Chapter 1
Another pie from the neighbour.
So many fucking pies.
Because apparently, when you’re grieving and haunted by your own depression, people show how sorry they feel—how much they pity you—by baking you pies.
I understand that they give me food to make sure that I still eat when I can’t find the energy to do anything but pace restlessly and listen to the creaking of my own floorboards.
But fuck me.
I can’t take another look from their pitying eyes or hear the gossip carried on the wind when they think I’m too in my own head to listen.
Cassandra’s drunk in sadness. Her eyes are hollowed. Lost about half her weight.
Maybe she’ll set herself on fire in the middle of the night.
Not that what they’re saying isn’t true.
But if I die, I might as well die trying to bring Declan back to life.
I have two weeks to train before the coming eclipse—the one a crooked, probably fake seer predicted—and that’s about the only reason I shove some protein into my mouth and make an effort to drag my feet out of the house this morning.
The sun is blaring through the leaves turning shades of orange and red. The ground smells faintly of damp after the rain. White smoke rises from the vent of the house next door, replacing the damp smell with something garlicky and spiced, heavy enough to exorcise a vampire.
I’d say it’s a beautiful autumn day, but my boyfriend is still dead.
I’m half tempted to knock on the neighbour’s door to thank them for the pie, but then again, I can’t be bothered to sit through tea when they ask how I am, to which I will lie: I’m okay.
Everyone lies when asked if they’re okay.
They could be going through a heartbreak, jobless, mourning a dead goldfish, but they’re all “okay.”
Hardly anyone bothers others with their problems, because no one actually wants to listen.
So, I just settle down the washed-up pie plate with a simple thank-you note on their doorstep, and make my way to town.
A whole season has changed since Declan died.
It sounds so crazy to think that.
I remember how hot it was that night, how I tossed and turned in bed because I couldn’t sleep, both from the heat and from the fight. Declan stayed over sometimes, but he had his own place. I’d thought he’d just gone home.
But he never did.
Before I knew it, autumn had crept in—grey clouds, cold wind, and rain, washing away some of the pain, but not the guilt.
Never the guilt.
Everyone still looks at me like a lost little puppy they don’t know where to return. They tilt their heads, place a hand on their heart, and use their softest voice when they talk to me like if they breathe too hard, I might turn into dust.
I wish I lived in a big city, where no one knows anyone.
Where no one cares about the people around them.
But it’s in this damn town that I met Declan.
A bell rings as I open the wooden door of the blacksmith’s shop. The only experience I have with hunting is from playing hide and seek as a kid. I’ve never held a sword, or any other weapon really, apart from kitchen knives.
Declan was a peaceful man, destined to be a scribe. He didn’t hunt or fight either.
Ironic, considering there was nothing peaceful about his death at all.
I have no idea what awaits me at the Court of the Fallen. No one does. Even the rare few who make it back seal their lips. I suspect the rules go something like: win, and a wish will be granted—but speak of the court, and all will be taken away.
I don’t know if I’ll have to fight, solve a puzzle, dance my way to death, or fuck a Fae to win—or all of the above.
If I’m even chosen to begin with, since there is an overwhelming number of dark souls just begging to be collected.
I can’t blame them, really.
We’re a miserable little breed, swallowed by poverty, depression, and lust.
But learning how to wield a dagger sounds like a good enough place to start.
The shop owner’s gaze follows me like a hawk as I gather decent-sized daggers and dump them on the counter. He glances at them, then drags his gaze back to me.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to sell you these, Cassie.”
“Why?” I frown. “Promise they’re not for slitting my throat. I could just use a kitchen knife if I wanted to do that—do you really think I’d drag myself out here to spend a fortune?”
Paul sighs. “You haven’t left the house in weeks, and now you fancy a whole new set of knives?”
“Yes.” I smile. “A new hobby.” Hoarding knives.
“If you’re thinking of going after those bastards who killed Declan …”
“Please,” I cut him off, my voice cold. “I don’t even know who they are.”
And hurting them wouldn’t bring Declan back.
I’m not stupid enough to waste my energy with that.
“Still, I don’t think this is a good idea …”
I roll my eyes, not even trying to hide my frustration. “Fine, I just want to throw them at a tree trunk, okay? Let off a little steam. Now, will you please sell me the damn daggers?”
Paul blinks, assessing if what I said was true.
