The Life and Death Parade

by Eliza Wass

  I wrapped my arms around Macklin. I brushed my fingers through his hair as Roan watched, his face a picture of peace. Macklin sobbed into my shoulder. My heart sprang loose, and I gasped. Roan’s lip twitched, and he winked.

  I tightened my grip on Macklin, spun him toward the door, and hissed hotly in his ear, “I need you to trust me when I tell you to run and hide.” My back was to Roan, but I felt him slip closer to me, the cold sweep of a bad thing. “Go!” I screamed, shoving Macklin toward the door. And he trusted me, and he ran.

  I unsheathed the sword from my side, fingers slick with sweat, and pointed it at Roan. He pulled up short in front of me. He watched Macklin vanish with that chilly expression, like he was a quick calculation short of total world domination.

  His eyes fell on me. His lip curved. He took a step forward.

  I shook the sword. “Stop where you are. I will kill you.”

  He put both hands up, then walked in an arc away from me. I scanned the room, to see if he was trying for a weapon. One of the horses stamped its foot, and I nearly dropped the sword. Roan raised an eyebrow at me, then collapsed coolly into Nikki’s chair and put his feet up, crossed at the ankle. Beside him, the coffin glowed as if alive. “I thought you wanted Macklin and me to be together.” He shook his head. “You really need to make up your mind.”

  “I know exactly what you’re planning to do.” I should have stabbed him. I knew that. That was the mistake all good guys made, not to fillet the bad guy at the first opportunity. But bad guys never seemed bad in real life, or not all bad. They seemed like people you knew, people you liked. And—worst of all—people you understood. “That wasn’t Nikki you brought back. That wasn’t Nikki at all.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” He stuck a finger between his lips and bit the tip of his nail off, then spat it onto the floor. “It was his corpse.” His entire posture had changed, like a snake that had shed its skin. I could see what was pulsing underneath—the one thing he wanted, the one thing he would do anything to get.

  I aimed the sword at him, fingers throbbing with rage and fear. “Why Nikki?”

  “Come over here and I’ll tell you.” He jerked his head and grinned at me, like it was all a joke. Then he slid down on the chair, like he was settling in. “Do you ever get the feeling that things have come together almost too perfectly? So perfectly that it seems like they were meant to happen?” he spat. “Do you ever get that feeling, Kitty? I had that feeling once. After Emmanuel burned himself alive at the Life and Death Parade.

  “He burned himself and everything that belonged to him—everything we had. Objects have a kind of power, in ritual work.” He ran his fingers through his necklaces. “I needed something that belonged to him, to anchor me, so I could bring him back again. I also needed a body. So I went to Anaya’s boat to steal Emmanuel’s coat, and what did I find but Anaya convincing Nikki it was okay to die young and leave a good-looking corpse. And that wasn’t all; I had met Nikki before. I made him a love spell at Emmanuel’s funeral. So when I saw him spattered on the road, I did what any aspiring god would do: I used your tragedy for my own ends. I brought Emmanuel back. Then just as he was waking up, I heard someone coming and I hid.”

  He observed his fingernails. “You know, I think I fell in love with Macklin at first sight. I fell in love with his body. I also realized I was in for a lot of paperwork, so I let him take Emmanuel back here.” His eyes drifted over the mural on the ceiling and he scowled. “Emmanuel stayed with you longer than I would have guessed, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to live without me—I keep him alive.” I remembered what Emmanuel-as-Nikki was like: superstitious, afraid, and obsessed with ending his curse. I wondered if he stayed so long because he knew there was no escape for him.

  “I learned my lesson,” Roan continued. “Don’t resurrect people willy-nilly. Even if they fall onto your plate, nothing is meant to be. You have to fight for what you want. So if you want to steal someone’s body, make friends first. Get to know their family. If you can get them to love you, even better.” He slid lower in his chair. “And it’s all thanks to you, Kitty. You brought Macklin to me.” He slid still farther. “If that’s not fate, then I don’t know what is.”

  “You don’t believe in fate.”

  “No. But you do.” He fell flat on the chair, stretched his arm down behind it. And then something flew through the air toward me, glinting like a mirror. I felt it sink deep beneath my collarbone. The sword dropped from my hand, clattered on the floor.

  Roan was out of his chair and then he was there, and the sword was at my throat, and his hand was on the knife, twisting it inside me. I cried out. “I really like you, Kitty.”

  “I’m finding that hard to believe”—I grunted—“at the moment.” I was impressed with my ready wit. Everything had sharpened on the blade of the knife. I might be about to die. And suddenly the world seemed rife with humor.

  “I’m not the bad guy here.” He slid the knife out, and I staggered back. It hurt more out than it did in. I pressed my hand hard against the wound as blood trickled in a pulse.

  “Again,” I said. “There are believability issues.”

  His eyes blazed in the candlelight. “Emmanuel died for no reason, same as Nikki. All I’m trying to do is put the reason back.”

  “By killing somebody else?”

  “At least I have a reason. God doesn’t.”

