo demands, "What are you doing?"
Azmaveth doesn't look back. "A guest will be attending us. I intend to greet her, as is my duty as the owner of this estate. Collect yourself and join us. I suggest you don't dally. She hates being made to wait."
Once I'm alone with Theo, I'm forced to confront the nagging knowledge that I've ignored since he first appeared in the kitchen. It's not betrayal. I mean, it technically is, but it's a justified betrayal. In making the deal for my soul, I decided for him. In disobeying the guidelines that would keep me safe, he decided for me. It's only fair.
"I don't blame you," I say, because it's true, because he needs to hear it. "I just wish you would've told me." The glow emanating from him has faded, as has the horrifying visage of a thousand faces laid over his own. I take his hand and squeeze. "Are you going to kill Morrigan?"
His voice is hoarse. "I'm going to try."
"Don't lose confidence now." I mean it as a joke, but it comes out flat. To slice the silence that follows, I offer him another truth, an easy one. "You're a good man."
He shakes his head. "How can you possibly still believe that?"
"We choose what we believe."
"I'm going to keep you safe. Can you choose to believe that?"
My answering smile is shaky. "Sure."
He presses his lips to my forehead. I close my eyes and lean into him, but it's over too fast, and then he's gone, too. There's only the cold space where he used to be and my stubborn, racing heart. I curl my hands into fists and consider my options.
Fleeing is the most tempting and stupidest choice. There's nowhere I can go to run from Death. Better people have tried and failed, but I can't shake the animal instinct to book it and see how far I get before the inevitable end.
I could try to convince Morrigan that I'm more of an asset than an item to be used as punishment. That she could use me to keep Theo in line. But that plan already failed once, and I don't think she's big on second chances. Not for insignificant beings like myself.
So the only viable action is to keep what's left of my dignity. To be brave enough to look her in the eye.
From the foyer, a muffled, distantly amused voice says, "Will I ever be invited for a joyous occasion? I only ever see you on bad terms, Azmaveth."
I wish Andrew was here, if only to hold my hand. He was right about fear being a dare, a sniveling thing created to thwart or tempt us.
Azmaveth says, "The invitation is a standing one. You're free to come whenever you wish."
"Right. Should we make this quick, dove? I'm surprised you chose your anger towards me over your affection for the girl. You've always been so hesitant to act."
In my mind, I can almost see Theo's wound fists, his scowl. "Don't sound so proud."
"Why wouldn't I be proud? Though I suppose you've always been a dam waiting to burst. It's a shame Uriel got caught in the overflow, but these things happen."
I'm a woman before the tide with my hands out. I'm so small and waiting to be absorbed into something bigger.
Theo starts, "I won't let you hurt—" His voice cuts off in a strangled cry.
I'm a sacrifice. Marcella told me this, and I thought I understood then. I didn't, but I do now.
And I'm so, so scared.
Morrigan steps into the arch in front of me. The air warps around her, or maybe that's my held breath making me dizzy. She doesn't look regal or untouchable or otherworldly the way Death should. She looks like Theo.
There's a certainty about her, sure, a stubborn pride in the pull of her shoulders, a condescension in her slight grin. But the twitch of her eyes as she takes in the way I don't flinch, the way her curls shift over her shoulders when she tilts her head… There's grief in her, too. It's a vulnerability I recognize.
Azmaveth sweeps in after her, stopping a few feet away. "Surely there's a more appropriate punishment. She's done nothing but worship your son, as mortals should."
"It's okay," I find myself saying. "You don't need to defend me."
Morrigan's grin widens to show her teeth. "So she speaks."
I tip up my chin. "The terms of our bargain were clear. They've been broken. There's only one recompense, which is the one we agreed on."
This pleases her. I'd wager it's not often that people face her without argument. And I want to argue. I do. I want to stomp my feet and cry and sink to my knees and beg, but it wouldn't change her mind. A deal is a promise, and I made one, and it was broken. Simple.
Still, I ask, "Will it hurt?"
She offers me her hand. "It will not."
She could be lying, but I don't think she is. She has no reason to except to soothe me, and she has no reason to soothe me. Her hand outstretched is a mercy. She doesn't step closer or grab me. I'm sure she could kill me without contact, but she gives me the choice. The time to take a final breath. To catch sight of Theo, half-hidden by the wall, struggling to his feet.
We lock eyes, and his widen. I can't stop this any more than I can stop the ocean from crashing onto the shore, and I was arrogant to believe I could.
I take Morrigan's hand.
After Andrew died, I laid awake for countless nights wondering what it felt like. I tried to convince myself that he wasn't in pain, but the self-inflicted gashes on his arms and the blood scrubbed from the bathroom tile told a different story.
I'm not in pain now. Even when I hear the first of my bones snap, it doesn't hurt. I'm watching myself contort from outside of my body, looking as if through the dim light of a long hallway. It's warm, wherever I am, but not uncomfortably so. My eyes close as the thin seam of my skin splits, and I drift.
"No. No no no—"
I frown, but my lips don't move. I know that voice. I'm supposed to tell him… something. Or I'm supposed to do something. Or I'm supposed to be something. I try retracing my steps back to my body, focusing on the metronome of my still-beating heart to guide me.
Not—dead. Not—dead. Not—dead.
"Fix her. Az, please. You have to fix her."
I'm being cradled in someone's lap. There's a hand in my hair, on my face, leaving wet warmth with every stroke. Blood, I realize, and remember his name a beat later. Wait, I'm bleeding? I don't feel like I'm bleeding. I feel… good. Like I've been running for my entire life and I've finally been allowed to rest. I don't think I've ever been so relaxed, so calm. Why isn't he calm?
Not—dead. Not—dead. Not—dead.
A different voice says, "It's too late, son. There's nothing we can do except relieve the pain."
But I'm not in pain. I try to tell them, but my mouth doesn't work.
"End it." That's a third voice, a woman.
A thumb traces over my cheekbone. "I can't."
Forcing my eyes open is like willingly leaping into an ice bath, but I do it. My vision is blurry and dark around the edges but I can make him out above me, barely. He's glowing again, like an angel. He looks so sad. I don't know why. We knew how this would end. But he believed in the easy truth. The lie.
I remember what I need to tell him.
Not—dead. Not—
dead.
Not—
dead.
"You must," Azmaveth says, kneeling beside us. "Letting her suffer is cruel, and you're not cruel. Show mercy."
It's not your fault. I try to say it. I can't. I'm being pushed down that long hallway, forced to watch as his hands settle on either side of my head. He doubles over as a sob takes him, pressing his face against my ruined body. When he straightens again, there's blood on his cheek and nose. My blood. I'd wipe it away if I could. It catches on his tears and leaves pink streaks running down his face.
Not—
dead.
Not—
dead.
I let my eyes close. There's a door at the end of this hallway. I don't need to knock. It's the front door to my childhood home. There are lights in the windows. With a glance over my shoulder, I send one thought back to where I came from. I don't remember who's there. I don't know if anyone's listening. I forgive you.
Not—
dead.
I put my hand on the knob. The metal is warmed by the sun. I look up and see a cloudless sky. The door opens before I push.
Not—
dead.
Not—
There's someone waiting on the other side. What a relief.