Chapter Forty-Four The Realm of the Dead
Chapter Forty-Four
The Realm of the Dead
I slide the dagger between his ribs and straight through his heart. “I will find you,” I whisper fiercely, but I do not know if he hears me. As the blade slides home, he closes his eyes, and his last breath sounds like my name. His hands fall from mine. And his body—it desiccates around the blade, aging years, decades, centuries in the span of seconds until—
Until he’s gone.
Silent tears pour down my face.
His body fades into dust and then nothing at all, and I am left clutching a dagger where Michal used to be. My hands drop it instinctively—it clangs loudly, cruelly against the stone—and I stumble back a step, shoulders shaking now. Chest aching . Falling to my knees, I claw at the place where our bond resided—where Michal resided—yet find it empty. It’s gone too.
He’s gone.
And it feels like I’ll never be whole again.
A small hand touches my shoulder as Death applauds, shattering the silence, and when I finally tear my gaze from the dagger, I find Odessa standing over me, her face pale and set. “This is not over,” she says quietly.
In my periphery, Lou nods—just a single drop of her chin. To my surprise, Filippa doesn’t lift her blades again; she simply stares between our mother and me, her expression vacillating between uncertainty and antagonism.
“A splendid performance!” Cackling, Death loops his arm around my shoulders and crushes my body against his like we’re old friends. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I told you that we’d make—”
“How do I enter the maelstrom?” I deadpan. “Do I jump?”
His wide grin slips for just a second before he affixes it back in place. “A fair enough question, I suppose, and one with an easy answer—yes.” He shunts me toward the water’s edge with more force than necessary, and I stumble again, nearly crashing to my knees. Numbness prickles along my arms, my legs, like needles sticking my flesh. Detached, I watch as Lou and Reid both move forward to help, yet Death blocks their path, glaring past them at Filippa, who still should’ve been restraining them.
“Filippa, darling?” He throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Are those knives at your sides just props, or do you plan to wield them anytime soon?”
Filippa does not answer.
His eyes narrow, and any euphoria he felt at Michal’s death seems to sharpen to a knifepoint as he stalks toward her, clicking his fingers in her face. “Hello?” he asks softly, dangerously. “Did you hear me? I asked you a question, my dear.” When she merely looks up at him, thoroughly unaffected—her stitches taut and her mouth set—he cocks his head with dark amusement. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. This is all part of the plan , or have you decided you’d rather waltz into the sunset with this lot than meet your precious daughter?” His lip curls. “What the hell was her name again? Frosty?”
At the mention of her lost child, Filippa’s face twists. “Frostine,” she says reflexively.
“Not an improvement.” Death’s brows rise in quiet disbelief. “And I must say, darling, I don’t love your tone.” His chin jerks between me and the maelstrom, but those silver eyes never leave hers. “However, if you insist on indulging this little fit of rebellion, by all means—join her. Keep your sister focused on the task at hand—ensure she returns to me—or you can kiss that little brat goodbye.”
Filippa’s fists clench almost imperceptibly around the knives. For just a second, I think she might attack, but instead she says, “Do it yourself.”
Death stills. All humor vanishes from his expression, and the silence between them snaps tighter, deadlier. Still Filippa does not flinch—not until Death’s hand darts out and captures her throat, squeezing until the tendons strain. And I should fear for my sister—for myself—but I cannot bring myself to care about anyone but Michal. My gaze flits back to the maelstrom. He is down there somewhere; he is waiting for me, and each second I remain here is a second wasted.
“And why ,” Death murmurs, tilting his head, “would I do that?”
A vein in Filippa’s neck pulsates; the muscles in her jaw feather. When she swallows hard—her silence now an acquiescence—his grip loosens, and his thumb rubs tender circles against the bruises he left on her skin.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Very good. You seem to have forgotten how this arrangement works, so allow me to remind you: If I tell you to join your sister, you will join your sister. If I tell you to bring her back, you will bring her back.” He places his free hand tenderly on her stomach, and the dank scent of Filippa’s fear spikes through the grotto. “If I tell you to slit your mother’s throat, you will slit her throat, and what’s more—you will be grateful for it because if you don’t, you will never meet this stupid fucking baby. Do you understand?”
Filippa blinks, recoiling slightly at the threat, before her entire body morphs—before it hardens, and she shifts from prey to predator within Death’s very hands. Leaning even closer, she bares her teeth at him in a chilling smile. “Yes.”