  “God,” I exhaled, feeling light-headed. All of this was wildly surreal. Like magic. I moved carefully away from him, searching for something to put between us. The vestry door hung open, and I staggered toward it. “Emmanuel gave you the antivenom, didn’t he?” I gulped in panicked gasps. “He wanted you to live. He died for you.”

  He shook his head. “We decided, together. He knew I could use the ritual to bring him back. It was so close to real already; all we needed was a reason to believe it.” He bristled. “But then he died and he changed. Suddenly he didn’t want to come back. He was like one of you, accepting his fate, even though it happened for nothing and no one. All I want is to have Emmanuel back to what he was before.”

  “But you can’t.” My back was against the wall, and I slid very slowly along it toward the vestry door. “You can’t own a person, you can’t keep a memory. Everything in this life is temporary. It will never be the same again.”

  He shrugged. “I would settle for better.”

  The wall ended and I let myself fall back into the vestry. Roan darted toward me, sword poised. I rolled on the floor and kicked the door shut as he reached it, then leapt to my feet and slammed the lock.

  It didn’t take long to realize what a stupid plan this was. I was trapped in the vestry with no way out, and nothing but flimsy lattice screens between us.

  He rattled the door. “What are you doing in there?” Good question.

  The candle I’d used to burn the letter from school was still on the prayer altar. Mum had told me to have faith. I wasn’t sure how helpful it would be, but I absolutely believed I was going to die.

  I picked up a book of matches and lit the candle. I had a glass but no water. Luckily, I was really starting to bleed now, so I dripped the blood into a bowl. With a wild ripping sound, the sword plunged through the lattice, crossing inches from my nose.

  “Are you actually building an altar?” He peered in through the hole he’d made in the lattice. “Who do you think is going to help you now?”

  I pulled his card from my pocket and held it flat against the window. “You are.”

  He startled, dropping back. “Where did you get that?”

  “The Life and Death Parade.”

  “Let me see!” he said, his voice suddenly young. “What powers did they give me?” His fingers reached through the lattice.

  I pulled the card back and read out, “Resurrection, youth, obsession. Also, mercy,” I added, but he snorted in disbelief. Then he dropped from behind the lattice.

  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to concentrate. I placed the card at
the head of the altar. I shut my eyes and began to chant. I felt a heady, airy lightness, almost transcendent, and then the door came crashing in.

  The blood spilled. The candle toppled, catching on the rug. I needed to put the flames out, but I had bigger problems.

  Roan caught me, swung me around, and slammed me against the wall. He had his hands around my neck. I felt them tighten with a strange detachment, a cool professionalism. The flames jumped as his jeans caught fire, but it only seemed to enrage him. He crushed me hard against the wall and kicked his leg against it, to put the fire out.

  “You lack conviction,” he spat. “You wait for the world to work things out for you; what you don’t realize is that the world doesn’t care about you. The world breaks your heart, but your heart is nothing to the world.” I felt my own heart flutter, like an automaton winding down. “The world can’t even feel it.” My vision speckled around the edges. I thought I was going to faint. I knew I was going to die. I tried to see past Roan, into the library, where Nikki was, tried to tell him I would be with him soon.

  My vision split, like the two sides of the world had cracked open. And I saw Macklin. I fluttered my eyes in disbelief. The snake was on his shoulders, like a black cloud, and he met my eyes and shouted, “Stop.” Roan’s fingers slackened. The world came trickling in. “Let her go. You can have me, if you let her go.”

  Roan turned to watch him, but his grip on me tightened. Macklin ran his hand along the snake. I saw it, dizzy, drawn from a fever dream, a death dream. He took its head, pushed apart its jaw. The snake hissed as Macklin forced its fangs down on his snow-white neck.

  Macklin blinked prettily, as if half in a trance. “How long does it take to—” His arm dropped. He staggered and collapsed.

  Roan hissed. His fingers contracted, then loosened. I gasped, groping at my throat as he moved away from me.

  Roan strode to Macklin’s fallen body as the snake slid toward him. The fire in the vestry had gone out, but it had mangled the flesh all the way up Roan’s side. His tattoo was a charred mess of ink. He paused to scoop up the sword. The snake slithered between his legs, then seemed to urge him forward.

  I wheezed against the wall, unable to catch my breath. I needed to get the antivenom, to save Macklin, but how could I? It was around Roan’s neck. Have faith, I thought stupidly. I scanned the room for something, some weapon to contain him, but I had nothing, nothing to believe in. Roan crouched down over Macklin’s body as the snake slithered up his leg.

  The serpent spirit was wrong. The one he loved didn’t kill Macklin. Macklin had killed himself. Unless…

  The snake was climbing now, scaling Roan’s side, crossing like a black arrow over his heart. I staggered forward, watched the snake as it curved over Roan’s shoulder. Roan had his fingers pressed to Macklin’s wrist. He turned his head as I collapsed beside him. My fingers fumbled, groped the curve of the snake, and pulled it tight around Roan’s neck.

