Chapter Forty-Three Saylor
Chapter Forty-Three
Saylor
“We should get ready,” I say, glancing toward the window where cars are already pulling up the drive. “The guests are starting
to arrive.”
Around me, Maison Rouge pulses with music and laughter and the particular energy that comes from celebrating something that
shouldn’t be possible. We’re throwing a back-from-the-dead party—a very merry resurrection celebration—toasting our miraculous
return to the land of the living while half of Grimlock drinks to our survival.
“Saylor!” Dame Gothel appears at my elbow with champagne and a grin that could power the entire town. “Congratulations on
being gloriously alive, darling.”
Duffy slides up beside her, cocktail in hand. “Miraculous, really. We thought we’d lost you both for good.”
I look between them. “This is surreal. A week ago you thought we were dead.”
“Well, it’s not every day someone comes back from the dead,” Dame Gothel says, taking a delicate sip. “Blue knows how to throw
a party for any occasion.”
“Death looked so final when we heard the news,” Duffy says, raising her glass. “But here you are, defying the grave itself.”
I bite back the urge to tell them exactly how close we actually came to not making it back—whatever happened while we were
gone, however Blue managed our disappearance and return. Hell, I know the whole town believed we were truly gone, and now
here we are, very much alive. The rumors will spread even further tonight, growing more elaborate with each telling, and our
enemies will have to reckon with the fact that we’re much harder to eliminate than they thought. Instead, I just nod solemnly.
“Right. Very risky business, cheating death.”
“Exactly!” Dame Gothel raises her glass. “To Saylor and Blue—the first people in Grimlock to successfully rise from the grave.”
“Enjoy the party,” I tell them, already scanning the room. “I need to find Blue.”
The ballroom is set up much like the welcome party. Blue clearly knows exactly how I like things. Edison bulbs strung between
iron candelabras cast everything in warm amber light, while black roses—actual black roses, because of course Blue went there—spill
from silver urns placed strategically around the room. The tables groan under platters of food that could have been conjured
by some very stylish witch: dark bread shaped like ravens, wine that’s so deep purple it’s almost black, and desserts with
names like “Death by Chocolate” and “Broken Hearts Tart.”
The crowd spreads throughout the ballroom, everyone moving with the relaxed enthusiasm of people who know they’re in for a
good time. Conversations resume as guests begin filling their plates, the atmosphere warm and convivial despite the elegant
setting.
So many people from Grimlock are eager to congratulate us personally about our miraculous survival. The relief in their faces
is genuine—pure joy at seeing us both still breathing. There’s something beautiful about a town that celebrates life this
enthusiastically.
Musicians have claimed the corner near the fireplace, their instruments weaving melodies of celebration and mourning wrapped
together. The violin particularly seems to understand that we’re toasting both victory and loss, joy and the particular satisfaction
that comes from surviving when everyone expected us to die.
Blue appears beside me with two glasses of liquid midnight. “Having second thoughts about the no-marriage thing?”
He’s traded his usual dark suits for something more formal tonight—a perfectly tailored tuxedo that makes his shoulders look
impossibly broad and emphasizes the lean lines of his body. His dark hair is styled with just enough product to look effortless,
and his beard is trimmed to perfection, the blue-black color catching the candlelight. The mustache that frames his mouth
draws attention to lips that have no business being that perfectly shaped on a man who’s already unfairly attractive.
It’s honestly criminal how good he looks. Like he stepped out of some vintage Hollywood movie where all the leading men were devastatingly handsome and knew exactly how to use it.
“No second thoughts,” I say, taking a sip of the drink. “Let’s focus on the party. No more marriage talk.” I glance around
the ballroom, taking in the perfect details, the happy faces, the celebration of life itself. “This is actually incredible.
Only you would throw the most beautiful party to celebrate us rising from the dead.”
“Good,” he says, and I can hear the genuine relief. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about celebrating . . . this.”