“That’s better.” Nodding once—his own smile tight—he caresses her stomach one last time, his breath fanning across her face. If he is trying to break my sister, however, we’ll be here all night, and already, the ache in my chest has deepened, throbbing now. It feels almost like a heartbeat, yet instead of pumping blood, it spreads... emptiness, a void, like a knife carving out my veins. The pain slows my thoughts, making it difficult to think, but—without Michal—I know that I am dying. The unbreakable bond has broken.
“Are you finished?” I ask flatly. “Should I jump now, or are you planning to ravish my sister in front of our dying mother?”
“Don’t be so dramatic. She is hardly dying anymore.” Death waves his hand, and my mother—who’d been gasping for breath in Odessa’s arms—manages to stand, supporting her own weight. Her breathing eases, and her color returns. Reid immediately moves to examine her with Lou on his heels, while Death releases Filippa with a shove in my direction. “Ticktock, ladies,” he says in a cool voice. “I shall care for your mother until your return.”
Our mother swells indignantly between Lou and Reid, but before she can charge toward us, can intervene, Filippa offers her hand. When I stare at her, making no move to accept, she rolls her eyes and snaps, “Take it.”
I have no desire to take my sister’s hand, however; in this moment, I’ve never desired anything less. Understanding my refusal implicitly, she scoffs and wriggles her fingers. “I do not offer my hand out of affection , ma belle. We need to enter the maelstrom together, lest it separate us. This is not my first trip to the realm of the dead.”
“I remember.” The emptiness spreading inside me has started to seethe, and sweat drips from my fingers—down my spine—in a way that should not affect a vampire. Perhaps I will follow Michal in the natural way instead; perhaps his loss will burn me from the inside out. “I am the one who took care of your arrangements— all of your arrangements.” Perhaps it is not the time or place to rehash the past, but my niceties vanished the instant I slid a knife through Michal’s heart. If I’m honest with myself, they should’ve vanished much sooner; my sister never deserved them at all. And perhaps it makes me spiteful, makes me cruel, but another truth falls from my lips in a rush of resentment. “I was the one you left behind.”
Filippa’s eyes flash. “I died —”
“You were leaving either way.”
With that, I seize her hand just as she moves to rescind it, sliding my fingers through hers just like we did as children. “Will it hurt?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, focusing hard on the maelstrom instead of my face. “Dying is not scary, Célie.” We take one step together, then another, and I almost miss her next words as we leap into the heart of the waves. As we descend into the realm of the dead.
“Living is scarier.”
Between one blink and the next, Filippa and I fall easily, painlessly, and land like feathers atop a pillow of soft grass.
I roll onto my back, holding a hand over my eyes to shield them from a brilliant sun; it hangs above us in a pristine sky of purest cerulean. A deep sense of serenity permeates the air, accompanied by a warm summer breeze that wraps around my limbs, and—just like the thick oaks lining the distance, like their sweeping branches and lush foliage—I lift my face to it. That hollow inside my chest has disappeared, replaced by an overwhelming and inexplicable desire to stroll through the flowers, or perhaps to lounge on a bank of the nearby river. Strange.
Blinking slowly, I look around, trying and failing to place our surroundings. Where are we? Though I don’t know what I expected to find through the maelstrom, it certainly was not this. There are no revenants here, no creeping tendrils of decay; there is no eldritch haze to paint the flowers and trees in shades of gray. No snow and no ashes and no ghosts.
Instead the sound of rushing water, the scent of it, mingles with a faint hint of oranges.
This cannot be right.
I climb to my feet, turning in a slow circle to examine all sides of this—this place. A garden , I realize in a burst of awareness. And on the wings of that thought comes another, swifter still: I recognize it. I recognize death and its warm, golden light, though the gentle laughter from All Hallows’ Eve has vanished. This is where I would’ve gone. The thought lifts the hair on my nape, and I feel strange, but not—not frightened.
Instead adrenaline courses through my body with each beat of my heart until my lungs ache, and my vision blurs. I glance up at the sun again. It feels—hot. Uncomfortably so. My skin heats beneath its rays, but—no. I frown again.
No, that isn’t right.
That isn’t possible.
I rest a hand on my cheek to check my temperature, my forehead, my neck, and beneath my fingers—
“Oh God.” My voice comes out a croak as I glance at my sister, at her perfect and unblemished face. “Oh God, oh God, oh God .”
“What is it?” Standing slowly, Filippa takes her time stretching each of her limbs. She hasn’t yet noticed that her skin, my skin, feels warm. And my heart—it’s beating in my chest, frantic and stuttering and alive . And—and I just said God . I marvel at the word. I said it—I said it four times—and my throat didn’t catch fire. I touch it again just to be sure, and my fingers come away free of blood. My injuries have healed too.
