Chapter 3
Cece
Ihonestly don’t know if I died and this is what the afterlife looks like. We’ve been walking for some time now, and there are no pearly white gates. No angels strumming harps. Instead, it’s beautiful—ancient and modern tangled together, and just unsettling enough to make my skin prickle.
Dammit.
This is exactly how the movies portray it. Bright. Relatively peaceful. Weirdly serene. It has the whole afterlife aesthetic. But what if it isn’t heaven? What if it’s the other place?
I shake off the thought before it snowballs into full panic.
Still, something deep in my gut insists I’m not hallucinating.
I’m alive. Very much alive. And this is really happening.
I’m being dragged through a place my mind can barely process by a complete stranger.
I focus on my breathing, trying to orient myself before I completely lose it—the way I nearly did earlier.
“Are you okay?” he whispers as he guides us into another alley. His hand braces above my head, his face close to mine, as though we’re locked in an intimate conversation rather than hiding from something unseen.
“I guess,” I say, though the words come out far less steady than I intend. My thoughts are still a tangled mess.
His closeness has my heart racing. And that’s when I really take him in.
He’s tall—well over six feet, maybe six-three—lean muscle shifting beneath his clothes with every breath. Strong enough to be reassuring. Or dangerous. There’s something about him that tells me I should be afraid.
But it’s his eyes that hold me captive.
They’re impossibly blue. Not just bright or striking, but that unreal, crystalline shade of Caribbean water you only see in travel ads.
So vivid they hardly seem real. His perfectly shaped lips hover inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath.
Then his scent reaches me—cedarwood and leather, warm and inviting—and I sink deeper, losing myself in his gaze.
He pulls a napkin from his jacket and gently blots the blood on my forehead, his knuckles grazing my skin before he sweeps my hair back from the cut.
The simple touch sends my pulse soaring.
His gaze is heavy as it traces the curve of my cheek, then drops to my mouth with a focus so intense the rest of the world blurs into static.
It lingers there, and before I realize it, I’m staring at his lips too.
For a moment, the air between us turns thick, electric and utterly private.
As if he’s about to close the final inch.
Then his eyes drift, sliding past me to the group of people walking by.
The movement snaps me back to reality.
This is a ruse. Nothing more than a performance to keep us hidden. And I feel so foolish for how deeply it affected me.
He studies me again, then tilts his head, checking that the group has cleared the street. A second later, he takes my hand, and we’re moving again, slipping back into the flow of the city.
“I’m going to take you somewhere to shelter until I can secure your return,” he says quietly.
I try to focus on his words, but my head is pounding like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer, and my attention keeps drifting. I can’t help it. The city around us is unbelievable.
The buildings are a contradiction—weathered stone stands shoulder to shoulder with towering glass skyscrapers, and a massive skybridge stretches overhead, linking streets beneath the most breathtaking sky I’ve ever seen.
Between steel-and-glass skyscrapers stand structures that seem like they’re from a completely different chapter of existence.
Ancient edifices carved from luminous stone that seems older than geology itself.
They’re not ruins. They’re whole, immaculate, and radiant.
Their columns spiral rather than stand straight, marked with symbols that appear to rearrange themselves when I try to focus on them.
Some arches even float a few inches above the ground, disconnected from any visible foundation, humming with a low vibration you feel more in your ribs than in your ears.
The modern world architecture is sharp-edged and linear.
But the ancient structures are fluid and organic, as though grown instead of built.
Their surfaces shimmer faintly, like moonlight trapped beneath translucent marble.
When the sunlight touches their surfaces, it bends and scatters, forming prismatic halos that cast soft rainbows across the sidewalks.
Beneath that quiet spectacle, people drift in and out of the buildings, settle at serene sidewalk cafés, and move through their day as if what’s surrounding them were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Even the air feels different here. Cleaner.
Like standing in a forest just after a morning rain.
He stops so abruptly that I nearly collide with him as he turns to face me. Unease rolls off him in waves, so palpable I can almost feel it.
“Just keep your head down, Cece,” he says, “and don’t make eye contact with anyone we pass.”
