Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
If I ever see another spiral staircase, it’ll be too soon.
The good news is that the tower appears to be empty of guards and demons alike. Shout-out to Heather and her army of vengeful spirits.
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m struggling to breathe.
I try to convince myself otherwise. I don’t even need to breathe because I don’t even have lungs at the moment.
But it’s a hard habit to break. I hunch over, gasping, my metaphysical chest burning.
I take deep breaths until I get it under control, eyes closed on one more exhale.
Then I open them and see exactly what I’ve been looking for.
I’m at the center of a round room, so tall I can barely see the ceiling. The curving wall is filled with shelves, ornate and Gothic, and on each shelf, a single glowing orb about the size of my fist pulses in a white-hot glow.
Ethereal souls. This is exactly what I saw right before Dante disappeared. Right before Infamous Pete did too. And if Pete could be brought back to corporeal form, then surely so can Dante.
I approach the nearest one. It sits at eye level. I notice what’s missing, and my stomach drops.
There’s nothing, no plaque or label, indicating whose soul this is. It could be anyone. And there are millions of them.
Shit.
Even if I had hours, days, weeks, I might not be able to find Dante among them, and I have mere minutes. A little voice inside me tells me to just grab a soul and go. One in a billion is a better chance than none at all.
But I don’t play by those odds. It’s always been 100 percent or nothing.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I think of Credence recognizing her name, of knowing the code phrase from Rook. She wasn’t in ethereal form, not like these souls, but she wasn’t corporeal either. She didn’t even seem like a person, but she still knew herself, still knew her brother’s name.
“Dante?” I breathe. “Can you hear me?”
I open my eyes, still surrounded by a million glowing orbs, no indication of which one is my brother.
“Dante,” I say louder. “It’s me. It’s Elle. I’ve come to take you home.”
I scan the souls, hoping to see some…change or shift in one that shows it recognizes me.
“Dante? Dante?” I yell even louder, until I’m screaming. “Dante!”
My voice echoes hollowly, lost in the impossible ceiling above. I don’t notice Poppy until she’s right behind me.
“I can’t find him,” I tell her. “There’s too many of them. I don’t know where he is.”
“I’m sorry, Elle,” she says.
I turn to her. “I just thought—”
I freeze. Behind her are dozens of guards. In the center is Nyx.
“Poppy?” I ask, but I already realize what’s happening.
She tilts her head, grimacing. “It was always going to end this way.”
Nyx steps forward. The transparency of her soul in the Afterlife makes her skin shimmer.
“You’ve caused quite a stir,” she says.
Two guards are already binding my hands. I don’t even struggle. I can’t fight or talk or bluff my way out of this.
“I’m going to deal with you personally this time,” Nyx says. “Right after I clean up this mess.”
My eyes are fixed on Poppy. She swallows, looking away.
“Take her to the cell sixty-six,” Nyx tells the guards behind me.
Again, so close to 666. It’s like they’re doing this on purpose.
They start to drag me away when out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of light. At first I think I’ve imagined it, but it happens again, this time brighter. I look over my shoulder.
One of the souls about twenty feet up is flickering.
“Dante?”
It flashes brighter frantically.
I take a step toward it. “Dante?”
It’s him. I know it’s him. I don’t know how I can be so certain, but I am. It’s gut instinct. It’s built into my DNA, nurtured from birth, sharpened by experience, and sealed in my bones.
“Dante!” I yell, struggling against my captors. “Poppy! It’s Dante! Look, the soul! Do you see it? That’s Dante!”
She looks up, but I can’t tell if she sees what I see or if whatever message the soul is imparting is just for me. I pull harder against my bonds. The rope burns against my skin.
“Let me go!” I yell. The soul is still flickering, but it’s growing softer as the guards drag me toward the stairs. A few more feet and he’ll be lost to me. “Dante! No! Dante! That’s my brother!”
My wrist snaps as one arm slides free from the rope. It burns but probably not nearly as much as a broken wrist would in the Beforedeath. My brain can’t imagine that pain at the moment.
I try to tug my left arm loose, but the force dislodges my shoulder. And since I’ve done that recently and know exactly what the pain feels like, I take the full force of it. It almost knocks the wind out of me.
But then I’m free, running toward Dante’s flickering soul.
I don’t make it two feet before the last thing I expect happens.
A familiar lightness comes over me—like I’m drifting, slipping out of sync with the world. The pain fades. My vision blurs.
Someone grabs my wrist. I look down and notice I’m just as see-through as they are.
It can only mean one thing.
I’m being pulled back to my body.