by Karina Halle
“He’s not dead,” Death says gruffly, as if I’m overreacting. “The dreamwalker has only put him to sleep. A deep sleep that even a shaman won’t wake up from, not for a few days. Gives my Deadhands enough time to take him out the way he came in and leave him in the Upper World. Where he will stay.”
My heart calms, just a little, in knowing he isn’t dead. “You could have just escorted him out,” I say weakly.
Death lets out another dry laugh. “He’s a shaman, little bird. A powerful one. Don’t base all your knowledge of them on Rasmus. Your father has the ability to fight his way back here and then some. The only reason he can’t use his magic in here is because of all the onyx and iron. And the wards, though I don’t trust those that put the wards in place.”
“He’ll be back. He’ll come back for me.” I know I should keep that knowledge quiet, but I want to prove how strong my father is, how much he loves me.
“He won’t,” Death says. “And not because he won’t try. He won’t remember. That’s the gift of the dreamwalker. All your memories from weeks prior will be gone. He’ll wake up somewhere in Lapland and there’s a chance he won’t even remember coming here. He won’t even know he’s been cured from cancer until he realizes he’s not dead yet.”
I grind my teeth together, the anger and violence rushing through me is shocking even to me. “You extend a man’s life but he won’t even know it? He might spend all his days thinking he’s about to die, that they’re his last! You’re depriving him of the gift of a second chance!”
I hear Death lift up the chain and seconds later the iron collar is pulling back against my throat. “As much as I love the sight of you chained and on all fours, ass toward me, I think it’s time to show you to your room.” He gives the chain another yank until I’m staggering to my feet. “And I’m not depriving your father of anything. A man who thinks he’s dying, as long as his body permits him, will live out his last days by savoring everything life has to offer. Your father will go on squeezing every last drop out of his life before he finds out he has so much more ahead of him. It’s just unfortunate you won’t be a part of it.”
“And what about Eero and Noora?” I ask.
Death walks around me and I feel his gaze as he stares down at me. I don’t want to meet his eyes. I hate knowing he can see me but I can’t see him. “You’ve mentioned them before…”
I don’t want to tell Death anything else, give him any more information, but if he knows something about them, I need to know it too. “It’s a long story, but they’re also shamans and my father’s business partners who faked his death when they found out he came here, and then lured me over to Finland with a fake funeral. When I discovered it was all a lie and my father was gone, they tried to kill me. I only escaped because of Rasmus.”
A pause. “I see…” he muses. “Eero, you say? What did he look like?”
“Like my dad,” I say. “I don’t know if all shamans look the same, but they do. Except he looked meaner and his eyes were dark. Noora, she’s blonde and short and round. Mid-sixties, maybe, for both of them.”
“I’m not sure who they are,” Death says after a moment, though I can’t tell if he’s keeping something from me or not. “But it’s not my business, and it’s no longer any of yours. You see, Hanna, it doesn’t really matter what happens to your father after this, because you won’t know about it. You will be here for the rest of your life.”
He pauses and I swear he grins. “You will never see your father again.”
Chapter 11
The Little Mermaid
I wake up in a bed.
There’s a brief moment when I think I’m in my room at home. The way the light is coming in on my face feels similar to how mornings hit when my alarm goes off at seven-thirty. My bedroom is—was—north-facing and it faces a McMansion, as our neighborhood not-so-affectionately calls them, so the light is always subdued and filtered, even at the height of summer. Jenny’s bedroom faces east, so she gets the sun waking her up every morning, which is nice in theory, but I like the fact that I can sleep in if I want to.
I open my eyes but instead of seeing my popcorn ceiling—which I’m sure is full of asbestos—and the remnants of glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars left behind by renters past, I see a burgundy velvet canopy strung across black-lacquered bed posts.
