Chapter Thirty-Six Saylor
Chapter Thirty-Six
Saylor
The church bells aren’t ringing—they’re pounding out a funeral march that vibrates through the stone floor and into my bones.
I sit in the third pew, watching Blue move through clusters of mourners, shaking hands and accepting condolences while his
mind is clearly somewhere else. Dame Gothel touches his arm and speaks words I can’t hear. Dr. Finch grips his shoulder. Elliott
offers a flask disguised as a prayer book.
Everyone wants to comfort the grieving, broken man. Except Blue isn’t that man. Blue is the man who keeps seven skulls on
the third floor of his mansion and attends funerals for friends who died protecting his demons.
Two days of silence between us. Two days of him appearing at meals, eating without tasting, disappearing into parts of the
house I don’t dare follow. Wren moves through her duties, but every task seems to require twice the effort it used to. The
whole estate feels deflated, a balloon slowly leaking air.
And I’ve been hiding in storage units, sitting among boxes of my old life, trying to figure out what the hell comes next.
Because I can’t stay here. Not knowing what I know. I could handle Blue being a killer—hell, that turned me on if I’m being
honest. But killing women and preserving them upstairs? That crosses a line.
Doesn’t it?
The rational part of my brain keeps circling back to the same arguments. I’ve murdered now too. I poisoned men and felt nothing
but satisfaction watching them foam at the mouth. I stabbed Leroy and the only thing that bothered me was the mess. I even
slit a man’s throat—accidentally, yes—but still a kill. Who am I to judge anyone for their relationship with death?
But this feels different. Sick. Twisted. Demented even. He mentioned that those portraits remind him of the good. How can that be? How can skulls of these women be good? And if Blue could kill them, display them, visit them whenever nostalgia struck . . .
Would he kill me?
Of course not. Blue protects me, cherishes me, looks at me like I’m the answer to questions he’s been asking his whole life.
But maybe Margaret thought that too. And Eleanor. And all the others whose skulls are organized so carefully upstairs.
Then there’s the Cordelia problem. I saw her at the Dryad’s Dance—alive, breathing, sobbing into Blue’s chest. But her skull
sits upstairs with a nameplate marking her as dead. What kind of game is Blue playing?
I feel like I’m losing my mind, and mourning Hans on top of everything isn’t helping. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know
what to say. I’m swirling in an abyss of death and secrets.
I need answers. But Hans died protecting me, and Blue’s grief is this raw thing that makes him untouchable. Every time I’ve
considered asking about the women, about Cordelia, about what any of this means, I look at him and see someone barely holding
himself together.
Besides, there are practical considerations. The Crow are still out there. Brutus and whoever else escaped the forest are
probably planning their next move. And I’m not done with my own killing spree. I still have names on my list, men who need
to pay for what they did to Dad.
But what if they get to me before I get to them?
So when do I leave? How? Do I sneak out in the middle of the night and hope I can survive whatever’s waiting beyond Grimlock’s
borders? Do I confront Blue first and risk . . . what exactly?
The questions chase each other in circles while Blue continues accepting condolences from people who sort of know what he
really is. But does anyone really know who Blue is? I sure as hell don’t.
But . . . but, and this is a very big but . . . I don’t want to leave. I should. I fucking should. But I . . . Jesus, I love
the man. Skulls, unanswered questions, and all. And the man I love . . . the man I want to hold as he grieves, has been pushing
me away. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t need me.
The pain of that is worse than anything else.
The church fills around me. Grimlock’s entire population, it seems, dressed in their funeral finest. Black wool and silk, expensive shoes on weathered stone. Everyone knew Hans. Everyone now mourns him. The man who called me Miss and smiled through every awkward situation.
Hans, who died because the Crow came hunting for me. Because of my kills.
Blue finally takes his seat beside me without acknowledgment. He smells of expensive soap and grief. His hands rest on his
knees, perfectly still, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
Reverend Bridger approaches the pulpit, and the murmuring congregation falls silent. He’s elderly—maybe eighty, maybe a hundred—with
wild white hair and eyes so pale they’re almost colorless. His voice, when he begins, carries an accent I can’t place.
“We are gathered in the shadow of loss,” he intones, raising his arms, “but death is not the end. It is transformation.”
A brass band emerges from somewhere behind the altar. Not church musicians—these are professionals, instruments gleaming,
faces serious. They position themselves around Hans’s coffin in formation.
“Hans Müller lived with honor. He died with honor. And he shall be honored in the ancient way.”
The reverend strikes a ceremonial gong that hangs beside the pulpit. The sound rolls through the church, deep and resonant.
Every person in the congregation stands as one, moving like they’ve done this before.
“Form the procession,” Reverend Bridger commands. “We march as one family, united in grief, united in love.”
The brass band begins a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Not quite military, not quite funeral dirge—something older, more primal. The
bass drum sets a heartbeat pace that seems to sync with my body.
