10. Death
10
DEATH
Finnian
The Present
Cassian teleported them from the temple into a room made of the same glossy obsidian walls. Velour sofas were arranged under floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying the Land of the Dead’s radiant wisteria and achromatic sky.
The Cimmerian stone, smooth and dark as night, brought back memories of the onyx architecture in his beloved city. A sense of homesickness sank heavily in Finnian’s stomach.
He had been stuck in the Land of the Dead for five years. A sweeping second in the life of a deity, but to a mortal, it was a long time. If Runa had obeyed his orders, his organizations would now follow Naia. Only his sister, not Ronin. Finnian found small joy in antagonizing the leader of the Blood Heretics for his relentless attempts to overthrow his own rule of Hollow City.
Ash would be five years old. Did he favor Naia’s personality or Ronin’s more? What did he enjoy doing? Did the art of witchcraft excite him?
Finnian’s heart constricted, aching in his chest as he imagined the child with Naia’s silver hair and Ronin’s deep, dark eyes, finding solace in his streets.
Cassian strolled ahead into the room, waving to the frosted-glass door on the back wall. “Clean yourself up through there. You have ten minutes.”
Finnian pressed his tongue against the backs of his teeth and started towards the bathroom, eager to isolate himself and unmask his emotions—and try to process everything that had happened in the last few hours.
Without a second thought, he shut the door behind him.
The room was similar to the one on the outside—black walls with smooth edges, a toilet, and a walk-in shower. For whatever reason a High God like Cassian would need such things was beyond Finnian. Perhaps it was similar to how Naia was with food, or maybe he relished the simple pleasure of a hot shower, the warm water spilling over his tired body.
The visual of a nude Cassian filled Finnian’s mind, causing his cheeks to prickle.
He forcefully banished the image and shifted his attention to the vanity. Sitting on its buttery-smooth surface was a pile of jewelry, his hearing aid, and a neatly folded stack of clothes.
Before he proceeded in doing anything else, he stepped up to the shower and flipped on the water, letting it run. Cassian’s home was too quiet. There were no creaks and moans, the way a typical house sounded. It reminded him too much of the stiff silence within Mira’s palace.
He assessed the bidziil crystal of his full-shell hearing aid for any signs of damage, running his fingers over its smooth edges, examining its heliotrope body for any cracks or bruises.
The crystal was rare and only produced in a specific area of the Mortal Land. After several years of research and gathering ingredients, he successfully created the device using a spell he’d perfected from scratch.
He slid the device into his ear canal. The transition was immediate, like being stuck inside the eye of a storm before it finally dissipated. The world had opened up once more.
However, the sound of the running water in the shower came to him like he was listening to it on speaker through a cell phone. It wasn’t quite right. An issue he’d dealt with once, when he’d created the magical device and wore it in his ear for the first time.
It appeared, after five years, his brain was going to need a moment to process the unnatural translation of his hearing aid. With time, he was confident it would level out.
Finnian exhaled. While it was not the result he’d hoped for, he was grateful to have it in his possession, fully intact. He assumed Cassian would return it to him in pieces.
One less thing to worry about.
He moved onto the clothes.
A merlot, silky, collared shirt and black, slim-fit pants: the casual outfit he often wore when he wasn’t acting on city business, as he despised wearing dress vests and slacks when he didn’t have to.
Back when he’d first founded Hollow City, it was Isla who bought him his first proper outfit. Befitting for the founder of the city , she’d said.
Finnian held the shirt up to his nose. The fabric smelled of eucalyptus and rosemary, the charm he cast to clean his clothes, and of the lemongrass and orange blossom incense he burned in his home.
Interesting.
Nausea churned in his stomach at the idea of Cassian inside his home. Not because the High God had invaded his personal space, but because he’d invaded his space and brought back some of his belongings, as what? A kind gesture? He didn’t know how to interpret it.
Finnian’s attention shifted to the pile of jewelry on the vanity. All his titanium rings, his three necklaces with various jewels hanging from their chains—Mira’s pendant, a bloodstone crystal, and an astrophyllite. His favorites. They were all there, unharmed.
A crisp swivel of his wrist and the muck and blood from his time in Moros vanished clean from his skin.
He slipped the rings on his fingers and the necklaces over his head, and replaced the torn rags of his clothes with the fresh ones Cassian provided.