I slowly push myself up on my elbows, my fight or flight instincts assuming the position. I’m in a very large, long room that looks like a Gothic combination of Victorian and Medieval. There are tall, arched windows beside the bed which look out onto…well, maybe there’s usually a view but there’s nothing but mist at the moment, providing just enough morning light to illuminate the space. It would be dark even with direct sunlight streaming in, since the walls are charcoal gray in color with subtle gold designs, and though there are melted candles affixed every few feet, none of them are currently lit.
The floor is a dark wood, a change from all the black marble I’d seen so far, with lush Turkish-style carpets strewn about. In one corner of the room is an iron partition, hinting at a large claw-foot tub behind it. At the corner closest to me is a wardrobe made of gleaming burgundy that matches the canopy and drapes, with a vanity desk and large silver mirror above it, the kind of mirror I’d be afraid to look into. And at another corner is a black velvet chaise lounge with a pile of old books bound in cracked leather, what looks like an iPad placed on top of them, and a very large, long aquarium. In the dim light I can’t tell if it has water or anything in it, but my attention immediately goes back to the iPad. Surely it just looks like one, right?
I lift the heavy covers to get out of bed and investigate but pause in horror when I look down at myself. I’m not in my jeans and sweater, as gross and uncomfortable as they were. Instead, I’m in a black, gauzy nightgown with buttons down the middle and ruffles at the sleeves.
“Oh my god,” I say out loud, my voice sounding hollow in the cavernous room. Someone dressed me? Was it Death? Was it me? My memories from last night are blank. I remember my father—oh god, Papa—and then I remember Death leading me to this room but everything else just blurs after that. Did that white centipede go up my nose too?
I press my fingers along the side of my nose, as if to find it there, then carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body is sore as hell from my aching muscles but when I examine my legs and arms there are no bruises, and though my bra and underwear have been removed, I don’t particularly feel like my body has been violated.
My soul feels violated though.
The floor is cold against my feet and I spy a pair of slippers near the bed. They’re black felt and the soles are lined with fluffy fur but I’m entirely untrusting of this place and refuse to put my bare feet in them. Death seems like the type to put black widow spiders in there for his own amusement.
I walk around the corner of the bed.
I’m not alone.
A shadow moves off the wall and glides toward me.
I scream but nothing comes out, my breath caught in my throat.
The shadow stops a couple of feet away. It’s about my height and dressed in a long black robe that trails to the floor, pooling around it like ink. The face is completely hidden by a black veil.
Do not be frightened, a voice says, slipping into my brain in the same manner that Sarvi’s did. It’s a female voice, young and light, and it doesn’t match up with the eerie figure in front of me.
“Who are you?” I say, my voice stilted as I try to catch my breath.
Raila, she says. I’m your personal Deadmaiden.
“My personal what?”
Deadmaiden, the faceless girl repeats, though her voice remains good-natured and sweet. I have been waiting for a long time to serve someone, so excuse me if I seem a little excited. My last master was Tuonen, the son of Death, but since he lives elsewhere most of the time, I’ve had no one to tend to. You will be my first mortal, so please pardon me if I ask too many questions. You don’t have to answ
er them.
“Okay,” I say warily. My heart is starting to slow again and I take in a deep breath. “What if I have questions? Will you answer them? Because I have a lot.”
Would you like some coffee before your questions? she asks.
I’m about to tell her no, but the thought of coffee makes my body flood with endorphins, as if a cup of Joe in the Land of the Dead is going to fix all my problems.
“What’s the coffee made of?” I ask suspiciously. “Snails and puppy dog tails?”
Good gods, no, Raila says, sounding aghast. The finest Ethiopian beans. Death has others bring it back from the Upper World, though our cook Pyry struggles to grow them here. It’s the lack of sun, they say. You know the master’s moods, though.
“He’s not my master.”
Death is everyone’s master, she says cheerfully. I’ll go bring you some coffee. It’s a rare treat, Death rarely shares his brew with anyone else.
She turns, her cloak sweeping the floor.
“Wait!” I call out.