  The snake obliged me, tightening the noose. The sword dropped to the floor. Roan’s arms flailed, trying to grab me as I skated back away from him. And the snake contracted, tighter and tighter. Until Roan’s face went blue. Until his eyes went red. Until he rattled, stiffened, and fell to the floor.

  The snake released him, slithering along the floor. I pounced on Roan’s body, clawing through the necklaces, searching for the antivenom.

  “Where is it?” I called after the snake, but it raced off away from me, fleeing the scene. Roan’s body was still warm. His necklaces jingled between my fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Macklin was sitting up across from me. I flew back from the body, heart racing.

  “The antivenom.” I gasped. “You’re—”

  He smiled lightly. “It wasn’t real, Kitty. It was all just a trick.”

  I pressed my palm to my pounding heart, to reassure myself I was alive. My eyes followed the light of the flames to the ceiling where a heavenly mural spun. Angels being dragged to hell—but exquisitely—like death was a beautiful, magical thing.

  Now trouble has gone,

  Dissolved in this song,

  Ah drink from my cup

  We’ll make it all up.

  You don’t have to switch when you see

  the lights flicker,

  Down the long hallway,

  There lies a brand new day.

  —Alan Wass, “I’m at Ease with You”

  TWENTY

  The End of Summer party was a fairy-lit affair in the back garden of the Bramley Castle. I was in my bedroom, lighting candles. I wasn’t asking for anything. I was saying thank you.

  I understood now that there was a vein of magic running through everything, the way the Life and Death Parade ran through hidden hills. It was there if you went looking. It was real if you believed it. You couldn’t find answers, but you could find meaning, if you wanted to.

  I stepped back as Macklin came in. He was dressed in black and white, perfectly put together. “You all right?” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m just saying thanks,” I said, which made me feel slightly cheesy. It was easy to pray, but it was pretty much impossible to talk about praying.

  “Can you say thanks for me, too?” he said, sitting on a chair across from me. It had been months since the night of the attempted resurrection, but Macklin’s face told a troubled story. Still, I thought it was better than no story at all.

  The cards I had collected over the past few months were on the table. Macklin picked them up and flicked through the deck. I had been back to the Life and Death Parade a few times with Joy, but Macklin never wanted to come. He frowned at the cards. “There are a lot of messed-up-looking people in here.”

  “Messed-up people are the best people.” I grinned my best messed-up grin.

  He flicked to the next card and inhaled sharply. “You kept it.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to shrug but couldn’t. “It happened. We’ll never understand why, but I don’t want to pretend it never happened.” I wasn’t sure of what I was saying, but Macklin nodded like he understood. “Besides,” I continued, “you never know, I might need it one day.” My back bristled at the possibility.

  He ran a finger over the card and exhaled carefully, parceling it out. His eyes caught the candlelight and burned green. “Can I have it?”

  I hesitated. “Okay.” He opened his jacket and tucked it in his breast pocket. I bit my lip. “Were you really in love with him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, carefully re-buttoning his jacket. “There’s something romantic about people you can’t have.”

  “You can never have anyone, but you can love them.” I offered him a hopeless smile.

  I knew what love was now. Love was the best thing to believe in.

  Macklin stood up, fussing with his collar. “Are you going?”

  My mind was lagging, so I shook my head, confused. “Where?”

  “To the party.”

  “No.” I paused, fingered the long matches down on the table. “We should just go.”

  “Pardon?”

  Another messed-up grin spread across my face. “Let’s just go.” I took his hand. It didn’t feel foreign or strange anymore. It was like taking my own hand. I started to move, quickly, out of the room, down the hall.

  Macklin laughed in surprise but fell into step beside me. “Where will we go?”

  “Does it matter?” I could see through the window, Lord and Lady Bramley at the party; Holiday running in a pack with her friends. I reached for the door. “The point is, we don’t have to stay here.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At the beginning of this novel is an excerpt from the last poem my husband wrote, after the first time he died, with his arm in a sling, unable to move his fingers, so it was barely legible. That is what writers do. We write through pain, we write until the end, and when the end comes we hope there will be someone to pick up where we left off.

  Thank you to Emily Meehan and Hannah Allaman for tireless work and incredible patie
nce.

  Thank you to my agent Madeleine Milburn for supporting me through difficult times.

  Thank you to Sarah White for fresh eyes on short notice.

  Thank you to Kiersten White for helping me navigate the publishing world and Elena Hecht for helping me navigate the bereavement world.

  Thank you to Janelle, Emmanuel, “Alfred,” and all those who have supported and guided me. You are the real magic.

  ELIZA WASS is a freelance writer, editor, and journalist. She comes from Southern California, where she was one of nine perfect children with two perfect parents. She has thousands of friends, all of whom either come in a dust jacket or post obsessively on Twitter. Eliza spent seven years in London with the most amazing man in the world, her late husband, Alan Wass of Alan Wass and the Tourniquet, who inspired her to pursue her dreams and live every day of her life. Visit her website at www.elizawass.com, and follow her on Twitter @lovefaithmagic.