I press my lips together, looking up at him anyway, because that’s about all I’m capable of right now. He narrows his eyes as if he’s about to say more, then thinks better of it. Instead, he turns away and reaches for my hand again.
I nearly trip as I glance down, catching sight of ancient-looking glyphs flaring to life beneath our feet. Their light spreads across the cobblestones with every step. I stare, mesmerized. The moment my foot lifts, the symbols fade, vanishing as if they were never there.
It’s as though the ground itself is alive—responding to us. Feeding on our presence.
We pass several archways recessed between the buildings. They’re stone, but unlike anything I’ve seen before—mirror-like, though clearly unpolished.
A woman approaches one of the archways. For a moment, I think she’s admiring it, struck by the same awe slowing my steps.
Then the air inside the archway ripples, warping like heat rising off desert sand.
The distortion sharpens, turns violent, almost alive.
Without hesitation, the woman steps forward and vanishes.
A brilliant horizontal line flashes once—blinding and fast—and then she’s gone.
I stop walking.
I can see straight through the archway. Nothing but an empty street beyond it. And yet, I don’t trust my own eyes.
He pauses a few steps ahead, glances back at me, then follows my stare. After a moment, he turns and continues on.
“It’s how we travel,” he says simply. “But we need to keep moving.”
I look at him, irritation rising at his dismissive tone.
Part of me wants to stay rooted in place forever, to demand answers until everything makes sense.
But another part of me knows better. I have no interest in becoming the woman who throws herself headfirst into danger just to satisfy her curiosity.
As we reach what feels like the city’s edge, we come upon a building ablaze with light, boisterous noise spilling into the street. His grip tightens, and he urges me past more quickly.
“Lucien, is that you? I’m glad to see you,” a voice calls from behind us.
I start to turn, then remember his warning and lower my gaze at the last second.
“Lucien?” the voice calls again.
The tug on my hand stops. He pauses, then turns to face someone behind me. Unsure what else to do, I turn as well.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he says quickly to the man standing before us. “I’ll see you at the domus. I need to take care of a few things first.”
So that’s his name.
Lucien.
Ignoring the warning, I take a good look at the other man.
He wears a long, fitted brown coat. His skin is tan, his hair dark, and his eyes—deep brown and oddly vibrant—remind me of Lucien’s in a way I can’t explain.
The moment our eyes meet, he studies me, his gaze flicking briefly to Lucien and back.
“Where are my manners?” he says. “Please pardon my rudeness. I am Fazen.” He bows his head.
“We were just leaving,” Lucien says, cutting in before I can speak.
“It’s only Orren and me inside,” Fazen replies warmly. “Come, have a drink with us.”
“I wish we could, but we have to—”
“Yes, yes, you have to go,” Fazen interrupts, lifting a hand. “You made that quite clear.” His smile widens. “Still, Aris just headed to your domicile. I take it you’re not eager to run into him?”
The question hangs between them.
Lucien offers a tight-lipped smile, then gently steers me toward the entrance of the bar.
Once inside, he mutters that we’ll join the table shortly and pulls me toward the back of the space, which is, without question, the most fascinating bar I’ve ever stepped into.
The crowd is clustered in groups; there are few, if any, solo patrons. Toward the back, a small circle plays a game that looks vaguely like darts—but not quite. My attention drifts to the bar, and I have to stop myself from openly gaping.
Two bartenders work behind the counter, entering orders into a device before sliding empty glasses beneath a web of crystal piping.
Liquids cascade into the glass. Each drink is finished with a flourish: flowers, slices of fruit, sometimes even a swift pass of the bartender’s hand that has the surface of the drink bursting into flames, sending a sweet, fiery maple scent into the air before it’s pushed toward its owner.
To say this place is incredible is a serious understatement.
“Hey,” he whispers, stopping just out of sight.
“I’m trying not to draw attention. Fazen is already wondering who you are, so you’ll need to play along.
” He runs his hand through his hair. “I’m doing everything I can to protect you.
It’s best if they think this is . . .” He hesitates, his gaze darkening as his chest rises with a slow breath.
“Romantic. The less they know, the safer you are. Understand?”