It is true—just not the “letting off a little steam” part.
“We’re all worried about you, you know,” he says at last. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”
Depends on how he defines “stupid.”
Letting anyone know about my plans would definitely be a stupid thing to do. Especially when I don’t even know what those plans are.
Plus, why go through the hassle, when chances are I won’t be picked anyway?
But I smile like a nice girl I used to be. “Promise.”
And Paul pretends to believe it.
The daggers feel like a dead weight in my bag.
Maybe the alternative is to walk off a bridge and let their weight drag me to the deep—so I could meet Declan on the other side.
But I kind of want a coffee.
I stop at a café a few streets down from Paul’s shop and take a deep breath. I don’t really want to come here, but it undoubtedly has the best coffee in town.
Mainly because I used to make it myself, exactly how I like it.
Problem is I work—worked—here.
Worse, Declan and I met here.
And Susan and the others always give me that sad look. The one that says: poor thing, still broken.
Or maybe it translates to: bitch, snap out of it and get back to work—but I’m just too despondent to tell the difference.
It’s just a coffee. I can do this.
I push the door open. The familiar scent of tea leaves and coffee beans used to be the closest thing I had to home.
Now, it smells like a graveyard.
In and out is all you have to do.
I exhale as I walk up to the counter, where Susan looks up to meet my eyes. She straightens, her eyes lighting up, and the next thing I know, she steps out and throws her arms around me, welcoming me home.
I swallow the invisible lump in my throat.
“It’s so nice to see you, Cassie,” she says softly, pulling back to look at me like she’s not sure I’m even real.
I give her the faintest smile. “It’s nice to see you too, Susan.”
I think.
I can’t really tell what I’m feeling most of the time.
Like I’m just a shell, controlled by someone else.
I feel guilty even smiling.
My boyfriend was murdered in cold blood—I should never smile ever again.
“How are you, hm?” Susan caresses my cheek the way a mum comforts her child. Her touch is warm, but fails to reach my cold, cracked heart.
“I just need a coffee, and I’ll feel better.”
She doesn’t know how low I feel, so that wasn’t a lie.
A coffee might lift me two centimetres off the ocean floor—but that’s still better.
“Of course, honey. Anything for you.” Susan rubs my arm, nodding towards the counter. “Want to make it yourself? On the house.”
Even better.
I nod and murmur, “Thank you.”
It’s muscle memory for me to make coffee at this point.
I push myself through the counter door and stand where I usually did for the past year and a half.
It’s not necessary a dream job, just practice for the future—for when I save enough money to open a small café of my own, which will probably be about ten years down the line, if I’m lucky.
Now I’ve spent some of that carefully saved money on the daggers.
I take my time making the coffee. It’s not like I have many plans these days. My main goals right now are to get to the Court of the Fallen, win whatever nightmare trials they throw at me, and wish for Declan to not be dead.
Or die trying.
But first, coffee.
I pour my very strong coffee in a takeaway cup—a silent sign to Susan, who’s been secretly watching my every move, that I don’t plan on staying.
I take a careful sip.
Gods, that is to die for.
“I’ve been thinking,” Susan says before I can open my mouth to awkwardly tell her that I’m leaving, now that I’ve got what I came for. “Maybe you could come back part time? Just a few hours a week, until you’re ready to go full time again?”
I press my lips into a thin line.
Well, this is awkward.
I was thinking about quitting. Don’t want her waiting around for a dead soul when she could easily hire someone to take my place.
Susan told me to take all the time I needed. It’s been a month, and this place usually gets slammed. They could barely manage with me here full time. Now, they’re short-staffed, and Susan still hasn’t hired someone new because she’s kind enough to wait for me.
All I’m doing is disappointing her.
I let out a soft sigh, my gaze drifting to the table where I first saw Declan. The memories crash like waves—the first time our eyes met, the way he smiled at me, how he nervously told me about the book he was reading just because I said the cover looked interesting.
I was never interested in the book.
The rest is history.
“I don’t know, Susan,” I murmur. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
“Please, just hire someone.” I swallow, trying to not break down again. I’ve done enough of that in the past month. “Don’t wait for me.”
Susan seems disappointed. There’s sadness in her eyes, the same kind that’s probably carved into my face.
“I understand.” She nods. “But I want you to know that you’ll always have a place here.”
And I’m grateful for that.
I’m just too exhausted to show it.