Chapter Forty-Five
Millie
T he smell hits me first, the sudden shift from the stale dampness of the hallway, the smoke and bitterness left in the wake of the blasts, to the crisp winter air of an outdoor morning. There's enough mixed up in that scent to tell me we're in a city, that faint mix of sewers, car fumes and concrete clinging faintly to the air.
When I open my eyes, I see I'm standing next to Jackson in a cemetery. The early morning sun bleeds peach and pink across a sky of silver and lavender clouds. The dim light casts blueish shadows across the stones and monuments surrounding us, the blackened talons of tree branches clawing across the ground. In the distance, miles behind the cemetery, framed by the hazy silver of the city, I can see the Eiffel Tower reaching towards the sky. I gasp and turn to Jackson. His expression is solemn, those same shadows obscuring his face.
I realise he wasn't lying when he said he needed me here. Whatever this place holds for him, it's gripping him tightly, but we don't have time to confront it now, though, from his expression, we may not have any choice. I slip my hand in his, and he turns to me, his eyes dazed like he forgot I was here.
“I always knew you'd take me to Paris one day. I was thinking about the Louvre or maybe Disneyland, though.”
He snorts, and then a sliver of a smile reveals my Jackson to me. He swallows hard, eyes scanning the area. Sitting on the stones nearby, a raven watches us, bobbing lightly and tilting its head.
“This way,” he says simply, walking forward but not dropping my hand.
There's beauty in a place like this, a peace in the finality. It's silent, save a few birds cawing from the trees. The faint sounds of the city are present but dulled, the early hour saving us from its true roar. The air is still; a faint mist hangs above the ground. The world glitters even though we're surrounded by death and decay.
I think of Mum's funeral, at my rage and misery when I saw her grave, and wonder if I misunderstood. If I've misunderstood everything. I tighten my grip on Jackson's hand, feeling the warmth and support of his touch. He turns to look at me, his face still solemn, and I think he knows. He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles with a tenderness that shatters my heart.
We walk deeper into the cemetery, and the gravestones grow older, crumbling with age and neglect. Time has taken anyone who may have maintained them with flowers, care, and affection.
“Why are we here, Jackson?”
He's silent for a long time, the cry of ravens the only break in the quiet. They seem to grow in number as we pass them, squatting like dark guardians on graves and tree branches.
“I lied to Atropos. Before Death passed over, he spoke to me. Just one word. He said, Jacqueline. He said my mother's name.”
He keeps walking. The ground seems to buckle here, and tree roots rear up through the path. As we go deeper, Jackson's footsteps slow. His breathing is faster and heavier, and his grip on my hand is tighter.
A few steps ahead of me, Jackson moves a branch out of my way. The surrounding ravens are still multiplying, their beady eyes watching us as we go. Jackson pays them no attention, but their presence makes me shudder. I know, without needing to ask, that this isn't a normal conspiracy of ravens but one with a task. A duty.
I see our destination before we reach it, the buttery light melting through the dark forked trees and skimming across boxy graves. Everything here is faded and crumbling, forgotten by everything but time.
Except here, except these graves.
Two gravestones, elegant in their simplicity and lovingly tended to. The surrounding grass is neat and lush. Fresh flowers grow around them, carefully maintained. The ravens sitting in the nearby trees watch us as we stop in front of the graves. I pull closer to Jackson and read the wording on the stones. They're in French, but I understand enough.
Jacqueline Mort. Loving mother, loving wife.
Thanatos Jacques Mort. Adored son.
I swallow hard and look up at Jackson, who stares down, looking hard at his own grave.
“Jackson?” I whisper. “How did you die?”
He turns to me, not really seeing me for a moment. Lost in the memory, his face contorts in pain. I squeeze his hand tighter.
“I was a soldier in the great war. It's how I met Camille. I was stationed a few miles from her village. She was in church when they came. When I heard I … well, I was too late. I'm not sure there was a single person from her village who survived.” He falls silent for a moment, staring hard at his name carved neatly into the stone. “I died during the battle of Verdun. In the films, people die quickly, in the arms of their brothers, but the reality for many of us, it's … different. They shot me on the field, along with thousands of others. I didn't die quickly. It took a long time; the wound was in my leg, but it festered. Got infected. I died later, in the dirt, alone, in the cold. My friends, my squad, all dead around me. I died surrounded by rats and flies, mud, and corpses. I think … I think Death brought my body here to be with my maman.”
A mixture of anger and sadness clouds his features.
“I'm sorry,” I mutter, realising that I could never truly understand what he was describing. I move closer, wanting him to feel me, that I’m here for him.
“When Death came for me, I didn't want to leave, not that way, not so soon, but he made me feel … I felt at peace. I felt ready. When he offered me the chance to work at Scythe, I said yes. I wanted the chance to do for someone else what he'd done for me. I didn't know who he was to me then.”
He clasps my hand and pulls me with him as he walks closer to the graves. I follow carefully, trying not to disturb the grass and flowers blooming around the plots. Above the graves is a monument, a stone statue of Death, a scythe in his hand and a raven resting on his shoulder.
“He trained me. I didn't realise until later how unusual that was. Gradually, it all started to … slip into place. Who he was, how he seemed to know so much about me, why we seemed so … alike. When I started asking questions, he brought me to his office one day and tried to explain things, but … after he told me he’d reaped my mother, I didn't care who he was to me anymore; he was just the monster who took the person I adored most away from me. He was the person who walked out after I was born, who left me alone after Maman died.”
