by Karina Halle
The air between us becomes charged. “Ramus told you this?”
I nod.
“The boy seems to have lofty ambitions,” he muses gruffly. “Wouldn’t you say?”
I shrug, my eyes drawn to the floating book. Lofty, indeed.
Death goes quiet after that, stewing over something. Rasmus really seems to get under his skin, though I don’t know why. I guess it’s a red-headed shaman thing.
I take my chances and walk over to the book to get a closer look. Rauta, as expected, growls at me, throwing sparks that threaten to ignite the rug beneath him.
The book is black, bound in some kind of animal skin (god, I hope that’s animal skin), with silver lines etched across the front, similar to the lines on Death’s hand, and it practically sings to me. It’s like I can hear it calling me closer, my thoughts swirling and swirling, and I find myself reaching for it.
In seconds Death is at my side, his grip firm over my wrist, stopping me from touching the book. Rauta is now on his feet and barking flames.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Death asks, his tone threatening.
I shake my head and stare at my hand. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying to touch it.”
“But you were, fairy girl. I’m impressed that your boldness has returned, but try not to confuse that with stupidity.”
I blink. The book has gone silent. “It was calling to me,” I whisper. “It was singing, but the strangest singing I’ve ever heard.”
His grip tightens. “What kind of singing?”
I shake my head and give him an apologetic smile. “I don’t know. Chanting, maybe. It’s stopped now.”
He grunts and lets go of my hand. “Interesting.”
“So, that’s like a book of magic and spells, right?”
“That’s one component of it,” he says carefully. I feel him studying me now, but I just want to study the pages of the book. Even though it’s stopped it’s beguiling singing, my fingers practically itch to touch it.
“Perhaps you’ve had too much excitement for one day,” Death says carefully. “You might be imagining things.”
He grabs me by the elbow and starts leading me out of the library. I look over my shoulder just in time to see another ghost float past, a woman with a long gown, transparent and ethereal.
I need to get back into that library. Not just to see what my own entry in the Book of Souls says, in whatever volume I’m in, but to know why that book was chanting to me. I have the impression it doesn’t normally do that. Does it want me to look at it? If Rasmus said it contains the magic for a shaman to become more powerful than a God, would I be able to use it too? I’m not a shaman, but perhaps being one’s daughter might help.
We exit the library, the door closing behind us like it’s sealing the room, and we’re both lost in thought as we make our way down the staircase.
“Why do you think I was able to fight your daughter and kill the swans? I mean, the sword felt like nothing to me and yet Rasmus couldn’t even lift it,” I comment.
“I’m not sure,” he says after a moment.
“Could it be the same reason why the book was just singing to me?”
“Perhaps.”
It’s like pulling teeth.
“Vellamo told me that she had never felt such power from a mortal before,” I say innocently, gathering the hem of my dress before we head down the next staircase.
He stops suddenly, grabbing my elbow. “Vellamo said that?” he says stiffly.
I nod. “She said it was inconsistent. Like it was just waking up.”
He seems to ponder that over. “Anything else?”
“That she thought it was powered by love. Love for my father,” I quickly add.
He removes his hand from me, raises his head slightly. “How do you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Right now. How do you feel?”
I frown, trying to think. How do I feel? How do I even order those emotions into words?
“What’s the problem?” he goes on. “No one ever asks you how you feel back in your world?”
Quite frankly, no. I mean I get the “how are ya?” from friends, or bartenders, or people at work. But no one asks me how I feel. About anything.
“Does anyone ask you how you feel?” I throw it back at him.
“No. Why would they? All they have to do is look outside.” He gestures to a stained glass window at the end of the hall.
He has a point there.
“So, how do you feel? Right now. Be honest. I can tell when you’re not.”
I sigh loudly and close my eyes. “Right now? Annoyed that I have to answer this question.”
“And?”
“And…confused. Because I don’t know what any of this means. Curious, because I want to find out more.”
“Think deeper,” he tells me, his voice hushed. “Do you feel like you belong here?”
“No,” I say immediately.
“You didn’t think. You didn’t feel. You only said what you wanted to hear. Do you feel like you belong here?”
“I don’t want to belong here,” I practically whisper.
