Epilogue
Ten Years Later
I can't decide between watching the door or the clock, so my eyes flit between both like I'm spectating a tennis match. I tap my index finger on the unscratched wood of the dining table. It was Liam's only request, that we wouldn't dine on the surface his mother died on. A fair ask, and one I'm ashamed to say I didn't anticipate.
Marcella leans back in her chair at the opposite head of the table. The two front legs lift off the ground, precariously balanced— but she's always been better at riding the line between freedom and falling. She twirls her hair around her finger. "Relax. He'll be here."
Other than the dining table, I've changed nothing about Azmaveth's house. His office is still upstairs with the door cracked. I go in sometimes to snatch a book off the shelf or shuffle through the paperwork he left—bills, deeds to other properties, memos from the families of the departed under his care, now my care— but I haven't redecorated. The painting of his wife still looms behind the desk. His other office, that formal space at the end of the hall, remains locked. I doubt it will ever be used again.
I say, "He's been late to dinner three times this week."
"He still has two minutes."
"One minute and forty-three seconds."
The legs of her chair hit the ground with a sharp smack. "Okay, pops."
"That's not funny."
"Don't be such a grouch." She rests her elbow on the table and plops her chin into her palm. "He's a teenager. You remember what it's like."
"No, I don't, and neither do you."
"How many times were we late to dinner?"
Despite myself, a smile plays on my lips. "How many times were we lectured about being late to dinner?"
"We were beasts. Vile, ungrateful creatures. We're so much more refined now."
The front door squeaks open. Liam scuttles inside with his head low, then plops into his chair and runs his fingers through his hair. He's nearly a man now, though he hasn't grown into his lank. A dimple flashes on his cheek as he peeks at me from beneath his lashes. He looks like his mother. "Don't wait on my account."
I wave towards the humans waiting for my command. A graying woman named Beatrice, one of Azmaveth's mortals—now mine—begins distributing our salad plates. Over her head, I ask Liam, "Should I buy you a watch?"
"I wasn't that late," he grumbles, then murmurs his thanks to Beatrice.
"Late is late," Marcella sings, twirling her fork. "Why do you smell like manure?"
"I was helping the new gardener repair the flower beds."
I reach for my water glass. "What happened to the flower beds?"
Liam winces. "I may have taken a detour to mom's house the other day. Some plants may have suffered for it. Minor damage, I promise, and it's fixed now."
He hasn't fully moved into Anya's house yet. Most of his belongings are upstairs in my old bedroom, but I've given him permission to start packing and transferring his less essential belongings. He can live in that cottage once he graduates. If he graduates. "How's the bike running?"
"Fine." He shovels a forkful of salad into his mouth and swallows before continuing. "I fixed the oil leak, but she's overheating now. I'm going into the city to get some parts tomorrow afternoon."
"Need a ride?" Marcella asks. She's long since ditched the sappy romance novels in favor of speeding around town in Azmaveth's fastest cars. I preferred when she would saunter around the house with her nose in a book, but at least she's only crashed twice. At least Liam wasn't with her either time.
"No, thank you," Liam grins. "I don't have a death wish."
With a wink, Marcella reaches towards the center of the table and palms a roll of bread. She flicks it at Liam with alarming speed and precision. I bite back my reproach as Liam catches it with one hand and takes a bite. Crumbs fall from his grin. His reflexes are impressive for a human. Marcella's training is paying off, not that it would matter if a Mortae decided they wanted him dead.
None of them would. After news of me dethroning my mother spread, there were a few years of discontent easily squashed by the promise of violence from myself, from Marcella. I don't demand their loyalty the way Morrigan did. They exist, and are allowed to exist, in their own space and following their own desires. Recently, less lines have been crossed so egregiously that I need to step in. The greatest offenders have been extinguished, by myself or others, and the Mortae who remain are content to keep to themselves.
Our population dwindled in the first few years but has since stabilized. No new Mortae are being created, as I never learned that power from my mother. If I tried, I could probably figure it out, but damning anyone to this existence would be cruel, and I am not cruel.
It's rare that I'm called in to mediate conflicts between the remaining Mortae, but when I am, the punishment is swift. It's not a responsibility I ever wanted, but if that's what it takes to protect the small life I've awarded myself, I'll do it. I know too well what happens when I hesitate.
The motel has been demolished. Morrigan left no paper trail of ownership, not that I'd want to claim the land. The county auctioned it off. I think they're building a gas station.
I clear my throat as I process what I should've clocked before. "New gardener?"