As he fastened the first three bottom buttons of his shirt, he nibbled on his bottom lip, fixated on the absence of the itch boring into the hub of his mind.
The moment he came out of the hallucination and back to his surroundings on the altar, the buzzing of the curse had silenced. It was like a warning that he shouldn’t trust himself in those moments.
Dread tightened its grip in his chest as he continued to dwell on it. The itch, resembling a voracious parasite, served as tangible proof of the curse’s existence, tormenting his mind without respite. Its fickleness haunted him.
H ow much of this can I withstand?
Finnian lifted his palms up and stared at the lines mapped out across his skin like tiny roads. He replayed everything in his head to decipher what had been real versus the curse. From the moment Shivani escorted him back into his cell, to now.
The peonies hadn’t appeared until after Cassian cursed him. He’d noticed the moss on the walls of Moros prior to it, though. A true sign from his father. He had been close after all.
Now that Finnian was no longer in Moros, what was he to do? Without his ability to teleport in this godsforsaken Land, he would have no choice but to trek through the Serpentine Forest— if he could find his way back to it. And if he somehow survived traveling through its Achlys - infested territory, he would end up right back where he started—facing executioners and possibly the High God of Chaos and Ruin once more. And that was if Cassian hadn’t caught him. All to run around Moros on the reliance of moss alone.
Finnian squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his thumbs into his sockets, rubbing. Time was frail now. No longer a luxury. He needed a better plan.
Finnian turned and planted his palms on the vanity surface, meeting his reflection in the mirror. The sight made him grimace.
Through the open buttons of his shirt, he could make out the vicious curse mark on his pec. The ink-black blight snaked up his collarbone and twisted around his neck several times like a rotted vine.
Finnian huffed out a breath, contemplating buttoning up his shirt fully. He despised how certain fabrics agitated his senses. While he enjoyed stylish outfits, he preferred loose clothes that allowed his skin to breathe.
Fuck it.
There was no use in trying to hide it out of denial.
His eyes flickered up to his awful haircut. He made a face as he ran his fingers through the short, wavy ends of his dark strands. They were choppy and uneven along his forehead, and he suddenly wished he had made Shivani scream a little more after he’d broken out of his cell.
He could easily regrow his hair using glamor, but he hesitated.
You need a better plan.
What was the fastest, easiest solution to find Father?
Cassian.
From their fights and feuds over the years, Finnian knew Cassian—his likes, dislikes, his tics, strengths, and weaknesses.
Finnian’s eyes jumped to the frosted glass on the door in the mirror. Beyond it, he could make out the silhouette of Cassian across the room, standing in front of a large window, hands in his pockets. Despite his fearsome reputation, Cassian was kind-hearted—and lonely.
Finnian ran his hand over his tousled locks.
Approach him with kindness.
Choosing to keep his hair short was a sign of moral defeat.
Lower your guard.
Proof Cassian had successfully worn his spirit down.
Become someone to him.
Finnian smirked.
And he will tell you all his secrets.
Cassian reserved his emotions through centuries of experience, but something told Finnian that if he were to lower his guard, Cassian could not resist opening up.
Finnian’s eyes flitted to the mirror. He took in his poorly cut strands once more and scrunched his nose. They looked horrendous. He’d never cut his hair shorter than his jawline. If he was going to endure it, he’d at least need to clean it up a bit.
With the power of his glamor, the ends of his wavy hair grew into a messy style over his forehead. He didn’t bother straightening out any of his curls, and he kept the sides trimmed around his ears and straightened up the line around his neck and sideburns. It sufficed.
He exhaled sharply, turned off the shower, and left the bathroom.
Cassian did not look back as he walked towards the bar cart.
On his way, he observed the shape of Cassian’s backside through his suit. The High God was broad-shouldered with a physique that mortals had to spend hours at the gym for each day. Not an unpleasant view for someone so dreadful.
Finnian forced his gaze away from Cassian and uncorked one of the crystal bottles. He sniffed the rim. “I take it that we are in your home.” Making a face, he set the bottle of brandy aside.
“Nothing gets past you.”
Finnian poured himself a glass of bourbon and tossed it back in one gulp. The smooth liquor glided down his throat, filling his stomach with a comforting warmth. A welcomed distraction from his hearing aid delivering Cassian’s words in anything but perfection.