“You mean celebrating the fact that we’re both still breathing and very much alive? I’m discovering I’m very much in favor
of both of us surviving.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Jesus, Saylor. That blue dress . . . Wren has excellent taste. You look . . .” He stops,
shakes his head. “I’m trying to think of something that isn’t completely inappropriate to say at your back-from-the-dead party.”
When Wren had brought the dress earlier, I’d been a little worried about the neckline—it’s lower than anything I’d usually
wear, showing off more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. But she’d insisted it was perfect, and now I’m starting to see
why. The dress hugs my curves in all the right places, the blue silk flowing in a way that somehow manages to be both elegant
and rebellious. She’d even gotten the vintage details right—the fitted bodice, the full skirt that hits just below my knees,
the subtle piping along the seams.
I’d planned to wear my hair down, loose and casual, but Wren had other ideas. She’d swept it up into this intricate vintage
style that shows off the diamond earrings she’d also mysteriously produced. The whole look is pure vintage glamour with an
edge—like a 1940s pin-up girl who could probably kill you with her stiletto and look gorgeous doing it. Which, considering
where I am and who I’m with, feels surprisingly appropriate.
A crash of laughter erupts from somewhere near the dessert table, where Elliott appears to be telling some story that involves
a lot of dramatic arm waving and spinning. He narrowly misses a candelabra.
“Saylor, my dear!” He abandons his audience to flutter over, somehow managing to make even walking look theatrical. “This is absolutely divine. A celebration of resurrection, of defying death, of the beautiful chaos that comes from refusing to stay buried.”
“Elliott, are you drunk?” I ask, trying not to giggle.
“Drunk on the miracle of survival!” He gestures broadly, nearly taking out a passing server. “Do you know how rare it is to
see two people cheat death so spectacularly? You both have the most impressive track record of survival I’ve ever witnessed.”
The party swirls around us, conversations flowing like water around stones. I catch fragments of dialogue that sound like
they belong in a different century—mentions of ancestral families and old debts, of favors owed and mysteries solved. Someone
near the piano is discussing the proper way to preserve certain types of flowers, while another group debates the merits of
various wines for specific occasions that probably aren’t dinner parties.
The whole scene feels beautifully strange and perfectly suited to this impossible town that’s somehow become home.
Blue’s hand finds the small of my back, warm through the silk of my dress. “Want to get out of here for a minute?” Blue’s
hand finds mine. “I have something to show you.”
I glance around at the party, but there’s something in the way he speaks that makes me curious.
“Yeah, okay.”
He leads me through the crowd, past Dame Gothel, who raises her champagne with a knowing smile. Instead of heading outside,
he guides me toward the main staircase, up to the second floor where the hallway stretches in both directions.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere I should have shown you before now.”
We walk down the hallway past doors I’ve never opened, until we reach the end where a narrow staircase spirals upward. Blue
pushes open a heavy wooden door, and suddenly we’re climbing stone steps that wind up and up.
“Where are we going?” I ask, slightly out of breath from the climb.
“You’ll see.”
The stairs are steep and narrow, winding up through stone walls until finally we emerge into a circular room with windows all around. But Blue doesn’t stop there—he pushes open another door, and we step outside onto a balcony that wraps around the entire tower.
The view takes my breath away. Grimlock spreads out below us like a living map painted in gold and shadow. The lights from
windows and streetlamps create constellations across the town, while beyond them, the dark forests stretch toward the ocean
like velvet. I can smell salt on the wind mixed with woodsmoke from chimneys, and underneath it all, the green scent of growing
things that never quite goes away in the Pacific Northwest.
The stone railing is cool under my palms, worn smooth by years of weather. Party music drifts up from below—muffled laughter
and the faint sound of someone playing piano—but up here the night air carries other sounds too. The distant crash of waves
against cliffs, the rustle of leaves in towering evergreens, an owl calling somewhere in the darkness.