"Yeah," Liam says, unfolding his napkin and placing it over the crumbs in his lap. "Blonde, early thirties, chipper but in a super intense way? She said she just started today."
Marcella meets my narrowed eyes. I follow her thoughts like they're my own because they are my own, because we've lived and fought together for so long that we operate under the same rules of logic. "Stay here," I say, though I don't need to. She's already standing, already moving towards Liam, already scanning the room as if the intruder could pop out from any shadow. As if there's a human who would stand a chance against us.
It's not Emily's first time infiltrating our residence, but it's the boldest she's been yet. Usually, Marcella is the one to drive her away. Like an infection that won't ebb, she keeps coming back, so I suppose I need to sever the limb myself.
I find her on a bench next to one of the oldest oaks on the property. Age has sharpened her features, or perhaps grief has. Once, she was a chef's knife dulled in the drawer of a college student's first apartment. Now, she's a sword seeking flesh to sink into. Funny how loss can work as whetting stone, how distaste can turn into resentment.
Emily saw through me the first time we met. I wonder what she sees now. I'm no longer the man I was in that bar. I'm no longer a man at all.
She laughs when she notices me watching her, but there's no humor in it. "You look the same."
I step forward, letting the moonlight coat me. "You don't sound surprised."
"Henry told us the craziest story about the last time he saw you." She pats the empty space next to her, and I sit. "He kept trying to convince us that you were some kind of demon. I thought he finally lost his mind. After… what happened, it shattered him." She glances at me sidelong. "He's doing better now. Married, if you can believe it. I haven't seen him in months."
"Are you?" I ask. "Doing better now?"
She turns to face me fully. "I need to know what happened to Rose."
I avert my eyes, looking instead towards Anya's house. Liam always leaves the lights on when he visits. "I already spoke with the police."
Marcella spoke with the police. She buried the body. She cleared Cora's house of Rosalie's belongings and tidied the situation, evading legal trouble with mechanical ease. I never asked how she learned to do that. I don't want to know.
"I'm not the police," Emily says. "I won't tell anyone. I just need to know." She clenches her fists, then loosens them. "It's killing me, not knowing if she's alive. If she's out there somewhere. If she's scared." Her voice breaks on the last word. She runs her finger over the arm of the bench. "You were the last person to see her. I know you were. I have her location. Her phone still pings here."
It's not a mercy to give her the information she's asking for. If she knew, she'd be implicated too— not that it matters now. The only fist that could come down on her would be my own. My reward, invulnerability. Freedom. Have I not suffered enough for it? Must she reopen the wound, dig in her nails? As if punishing me would bring her peace. As if I haven't punished myself enough.
"Please, please just tell me if she's alive."
"No."
Emily opens her mouth— to say what, I don't know, but I clarify before she can argue further, "She isn't."
The accusation fizzles in her throat. She blinks and wipes sweat from her palms. She rocks backwards, collapsing against the back of the bench, staring past me. "How long?"
"Ten years." Ten years, eight months, fifteen days, three hours, and forty-two— no, forty-three minutes.
"What—"
"You need to leave." I stand. "This is private property."
"Tell me what happened."
I turn away.
"Did you kill her?"
I say nothing. Rose will never forgive me if I hurt Emily. Not that it matters now. Not when she's barely an ember within me.
"You killed her."
You killed her you killed her you—
"Was it— drugs?"
I choke on a laugh. "Don't insult me."
The part of me that I keep on the shortest leash yawns awake. This stupid girl, this child— as if she could comprehend my explanation even if I deigned to give one. She's seen so little, knows so little. And I— I won. As if she'd understand. Humans are never victorious against Death, not ever, and yet here she is, making demands of me? I could tell her instead of the horrors that await her in five years or fifty. I could tell her that she'll trip in front of a bus or throw herself off the roof of a building or that her hair will gray and her skin will loosen, and where will I be? Here.
Which of us will go to her in her last moments? Who will drink from her final exhale? What memories lurk beneath her skin?
Memories of Rosalie. With them, I might be able to piece together a life beyond what I already have access to. I have Andrew's memories and Rose's, but a third perspective? A new perspective, a fresh angle to view the sunlight on her hair or the flashes of green in her eyes. I could find something new, something to make her live again, even if it's only in my mind.
"Is it money you want?" Emily asks. "Name your price, and I'll pay it."
I'm tired of only taking what I need. I want to want.
"I'll give you anything. I just need to know."
I turn to her, slow. She draws back, the mask abandoned, the stink of the most primal fear in the air between us.
"Anything?"