She pauses, and then turns back around to face me.
“What happened to me last night? Or yesterday? I don’t remember.” I rub at my forehead as if that will jog my memory. “I remember my father being taken away and then Death brought me here…were you here?”
She nods. You were in a state of delirium brought on by stress.
“Did you bathe me?” Please don’t tell me Death saw me naked.
She nods again. I did. It is my job as your Deadmaiden. I made you a bath, put you in it, dressed you. You shall have another bath today. You were awfully dirty, and my touch was light.
She turns again and I watch as she goes to the wide wood door at the end of the room. When it closes shut behind her I hear her insert a key and lock it.
Figures. Maybe not all prisoners get their own servants and coffee, but the one thing we have in common is that we don’t have our freedom.
Freedom. The one thing I always took for granted. Now I’m stripped of it, shuttered in another world. Come to think of it, I took my father for granted too. Now I’ll never see him again.
“This has to be a bad dream,” I say to myself. “It just has to be. None of this can be real.”
But real or not, it is my reality now. I collapse to the floor in a fit of tears, crying for my father, for my old life, for my new one, for how quickly everything can change.
I don’t know how long I stay on the floor crying, but I don’t realize Raila has come back in until I see her black cloak obscuring my vision.
I brought your coffee, she says, as if I’m not curled up at her feet. And I managed to sneak a honeycake from Pyry. It’s made with Hallabee Honey, a Tuonela speciality.
“I’m not hungry,” I say like a petulant child. Truth is, I’m starving, but eating is the only thing I can control right now.
That’s fine, I’ll put it on the table. You can eat and drink it whenever you wish, though the coffee is better hot. So the master says.
I push myself up so that I’m staring up at the black veil in front of her face. It could be anything or anyone back there, but judging by her voice, I’m picturing a cherubic-faced blonde.
Would you like a hand? she asks, about to set down the tray on the bed.
“No, I was just having a moment,” I say, getting to my feet. It’s then that I notice her hands. She has black gloves on, satin with obsidian pearls.
It’s good to have moments, she says, bringing the tray over to the table and setting it down. A waft of coffee hits my nose and even that makes me feel more alive. I was told to never cry, to always keep it in, that my feelings didn’t matter. I believe my life would have turned out differently had I let my emotions out. To keep them inside is far more harmful. I learned that the hard way. So did everyone else.
I sit on the edge of the bed, unsure what to do with myself, but intrigued by my new companion. “You said you had never served a mortal before? Are you a God of sorts? Or a spirit?”
Raila laughs. It has a musical quality. Oh, good gods. No. I was a mortal, just like you. A very long time ago.
I frown, feeling uneasy. “So…you’re dead?”
She nods. I am. Quite dead.
I swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what’s behind her veil. Perhaps it’s not a cherubic blonde after all. “How long have you been dead?” It sounds like an insane question, but I’m asking it.
She shrugs lightly. It is hard to say. Time is different over here. It’s slow at times and fast at others and doesn’t obey any laws. It has to be that way, otherwise this place would be overrun by the recently deceased. In our old world, the Upper World, I believe there were hundreds of people dying every minute. That’s too much for any God to handle. Here it slows down.
“I thought all the dead were in the City of Death?”
They are, she says. Well, not all of them. There are the Deadhands and the Deadmaidens, who serve the master and his family. Then there are the Stragglers.
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard the term Stragglers.
“So you died and you…have to work? For Death? Like, forever?”
She nods again. It is an honor.
“Is it, though?” I squint at her.
I was an Inmost Dweller before. I can assure you this life is quite the improvement.
My mouth drops for a moment. “Isn’t that Hell? Or something like that?”
Yes, it certainly is.
“Why did you go to Hell?”
I killed my whole family, she says simply, and I try not to flinch. Alas, I had to pay the price. But the master was having a contest and I won the chance at redemption by working for him here. It’s the same for all the Deadhands and Deadmaidens. We’ve all been given second-chances at a better afterlife.