Gaping at my sister, I pray this isn’t a dream—that I’m not hallucinating—but the thought withers when she blinks back at me with two emerald eyes.
Two. Emerald. Eyes.
Disbelief rises as I stare at her pale face, smooth from forehead to chin without a single stitch in sight. Her soft pink lips twist into a frown, but it is a beautiful frown. It is her frown. A sob builds in my throat, but on the way to my mouth, it erupts instead as a squeal. “ Filippa! ”
She balks at the sound, her brows snapping together in alarm. “What is it? What’s wrong?” When I lunge toward her in reply, catching her hands and squeezing— without breaking her bones—she rears backward in surprise, snatching them away just as quickly. “What are you doing? Get ahold of yourself, Célie. You’re acting like you’ve seen a—a—”
“A ghost?” Unable to resist my own excitement, I bounce a little on my toes. “Not quite. In fact, I’d say the opposite—feel your wrist, Pip.”
Filippa scowls at the nickname. She never used to hate it. Still, she examines the porcelain skin of her arms before pressing two fingers against her wrist. Instead of her eyes widening in surprise, however, they narrow as she says, “How curious.”
But this—this is far more than curious . This is a miracle , something I never even allowed myself to dream. This is the Filippa of my youth, the girl who fled our window fearlessly, who never looked back, with her long black hair cascading around her shoulders and her lashes batting against her cheeks. This is my sister again, which means I must also be—that I’m—
Pressing a hand to my chest, I search again for the ache I felt only moments ago, but only grief remains. Natural grief, memories, not the ravenous chasm of a broken bond. Swiftly, I run my tongue across my teeth to find them smooth. No fangs. No lust for blood or violence either.
Elation sweeps through me, stealing my breath, and as the last of the tension leaves my body, I feel weightless, light—so much lighter than I’ve felt in weeks, months, years . Because I am human again. I am human . Instantly, I whirl around in search of Michal, desperate to see him again, to show him, but find only my unsmiling sister.
She looks... contemplative.
“How is this possible?” I ask in an awestruck whisper.
Filippa exhales harshly before stalking through the garden, away from me. Over the flourishing lawn and past a scattering of orange trees. The fruits hang impossibly heavy, tugging the branches so low that several kiss the grass, creating sanctuaries of sweet-smelling shade. Though she plucks an orange from the nearest tree, she does not eat it; instead she pitches it straight ahead, studying the fruit as it splashes into the river.
Before I can repeat the question, she says, “I suspected this place might... change us, but I couldn’t be certain what those changes might be.” She glances back, and a barrage of childhood memories overwhelms me at the sight of her: climbing up our orange tree, playing in the dirt, sneaking out to the banks of the Doleur each full moon. She doesn’t seem to share them, however, instead adding, “Without Death, revenants cannot exist—no vampires either—and Death has fled this realm. He no longer exists here—not as he was, at least, not as he’s meant to be—which must mean...”
“We’ve returned to who we would’ve been without him.” I blink at her, torn from my juvenile reverie. “That sounds like a lot of speculation.”
“Of course it is.” She scoffs. “This is Death, the greatest mystery of all life, and to be frank, I don’t know anyone else who has died, come back to life, and semi-died all over again. Do you ? Perhaps we can invite them to tea and ask all the questions we want.”
I scowl at her, and though Filippa’s lips twitch in satisfaction, she still refuses to smile. Carving a path toward the river, she adds, “All we know for sure is, that ”—she jerks her thumb behind us—“is our only way out of here.”
I follow her thumb, glancing upward to where a single cloud hangs in the brilliant sky—a storm cloud, as jarring and out of place as a flower in the desert. Stranger still, it appears to be raining , yet no moisture dampens the air. My eyes narrow as I peer closer, and, with a start, realize the droplets aren’t droplets at all, but shredded ribbons of veil. They ripple iridescent in the wind, beautiful even, until I remember who exists beyond it.
My breath catches at the thought, and I hasten after Filippa, who trails pale fingers along the vibrantly blooming flowers on her way to the river. Red roses grow in massive, spiraling topiaries without a single thorn; snowdrops glisten in dove whites and soft grays, smaller than the other species, and—I blink incredulously—even Bluebeard blossoms sway gently in the breeze. One of them even snaps at our heels as we pass, and Filippa’s frown deepens. “What the hell are those?”
“You don’t know?”
“The garden changes to suit the person journeying through it, Célie.”