Blue stands, offers me his arm. Around us, the entire congregation files into formation behind Hans’s casket. Dame Gothel
and Dr. Finch move to the front, followed by Elliott and Ash. Duffy falls in behind us, along with Luna and Arthur and faces
I recognize from the party, from my walks through town.
We step in perfect unison.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
The rhythm is infectious, impossible to resist. My body finds the beat without conscious thought, matching the pace of everyone
around me. We move as a single organism, a human river flowing behind Hans’s casket through the church doors and into the
gray afternoon.
The brass band leads us down Grimlock’s winding streets, their music bouncing off the buildings and back in complex layers.
Drums and trumpets and a deep tuba, all working together to create a symphony of grief that transforms the entire town into
a concert hall.
Residents who aren’t part of the procession stand in doorways and windows, heads bowed as we pass. Some hold candles despite
the daylight. Others scatter flower petals in our path. An old woman steps out from her house with fresh bread, breaking it
and offering pieces to the marchers.
We accept the bread without breaking stride, chewing in rhythm with our steps.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
The music builds, becomes more complex. Individual instruments break away from the main melody to create counterpoints that
weave through the procession. A trumpet here, a clarinet there, each one picked up and amplified by the acoustics of the narrow
streets.
I start humming along even though I don’t know the melody. Everyone is humming or singing words in languages I don’t recognize.
German, maybe others. The sound rises around us, human voices joining with brass and percussion to create something powerful
and ceremonial.
The cemetery gates stand open, wrought iron painted black and decorated with ravens that seem to watch our approach. Jasper
Crane, the gravedigger, waits inside, dressed in formal black instead of his usual dirt-stained work clothes. He falls into
step beside the procession, adding to the growing chorus.
The cemetery itself has been transformed. Every headstone bears a candle. Paths between graves are lined with flowers—not the cheerful bouquets you see at spring funerals, but something darker. Dark roses and deep purple blooms that look almost black in the dim light.
We wind between the graves in serpentine patterns, the brass band never missing a beat. The music grows louder, more triumphant.
What started as a funeral march has become a celebration, a declaration that death cannot diminish the impact of a life well
lived.
Hans’s burial plot sits beneath an enormous oak tree, its branches spread wide enough to shelter the entire gathering.
The brass band forms a circle around the grave, still playing, still maintaining that hypnotic rhythm. The rest of us fill
in behind them, creating concentric rings of mourners that pulse with the music.
The rhythm changes, becomes triumphant. Around me, people begin to dance—not the wild abandon of the Dryad’s Dance, but something
structured, ritualistic.
They move in patterns around Hans’s grave, weaving between headstones, hands joined and faces turned skyward. The brass band
follows, instruments gleaming in the gray light, creating music that makes the air itself seem to glimmer.
I find myself swept up in the movement, following steps I don’t know but somehow understand. Blue’s hand finds mine, steady
and warm, guiding me through turns and spirals.
The dance builds to a crescendo that seems to shake the earth. Every instrument playing at full volume, every voice raised
in harmony, every body moving in perfect synchronization. For a moment, the boundary between life and death feels thin enough
to step through.
Then, suddenly, silence.
Complete, absolute silence that rings in my ears after the overwhelming symphony. We stand frozen in our dance positions,
breathing hard, connected by invisible threads of shared experience.
Reverend Bridger approaches Hans’s casket, places his hands on the polished wood.
“Go well, faithful friend,” he says simply. “The doors between worlds are open today. Choose your path.”
The casket begins its descent into the earth, lowered by ropes that move in perfect rhythm. No mechanical winches, no modern funeral home efficiency. Just human hands working together to send Hans to his final rest.
As dirt falls onto the casket, each person in the congregation drops something into the grave. Flowers, yes, but also personal
items. Dr. Finch drops a small notebook. Dame Gothel contributes a silver bracelet. Elliott places a perfectly formed pastry
beside the flowers.
When it’s my turn, I drop in the compass necklace Dad gave me. The one that’s supposed to help me find my way home.
Hans deserves something that mattered to me. Something that meant direction when everything else felt lost.
Blue steps forward and drops in his pocket watch—the one he checks constantly, the one that’s clearly precious to him. Then
he steps back beside me.
“It’s finished,” Reverend Bridger announces. “Hans Müller has joined the honored dead. Let us return to the business of living.”
The brass band strikes up a different tune—lighter, more hopeful. The procession reforms, but the energy has changed. People
talk and laugh as we make our way back toward town, sharing stories about Hans, about life, about the peculiar magic of Grimlock
funerals.
“That was beautiful,” I tell Blue as we walk.
He nods but doesn’t respond. The wall between us remains intact.
By the time we reach Maison Rouge, the sun is setting. The house looms against the darkening sky, all towers and Gothic windows
that catch the last light.
Blue stops at the front door, finally turning to face me directly. But he doesn’t say anything.
I wait.
I wait.
Finally, I break the awkward silence. “We need to talk.”