He refilled the glass and moved over onto the sofa, ignoring the urge in his fingertips to snatch the magical device from his ear and tinker with it.
There’s nothing wrong .
Cassian turned and scrutinized him, rubbing a thumb over his lips. “You did not fully regrow your hair.”
“Nothing gets past you,” Finnian remarked, lounging back on the sofa. He lifted his glass in a snide manner to toast the observation and took a swig.
A hint of a smile twitched at Cassian’s mouth. “Yes, this is my home.”
Finnian glanced around, unimpressed. He was used to the walls of his own home decorated with the artwork he’d collected over the centuries. Oddities and trinkets scattered over the surface of worn furniture he’d scavenged at old markets. The aroma of plants and wet soil mingled with the steam of his four-shot espresso and the licorice he chewed on while he worked on potions or wrote in his grimoire. He preferred the low volume of a vinyl and pretended to be annoyed when interrupted by his ghouls or most trusted friends—interruptions he secretly welcomed.
The home of Cassian was minimalistic and orderly, with surfaces far too clean. The room held only what was necessary—sofas for sitting, the bar cart, and an aroma of lemon-peelings and freshly plucked mint. Such a stiff atmosphere.
“After years of playing a delightful game of cat-and-mouse with you,” Finnian said, “I assumed this day would eventually come.”
“Years of playing cat-and-mouse?” Despite Cassian’s leveled tone, Finnian sensed an edge of enmity beneath it.
Finnian cocked his head with a mocking twist to his lips. “What else would you call our history together? The apothecary, the temple, the graveyard, my city. All you’ve ever done is try to curse me.”
“Precisely.” Cassian’s voice went hollow around the words as he strode to the bar cart and poured himself a glass of the same bourbon Finnian drank. “Nothing more.”
Finnian noted the tension in his shoulders, unsure what to make of it.
“My souls are in celebration today, as it is the anniversary of when I was granted my title as the Ruler of Death.” Cassian downed his drink without turning around. “You will attend the festival in Caius.”
The Village of the Souls. Finnian had read about it. Where souls lived in the Land if they did not wish to move onto Paradise of Rest or reincarnate.
“How patriotic,” Finnian muttered before taking another sip. “And will you not be joining, Ruler ?”
Cassian refilled his glass. “I have business to attend to. I assumed you would be happier to reunite with those you transformed into ghouls throughout the centuries.”
Before Finnian could come up with a witty response, Cassian turned around and lifted his topped-off drink, returning the snide gesture of a make-believe toast before taking another swig.
It took extra effort for Finnian not to roll his eyes.
Cassian strode back to the sofa and unclasped the center button of his suit jacket before sitting.
All of it grated on Finnian—Cassian’s proper posture, the gleam of his watch on his wrist as he swirled the dark brown liquor in his glass, and the perfectly groomed undercut of his hair. He wanted to reach down and yank out all the ugly within Cassian just to prove those parts of him existed.
Approach him with kindness.
Finnian relaxed his grasp around his glass and softened his features, intending to make himself look more approachable. “The origin of the God of Death and Curses is a mystery to me. You were the first of your lineage, as well as one of the first deities in existence.”
Cassian’s eyebrows raised, his drink hovering in front of his lips. “You are showing interest in me. How fascinating.”
“Some things you cannot learn in books.” Finnian sat up a little, as if he were genuinely curious. “Tell me the origin story of death. I am dying to hear it.”
Cassian held his stare for a beat. “Why?”
Approach him with understanding.
Finnian stared back. “It must be tiresome being the Ruler of Death, and it occurred to me earlier that while we’ve played this game all these years, I do not know how you came to wear the crown.”
Something dark flashed in Cassian’s brassy gaze before he tossed back his head, emptying his glass.
He rose to his feet and stalked back to the bar cart for another refill. “Death was a personified being created by Existence itself. Just how Fate was. Nature, Night, the Moon.” This time, he was careful to avoid clinking the glass, making it easier for Finnian to hear him.
He rested back on the cushion, satisfied that his push to get Cassian to open up had worked. “Death was a personified being ? Like a skeleton with a scythe? You know, some mortals still paint you in such theatrical ways.”
“Yes, something along those lines.” With a fresh glass, Cassian walked to the window and peered out into the vastness of his Land. “The Grim Reaper. San La Muerte . Ankou. ”
“And let me guess, you became one of the first gods in existence by challenging the embodiment of Death?” Finnian stared at the backside of Cassian’s solid frame.