Curious. “Those are called Bluebeard blossoms.” Thrilled to know something my older sister does not, I add with a touch of vanity, “They eat butterflies.”
She casts me a disparaging look. “What happened to the little girl who loved butterflies?”
Her words loose like an arrow aimed straight for my chest, and with it, I realize I am not the only one who has taken a detour down memory lane. Instead of remembering me with affection, however—with longing—my sister seems to remember me with only disdain.
“She died,” I say shortly.
And just like that, all desire to impress her vanishes too.
Scoffing under her breath, she tramps on an errant snowdrop in response, grinding it under her heel, but otherwise says nothing. I step over the fallen petals carefully, not speaking again until the silence lengthens between us. “What about the river?” Together, we glance toward the slow-moving water in the distance. It runs perpendicular to the garden, stretching left and right as far the eye can see—impossible to avoid—while peculiar mist obscures whatever lies beyond it. “It looks... significant,” I add warily.
“Isn’t it obvious?” When I say nothing, waiting with rapidly thinning patience for her to explain, she sighs in exasperation. “One must cross the river to reach their final resting place.”
Ah.
“You’ve already crossed it,” I say shrewdly, “when Morgane killed you.”
“Frederic pulled me back.” She casts a slanting glance in my direction, her lips pursing at my wide eyes and inquisitive expression. She rolls her eyes. “ Yes , Célie, we can assume that created the maelstrom. This garden seems to be transient. If we linger long enough, the wind will increase speed, and the river will rise until it sweeps us away—and that is true death.”
If we want to close the door, Filippa must die.
I swallow hard, tearing my gaze away to watch the slow-moving water instead. Is that what happened to Michal? And then— did it happen to Filippa too? The thought brings unexpected pain. Not for the Filippa walking beside me now, cold and unfeeling, but for the little girl who believed in fairy tales so very long ago. She never should’ve learned about this wind and this river; she never should’ve waited on this bank. “I thought this place would be... different,” I confess. “Frightening, even.”
“I told you, Célie.” She stares out at the water too, though I suspect she no longer sees it. I suspect she sees what lies beyond every time she closes her eyes. “Death is nothing to fear... not in his true form, anyway. Our realm has twisted him.” Though I want to ask how, why , I cannot bring myself to interrupt as she continues, her voice low and mournful: “When I returned on All Hallows’ Eve, I felt a different sort of pull—more violent this time, more painful. It ripped me from beyond the river and back into our realm.”
“Frederic’s spell,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t have made the journey without it.” She shakes her head, and wherever she just vanished inside her thoughts, she returns from it abruptly. Her mouth tightens into a grim line. “Michal said he would wait for you, but he never had a choice. The river will have already taken him, and it isn’t meant to flow both ways. If we cannot pull him back out again—if we meet any resistance at all—”
“We don’t have a choice either.” I speak the words through stiff lips, refusing to acknowledge any other possibility. Filippa might know much about this place, but she does not know everything. Moreover, this time is not like last time. I am not Frederic, and I do not need a spell to find Michal. I am a Bride of Death, and even if I weren’t, I would do anything to find him— anything , and no one can ever change that. Not Filippa, and certainly not Death.
Unbidden, my hand rises to my chest, and I rub the place where Michal remains. Part of me thinks I can still feel him there, waiting. “I will pull him out,” I say fiercely—to Filippa or to myself, I do not know—“or I will cross that river myself. I cannot go back without him.”
Filippa slows to a halt at the riverbank, her expression inscrutable, before inclining her head in acknowledgment and pivoting toward the river. I join her with renewed purpose, still rubbing that spot on my chest.
It’s called Le Lien éternel.
The longer two vampires feed from each other, the stronger the bond grows, until...
Until?
Until it becomes irrevocable.
What Michal and I share cannot be broken. Irrevocable means final. Eternal means forever. Michal , I think, and my human heart splinters.
Michal , I think, and a brilliant white cord appears in my hands.
I stare down in wide-eyed confusion, in awe , before curling my fingers around it. Though I feel its weight in my palm, I still close my eyes before opening them again, convinced it’ll disappear. It doesn’t. The cord remains, loose and unspooled between my fingers like—like a ribbon. I test it curiously, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger, and gasp when the cord tightens.
When it tugs .
It flashes brighter at the pressure, unraveling away from me and toward—my eyes widen even further, and my mouth parts in understanding. Toward the river . I take a tentative step forward before wrapping my wrist around it, pulling experimentally until the cord snaps taut. Too taut. Filippa turns to stare at me as I stagger forward, attempting to reel in the cord. It drags me closer to the river instead, and she tilts her head in confusion. In concern. She cannot see it.