From this height, I can see the whole town laid out like a storybook illustration. The gothic mansions perched on their hills,
the winding streets that connect them, the clock tower in the town square with its hands forever frozen at midnight. Lights
glow warmly in cottage windows tucked between the larger estates, each one holding its own secrets.
“My god,” I say, moving to the stone railing. “You can see everything. It’s like the clock tower but different angles.”
“Yeah.” But when I look at him, he’s not looking at the view. He’s looking at me. “I know I planned for you to move . . .”
My chest tightens, but not in panic. “Blue . . .”
“But I want you to stay.” He gestures to the view, to Grimlock spread out below us. “I want to make this place ours together.”
I turn to face him fully, searching his eyes. “You really want that?”
“For so long, I thought I had to change to find redemption.” He swallows hard. “I thought I had to become someone different,
someone better. Pretend the violence wasn’t part of me. Hide what I really am.” He pauses, looking out over Grimlock before
meeting my eyes again. “But when I look at myself through your eyes . . . I like what I see reflected there. For the first
time in my life, I like who I am.”
“I do too . . .”
“You don’t see a monster who needs fixing. You see someone worth staying for.” His hands find my face, thumbs brushing across
my cheekbones. “You accept all of it—the darkness, the violence, the parts of me I thought made me irredeemable.”
I think about all the times he could have asked me to forgive him for what he’s done, what he is. But he never did. He never
asked for forgiveness. Just a witness. And maybe that’s all redemption is—bleeding out beneath the gallows with someone willing
to look you in the eye.
“Because those parts aren’t separate from the rest of you,” I whisper. “They’re not flaws to fix. They’re just . . . you.
And I love you.”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I see the exact moment he can’t fight whatever is holding him back. When he leans down,
I rise up to meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft, tender in a way that surprises me. It’s nothing like the desperate hunger from the greenhouse or the claiming
fire from that first night in the jazz club. This is different, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my lips, the way
I taste, the small sound I make when his hand caresses my lower back.
I can feel everything in this kiss—years of loneliness, the fear that he’d never be worth loving, the wonder of finding someone
who sees his darkness and calls it beautiful. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together
in the tower’s quiet.
I pull back slightly to look at him, something shifting in my chest. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“What if I don’t want to be murder sober like you? Now that Brutus is dead?” I search his eyes in the moonlight. “You said
more Crows will come eventually. What if I want to be there waiting when they do?”
The smile that spreads across his face is absolutely wicked, predatory in a way that should probably frighten me but instead
sends heat racing through my veins. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me deeply, possessively, like I’ve just given
him the most perfect gift.
When we break apart, his eyes are dark with something that looks like pride and hunger and pure satisfaction.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs against my lips. “Because I like being the teacher.”
“Good,” I whisper back, rising up on my toes to meet his gaze. “Because I like being the student.”
He turns me gently in his arms until my back is pressed against his chest, his hands settling at my waist as he pulls me close.
The warmth of his body surrounds me completely, and when he leans down to press his lips to the curve of my neck, I can feel
his smile against my skin.
“Look at it,” he murmurs near my ear. “All of it. This is ours now.”
I lean back into him, watching the lights of Grimlock spread out below us like fallen stars. His arms tighten around me, protective
and possessive, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back.
We stand on the tower balcony. The party continues in the ballroom, but up here it’s just us and the night sky and the promise
of time.
Tomorrow there will be plans and decisions and the ordinary magic of building a life together. But tonight, there’s this—two
people who found home in each other’s darkness, promising not forever, but today, and today, and today.
It’s enough. More than enough.
It’s everything.
Once upon a time, I believed in fairy tale endings. White dresses and church bells and happily ever after that looked like
everyone else’s version of perfect. But maybe the best stories are the ones where the monsters get to be happy too. Where
the villain and the hero are the same person, just seen from different angles.
Maybe the real question was never who is the villain. Maybe the question was always this: What happens when the villain wins?