He turns to me—I feel my entire world shift, his words burning themselves in me.
“So you see, what I did to you was even worse because I know what it feels like, and I know it's something unforgivable. I know because I've never been able to forgive him. After I found out, I didn't speak to him. Wouldn't. I knew who he was, who he really was, but I didn't want to know. I've spent decades pretending because it was easier than facing the truth.”
I see the pain in his eyes. The agony. Is that what a hundred years of resentment and hatred lead to? To deny the one piece of family you have left? I think of Mum—of her passing over, of knowing that Jackson was there. I know she left smiling. I know that because he wouldn't have had it any other way. He would have cared for her, and in those last seconds, she would have felt safe.
It was wrong what he did. Not telling me. But in the end, that doesn't really matter. If he hadn't reaped Mum, someone else from Scythe would have. I wouldn't have Jackson. And I wouldn't exchange that. Mum died when she was meant to. She was in pain, and she was ready. It's unfair that she went so young. Unfair, her life was so damn hard. But there is no fairness in death, and maybe, strangely, that's exactly why it is fair.
I look up at him and move forward, resting my head against his chest.
“I forgive you, Jackson, I do.”
His eyes widen with surprise. When the kiss comes, it takes my breath away. It starts soft and tender, but shifts quickly. Grows desperate, greedy. We cling to each other in front of his grave, our hands searching each other, seeking the heat of the other's skin. When we part, breathless and still touching, still needing to keep close, I turn back to the words on his stone.
“Your name is Thanatos?”
He chuckles, kissing the top of my head. “She named me after him. That should have been a bit of a clue, huh?”
“What was she like?”
He smiles, his eyes turning wide and shiny like the moon. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower is the colour of a fading bruise, hazy as the pastels turn to cool greys.
“Smart, funny. No one was as quick as she was. If she wasn't my mother, she would have scared the hell out of me. She was sick, very sick. It started before I was born. That must have been her real-time to die, when he took Thomas's wife instead. But the sickness never truly left her. When I was thirteen, she got weaker and weaker until her body just … couldn't fight it anymore. He offered her a chance to be a reaper. He told me that when I confronted him, but she refused. Sometimes that makes me mad. I would have liked to have known her better.”
“But it was her choice.”
“Yes.”
“When he said her name, you think he wanted you to come here?”
He nods and looks up at the statue, his face thoughtful.
“Atropos was fearful of something. All those smoke and mirrors to keep me from seeing what was right in front of me. And the Keres weren't just tearing Scythe apart hunting for me, they were searching for something. No, she needed to distract me from something I could actually use to bring Death back. I think he wanted me to come here because he knew I could put things right. Like Atropos has her shears, like War has his sword, Death has his scythe. It's how they channel their powers. Do you remember, in the stairwell? When I fell? I was trying to access that power but couldn't control it. I didn't know then, but … I needed his scythe.”
“It had to be you who reaped him. They both said it. You have his power, Jackson,” I whisper, the thought making me shiver.
He nods.
“I've been fighting it for so long. Because the power meant I couldn't deny who I was anymore. And I didn't want to be his son. I was too angry at him for that.”
“Then maybe it's time. Time for you to forgive him, too.”
Peering up at him, he turns to look down at me. He lifts my chin gently, his fingers lingering under my jaw, and then he presses a soft kiss against my lips.
“I think you're right.”
“I usually am.”
He chuckles, nudging me playfully with his arm.
“It wasn't on him when he passed. I think whenever he came to the Mortal realm, he hid it before he took on his mortal flesh. He put the scythe somewhere safe.”
I look up at the statue, at the scythe gleaming in the hand of the stone Death.
“You think … you think you can turn back time with that?” I swallow. This is it. This is the last chance we have to save the Death realm and to spare the world the cruelty of never-ending life. Jackson looks at me, his jaw set, but I see fear in his steel eyes. He moves closer to me, his forehead touching mine.
“We're out of time. And options.”
“I know.”
He kisses me quickly, and a moment later, he's gone. The cold air of the cemetery hits me, and I wrap my arms around myself. Jackson is nimbly climbing up the monument. The ravens launch themselves off the branches and gravestones in a fierce storm of wing and claw. Jackson reaches the top, his arm gripping the statue's shoulder. With the other, he pulls the scythe out of Death's grip. As he does, the ravens shriek louder, aiming for us like black bullets. I scream, the claws and beaks shredding my clothes, tearing my flesh. The pain is excruciating as the ravens dig deeper into my flesh, drawing blood.
“Stop!” Jackson yells, and the ravens stop. Literally, stop, they hover, frozen in midair.
I can’t help it; I gasp, scrambling a few steps away from the taxidermy nightmare hanging before me.
“Jackson!”
He isn't listening. He's staring hard at the darkened object in his hand. Jackson holds the scythe high in the air, and suddenly the ravens resume their flight, shrieking and circling him. His face flashes through the dark storm. But it's not Jackson's face I see; it's the ivory of a skull. Of Death.
Of the Grim Reaper.
Jackson raises the scythe even higher, and then he looks at me, his face flashing between flesh and bone. Then he looks at me, lowering the scythe, and I feel it. I feel Jackson slicing through the fabric of the world. And everything turns to ash.