“That is precisely what happened.” Cassian took a swig of his drink. “I was twenty, my brother Acacius was sixteen, and our elder sister Iliana was twenty-two when an unknown assailant took our lives.”
Murdered.
Finnian blinked, trying to picture the High God before him as anything but the divine being he was, fragile, veins pulsing with blood and beating mortal life into his heart. Finnian’s sense of victory quickly dissipated, leaving him with a perplexing pain in his chest.
“I refused Death for myself and my siblings,” Cassian continued. “Iliana called upon Existence and demanded it to revive us. Acacius called upon Chaos, pleading with it to wreak havoc on the world for what it had done to us. They told us they would grant our wishes and hand over their titles if we won in a duel.”
“How? You were mere mortals.”
Cassian twisted around to face him. He held his drink in one hand, his other stowed away in his pocket. The light shining through the window entered like a monochromic backdrop weeping around him. “It is amazing what rage and sorrow pushes a person to become. Existence, Death, and Chaos all fell, along with the other personified beings, and the existence of deities were born. My siblings and I were the first to walk out of its mouth. Iliana resides in the Land of Entity. Acacius’s realm is beneath mine, and his Chaos brews into Moros.”
The spring in the Serpentine Forest.
The siren song, calling him to violent calamity.
Shivers bit up Finnian’s spine.
He searched Cassian’s face for any traces of the wrath he spoke of. The first time they met in the apothecary, Cassian presented himself cavalier, until Finnian blew the countertop to smithereens and rejected his command to give up necromancy. Rage had left its mark on Cassian’s face, distorting its fine contours and leaving behind a hardened expression. Glorious, it was the last thing Finnian saw before teleporting away—a type of fury Finnian did not find threatening, but invigorating.
Lower your guard.
Finnian gulped down the last bit of his drink to numb the discomfort of inquiring about Cassian. “Do you regret it?”
If he would’ve simply died, deities would have never been born. Finnian and all the others would be nothing but mere mortals at the mercy of another higher power, an insufferable road of thought that he didn’t dare to explore. The idea alone was appalling. At least he understood why the Council was formed, and why its members were chosen.
Cassian was slow with his words. “Now that I am aware of what Death truly is, most certainly not. Death is peace. Rest ?—”
“Death is separation.” Disgust rose in Finnian’s throat. “Ceasing to exist, losing a life of joyous wonders.”
“I thought such a thing too once,” Cassian replied, his tone composed despite Finnian’s disdain. “Before my reign as Death, it may have been so, but that is no longer the case. Death is not so bleak. There is no pain, no hardships. Only peace.”
“Save the speech. I’ve heard it multiple times from you.” Finnian stood and stalked back to the bar cart, setting his empty glass aside and glaring down at the elegant drinkware and the long, sparkling necks of the bottles filled to the brim with melted caramel-colored liquor. The urge to flip over the cart ached in his hands. To wreck this pristine room and cause a scene of some kind . The silence, stillness, organization—it was suffocating.
“I am surprised you remember.”
Finnian turned to find the High God grinning over the rim of his glass, a goading gleam in his gaze. His nostrils flared, longing to choke the look off the bastard.
Approach him with fucking kindness, Finnian.
“All these years of talk and you’ve never once shown me your Land.” Finnian walked around the sofa and rested his tailbone on the back of it, shortening the space between him and Cassian.
The High God tilted his head at the request. “You wish to see my Land?”
“Yes,” Finnian said, free of as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Show me around before we attend this festival. Let me see what Death is truly like. For myself.”
Cassian analyzed him, his eyes shifting across his face for a long moment.
Finnian’s mouth went dry, but he refused to retract his gaze from the golden chasm of Cassian’s. No end in sight, no matter how deep he delved. His stomach dipped, as if he were dangling off the edge of a fjord.
Cassian strolled to the space in front of him. He leaned in, bringing his mouth dangerously close to Finnian’s unimpaired ear.
The muscles in Finnian’s neck pulled taut as Cassian’s breathy laugh traveled over his skin. Tingles spread down his set jaw.
“Like you said, we’ve played our game with one another for years, Little Nightmare. If you desire for me to open up, you’ll have to do much better than this.”