Chapter 21
Felix’s head swam as he took in the strange surroundings.
He couldn’t make sense of it. His city still stood around him, but everything had crumbled, decayed.
The colours had been drained away. It was as if someone had sketched over the market square with charcoal, leaving the world the same deep gray as August’s eyes.
It was his Fallowmoor, but it wasn’t.
Wisps of smoke moved lazily through the market square. The air had turned frigid, like winter had suddenly stomped out the summer, and it carried the damp, musty smell of an ancient cellar.
The market’s buzz had vanished, leaving behind an unsettling silence heavier than any Felix had ever known, though the echoes of sound still rang in his ears—panicked screams, pounding footsteps, shouted orders.
What happened? Where were they?
The woman. She’d swung the hatchet, and then . . .
Felix gasped, the stagnant air filling his lungs as he looked down at his chest, frantically searching for where the hatchet had landed. It couldn’t have missed. It had been so close.
He was dead. That was the only explanation.
What was this place, then? He’d never bothered with religion, so he wasn’t sure what was meant to come after death. Wasn’t sure what Daeban’s realm was supposed to look like. But he’d definitely expected the Goddess of Death to offer something more than this.
The usual ache in his leg was gone. A welcome side effect. Actually, every feeling was gone. His nerves were numb, and even when he dug his nails into his palms, he felt nothing.
Death felt empty.
Death.
He was dead. The words sank in with finality, and a flood of grief washed over him. He couldn’t be dead. What about his ma? He was the only family she had left. He was supposed to keep her safe.
And Marlow. She’d be livid with him for dying on her.
What about his plans? His purpose? He’d worked so hard for so long. It was all for nothing. He’d accomplished nothing.
Felix squeezed his eyes shut.
Dead.
It wasn’t fair.
When he opened them again, August was on his knees in front of him, eyes wide, the thin silver rings around his pupils glowing brightly.
Felix stared. He couldn’t help it. August looked like he fit this place, like he belonged.
He looked . . . beautiful.
He wasn’t dead too, was he? The thought was devastating. Felix tried to ask him, but the oppressive nothingness swallowed the words.
August’s mouth moved soundlessly, but the words were clear, spelled out on his lips. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t August’s fault that he was dead. He shouldn’t feel responsible.
“It’s alright,” Felix attempted, but again the words fell silent, so he reached out and cupped August’s face in his hands. His thumb traced his cheek, then the curve of his bottom lip, but the strange numbness greedily stole the feeling.
He wished he could explain how much their time together had meant to him. August had treated him like a friend. Never demanding, never pushing.
You were wonderful, Felix thought.
August leaned into his touch, and Felix longed to know how it felt. Why had he waited until now to try?
Now it was too late. He was dead.
Aesling. The word thundered inside his head. It was the last thing he’d heard before the world went quiet. The Watch had called out aesling. Shouted it. At them.
Felix blinked.
August. The officer was calling after August.
Clarity struck then, like the sharp click of a lock springing open. Aeslings Augustus and Charlotte Ellingwood. August and Lottie.
He ripped his hand back with a harsh, soundless laugh, and shot August an icy glare that made him flinch.
What a liar! That was why he had used a fake name all those times. How had Felix missed it? How had he been so blind? Gods, he was such an idiot! It was so obvious!
August stood and offered a hand to help him up, but Felix swatted it away.
He pressed the loose piece of his prosthetic back together and tightened the strap, then pushed himself slowly up from the ground. Breathing was a monumental effort, each movement a struggle against the crushing weight of exhaustion. Why was he so tired?
And why was this place so quiet? He wanted to shout, to call August every curse word in his vocabulary. But he couldn’t. So, he clenched his fists at his side and settled for glowering.
August’s eyes dropped. “We need to go,” he mouthed.
Go? Felix was dead. Maybe they both were. Where would they go? This was it—just him and the vast nothingness and the liar he’d foolishly thought was his friend.
Aesling.
Felix shook his head, a motion that drained more energy than it should have. He’d confessed everything, spilled every last secret he had, and August wouldn’t even tell him who he was.
Bouncing nervously, August glanced across the empty market square. Why was he so on edge? What could possibly happen that was worse than what already had?
A single word formed on August’s lips. “Please.”
Felix folded his arms stubbornly. His nerves may have been numb, but the rage still burned hot through him. Right now, he didn’t want to do a damned thing that August asked.
With a frown, August grabbed his arm, and before Felix could wrench it free, he pointed to a trail of veins darkening beneath the skin.
Oh.
He wasn’t sure what was happening, but it didn’t look good.
“We need to go,” August mouthed again, slower this time, urgency tightening his features.
When he started forward, Felix begrudgingly followed. What else could he do? Stay behind in the terrible silence alone? Absolutely not.
They passed the edge of the square and entered a winding side street. Felix tried to keep track of where they were, but the buildings looked so different, he was left off balance, unable to right himself.
His steps dragged as the thick air weighed him down, making the walk feel endless. How far had they gone?
They turned another corner, and Felix stopped cold.
He knew this place. Even through the strange, dense fog clouding his thoughts, he recognized it. His home.
Or what was left of it.
The sign was blank, the vines bare and brittle. The flowers in the planters were long dead. And there was no door, just a strange, swirling darkness where it should have been.
August had brought him home.
No. He didn’t want to be here. He couldn’t bear to see his ma’s face when she found out he was dead.
August’s lips worked frantically, forming silent words he couldn’t grasp.
Felix blinked, slow and heavy. His shoulders sagged. He needed to sit. To rest. He was so, so tired.
August gave him a look—eyebrows raised, eyes sharp with warning. Then, with a swipe of his hands, the air fractured, tearing open like a fresh wound, the edges shimmering with the faint pink of magic. The sound of distant, muffled music floated through.
What was happening?
He could just make out the shape of a building on the other side, past the swirling shadows, and he reached cautiously toward it. His fingertips pressed against the opening, but it pressed back, solid and smooth as thick glass. He couldn’t push through.
When he turned, August was watching. His eyes jumped from Felix to the opening and back again before he held out his hand like an offering. Felix placed his in it, and August stepped carefully forward.
Wait!
Felix winced, expecting a collision as August yanked him forward. Only this time, he passed easily through, and they spilled onto the street. His street. Not the decayed version, but his actual street.
August sealed the rift behind them and pushed open the door to the pub, flattening against it to let him go first.
Felix stumbled inside and lifted his sluggish gaze toward the bar. His ma looked up and blanched when she saw them in the doorway.
“Felix!”
The pain hit him then with the force of a collapsing building—a bone-jarring, suffocating weight that stole his breath and left him gasping. His vision swam, darkening at the edges.
He clearly wasn’t dead. But something was very, very wrong.
Felix pitched forward, and his ma was beside him, helping August lead him to a booth.
“Darlin’, can you hear me?” Her voice was tinny and distant as she called for someone to send for Marlow.
The world spun, a dizzying vortex of colour and sound. Then suddenly he was flat on his back, staring up at the familiar, worn wooden beams in the ceiling.
It was too much. Too bright. Too loud. Felix’s head throbbed and his stomach churned.
He struggled fiercely to remain conscious, and for a short time, it worked. The room was a burst of motion. His ma shouted something he couldn’t make out through the white noise in his ears and, moments later, someone placed something in her hand.
Cool, damp fabric against his face.
Keep your eyes open, he ordered, as if he could use his compulsion against his own body.
He wasn’t dying tonight.
He wasn’t dying.
He wasn’t—with a shuddering groan, Felix curled in on himself, his stomach twisting violently, and his throat burned as he vomited a thick, black sludge onto the floor.
There was barely time to register the horror of it before the world went dark.