“Michal,” I breathe, and with one last, hard tug—my lungs seize.
Suddenly, I cannot breathe at all.
The cord strains in my grasp, immense weight from the other end propelling me forward. And I cannot stop it. Though I dig my heels into the grass, into the mud, I only slip faster. More than that, however— I still cannot breathe. Throat burning, I crash to my knees; I grip the tether with my free hand and lean backward with all my might, but still it pulls me onward. It carries me away from Filippa, who bends down to snatch at my forearm now. “This isn’t funny, Célie. Whatever you’re doing, stop it!” She squeezes harder, attempting to pull me upright. “ Stop it, and get up—”
Though I open my mouth to answer her, no words pass my lips—no scream either. Instead river water rushes up my throat in a torrent, spilling onto my chest. Choking me, drowning me. My human lungs shriek in agony as I collapse forward onto the muddy bank of the river. The water keeps coming, however. It flows from my body like I am the river, yet my body burns like I’ve caught fire.
“Célie!” Panicked, Filippa drops beside me, still tugging on my arms, but the tether continues to yank too, to drag me closer and closer to Michal. To Michal. I can sense him now, so close to me. So close, so close, so close—
“No, no ,” Filippa pleads, her voice breaking, and only moments ago, I would’ve wept with relief at that brief glimpse of her humanity. It means my sister is still in there somewhere—hiding, perhaps, but alive —yet I cannot think beyond the darkness edging my vision. Distantly, I realize I am drowning.
Gasping and choking through the water, I manage, “ He—lp. ”
Another wave spews from my mouth.
“Célie! Célie! ” Filippa slides her arms under my shoulders now, wrenching me back to my knees and holding me against her chest. She doesn’t know what to do, however. She cannot let me go, cannot even see the cord to sever it. “I am trying ,” she says despairingly, “but you—you have to show me how to—what to—”
But the garden is rapidly fading now, dimming to fathomless black around me. My last conscious thought flares indignantly. What a stupid way this is to die—to survive everything, everything , only to drown on dry land the moment I become human again. And everything has darkened now, growing darker and darker still—
A flash of silver sparks across the haze. Familiar, breathtaking silver. I focus on it until my vision sharpens, and Filippa’s pleading voice fades in and out of range. “Come on , Célie—” Her arms tighten around my chest. “You will not die, you stupid, stupid girl—”
Though I should try to answer her, I cannot do anything but stare at Michal—Michal, who is rising from the river. Michal, whose hair breaks the surface first, then his onyx eyes. And— oh God . He is still more gorgeous, more devastating, than should ever be possible.
Spluttering now, I feel the last of the water leave my lungs as he throws a hand onto the bank and claws his way through the reeds, through the mud and the rocks and the lichen. Claws his way back to me .
I lean back into my sister’s chest, bracing my heels in the ground. “Pull,” I tell her desperately.
Filippa does as I say, even as she cranes her neck to see my face, to search it anxiously. “What is going on ?”
“ Pull. ” I wrap the cord around my hand, again and again, to maintain the tension as Filippa drags us both to our feet, anchoring us against Michal’s weight. We’re almost there . We’re so close—
The harder we pull, the faster he rises, until—gasping and soaking wet—he wraps the cord around his fist and his eyes lock with mine. With one last mighty tug, Filippa and I throw ourselves backward, and Michal heaves himself on the grass with a groan, gasping and coughing, his entire body shuddering.
Finally, Filippa loosens her hold, and my heart leaps because it’s over. It’s over. Without another cognizant thought, I sprint for him, but a second masculine voice stops me short: “Fuck,” Dimitri says, pulling himself ashore by Michal’s ankle before collapsing beside him. “Could that have hurt any more ?”
Michal lifts his head. “You could’ve let go at any time,” he growls. “I never asked you to tag along.”
Dimitri scoffs and jerks his chin toward the river. “Right. Because I wanted to stay over there alone.”
I stare at the two of them, speechless—then I stare some more, unable to believe what I’m seeing. Because Michal has not returned on his own. He—he somehow brought Dimitri with him, which explains the sheer weight of the cord. Filippa and I brought them back—both of them—and now they’re pushing to their feet together; now they’re making their way toward us, and they’re grinning—grinning and alive .
And I think my heart might burst as Michal pulls me against him, as I fling my arms around his neck.
“I knew you’d find me,” he whispers into my hair.
When I kiss him, I hold nothing back.