I stare at her, dumbfounded, feeling the skin prickle at the back of my neck again. She’s a murderer? Who was in Hell? And now she’s my personal servant?
I know what you’re thinking, she says. I can assure you that my past is my past. I have changed and grown while I’ve been in the sanctity of Shadow’s End, my new life devoted to serving Death.
“What about the others in this castle? Are they as reformed as you?”
She hesitates and I both wish and don’t wish I could see her eyes. Not all. But they try. The ones in the house are mostly though. They know a good thing when they see it. Pyry is crass but she’s a good cook and gardener. Harma is head of the household, and you’re best to stay out of her way or she’ll hit you with her femur. And then there’s Avanta. She’s Loviatar’s Deadmaiden. She’s a nice girl but she’s been mute for decades. Death put a spell on her, as a warning of what happens when you don’t shut up.
At the mention of Lovia’s name my heart races. “Lovia lives here? Death’s daughter?”
She does. When she’s not working. Her brother and her trade off in ferrying in the dead. I believe she’s with Death right now, having a meeting.
“Oh fuck.” I look down at my hands and start wringing them together.
What?
“I’m pretty sure Lovia wants to kill me,” I say, glancing up at her and seeing nothing but the veil.
She cocks her head. Oh? Have you two met?
“We have. It didn’t go well…something about me being not dead.” And kicking her off the boat, stealing her sword and murdering the swan. But I feel like I need Raila on my good side, so I don’t mention that. Even though she is a murderer and would probably understand.
I see. Raila turns around and starts heading toward the door. Well, I shall leave you alone for now. I don’t know what the master has on the agenda today, but I’ll be back again later. Make sure you eat up.
I watch as she leaves, locking me back in the room again.
I sigh and flop back on the bed. What could possibly be on Death’s agenda? A little torture at eleven a.m.? A funeral at lunch? Spend the afternoon holding a job fair in Hell?
“This has to be a dream,” I say again, as if that will make it
true. I’ve felt my share of pain here and my muscles are needing an Aleve something fierce, and yet I’m still holding hope that none of this is real, that I’m back in my bed in LA, in a deep, deep sleep. Hell, since we’re wishing, I’m wishing that I’m about to wake up to a Sunday, where Jenny and I will take the surfboards up to Malibu, catch a few sets, have a boozy brunch somewhere there, maybe find some guys. In the background of all this, my father will still be alive and in Finland, and I’ll have never set foot in this place.
My stomach growls as I get another whiff of the coffee. Despite how tired and hopeless I feel, I’m getting up and padding over to the table, surprised to find the coffee is served in a mini French press. Beside it is a mug that looks carved from some kind of glittering black stone, with a cinnamon bun-type of pastry with a thick honey glaze on a matching stone plate.
I pick up the French press, peering at it.
Ikea. It’s from Ikea.
“The fuck?” I mutter, but I guess it makes sense in a gonzo way. Whoever is doing Death’s errands back in the normal world must have needed a coffee maker to go along with the beans and thought a quick trip to Ikea would suffice.
I pour myself the coffee, wondering how that transaction would have gone, surely Ikea employees would be suspicious of people shopping in black robes and skeleton hands. I take a tepid sip.
Holy shit. It tastes heavenly. Or what do they really call heaven, Amaranthus? This is a beverage fit for the lucky ones in Amaranthus.
I eye the bun, or honeycake as Raila called it, from some kind of hullabaloo bee. It looks good. Really good. I reach for it but stop myself. I’ve barely had any food and I can feel myself slipping into old habits. Bad habits. Back when everything revolved around what I put in my body, first brought on by the insane need to be light and skinny in competitive ballet, then because controlling what I ate was the only time I had control in a world completely driven by my mother.
You deserve to eat, I tell myself. You need to eat. You don’t need to rebel, you need as much strength as possible to fight your way out of here.