“That’s not what I asked you.” He pauses, his breath raspy, smelling of mint. “Do you feel powerful?”
I swallow and find myself nodding.
“Do you feel alive?”
Again, I nod.
Because I do feel strangely alive here. I see it when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I feel it in my cells, like they’re glowing. And despite the feelings of hopelessness I have over my situation, I do feel powerful. Maybe not to defeat Death, but even so.
“And compared to back in your old life?” he asks. “How did you feel there? Did you feel powerful? Did you feel alive? Did you feel as if you belonged?”
I shake my head, surprised at the ache in my heart. Was I just sleepwalking in my life before? Just aimlessly checking off the boxes, making sure I had everything that life expected of me without any real thought of what I truly wanted? I had spent my teenage years trying to be beautiful, trying to be the best, trying to win over the attention of my mother, for whom I was never good enough, and even though I left that behind and started anew in LA, even though I found the power I craved in capoeira, was it really enough?
Death puts his hand at the small of my back and we start going down the stairs.
“I don’t know what it all means, little bird,” he says to me. “But it’s no accident that your father is a shaman and it’s no accident that you’re here. It’s something I’m very aware of, and I think you are too.”
We pause outside my room and Death gestures to the door.
“I’m leaving it unlocked,” he says. “Your prison just got bigger.”
I raise my brow. “So I can go anywhere?”
“You can try,” he amends. “But if I were you, I’d keep the door locked from the inside. There are some in this castle you shouldn’t trust.”
“Does that include you?”
“What do you think?”
I swallow, finding that boldness returning. “I think I might keep the door unlocked tonight.”
There’s no way he’s missing my meaning.
I hear him swallow.
“Alright,” he says thickly.
Then he nods and walks off down the hall, disappearing around the corner, his robe flowing behind him.
I can’t help but smile to myself, feeling a kick of power. He doesn’t realize it, but I have agency now. A midnight tryst is no longer his idea.
It’s mine.
Chapter 16
The Night Visit
With Death giving me access to the castle, I spend the rest of the day roaming the halls, peeking in all the rooms that are available to me. I don’t see Death, nor anyone else I recognize. There are only Deadhands marching around in unison, one arm swinging, the other gripping their swords. They don’t even turn their heads when they pass me by, but since they don’
t have eyeballs in their skull sockets, they might be watching me all the same.
The more time I spend exploring the hallowed walls of Shadow’s End, the more creepy and beautiful it becomes, both sides complementing each other, yin and yang. A castle of iron and bone filled with chilling and intricate details, furnishings that are both lush and stark. It’s like being trapped in a macabre fairy-tale, where bone soldiers and servants haunt the keep. I see grand rooms for sitting and drinking, and great halls for dining, smaller libraries, some studies, a few guest rooms. There are kitchens, pantries, garrison quarters—all with various views of either the mountains or the sea.
I even find Stargaze Tower, where I’m supposed to chuck Bell into the sea when the moon is full. The raging sea is right below, the tower rising up from it like a cliff. The room itself is a marvel, all gold and silver, with star maps and astrological drawings all over the stone walls, books of galaxies and planets strewn across sturdy wood tables. Two telescopes stand at the large windows, pointed at the clouds. Both windows open and when I test one, cold salty sea air flows into the room, invigorating me.
Finally, there is the lowest level, into the sprawling wine cellars, chain-riddled dungeons that looked primed for torture, and oubliettes that make me shudder, fathomless holes that I’m sure many have been thrown down to be forgotten about. They all seem to lead along the damp path to a black iron door with flickering candles outside. The door has strange symbols written over it. It’s locked, and there’s a dark, ominous hush to the area, which makes me think that the notorious crypt is inside there.
I don’t stay there trying to figure it out—the place gives me the creeps. And considering I’m a prisoner of Shadow’s End, that’s saying a lot.
I have to say, after being given that freedom, I’m happy to be back in my room. Dare I say I’m growing to appreciate it. When Raila comes by later to attend to my needs, I request not only a warm bath with that smooth skin scrub, but a bottle of wine as well.
By the time night rolls around, the snowstorm turns to darkening mist—I’m nervous but feeling pretty limber thanks to the bottle of wine, and that nervousness gives way to strange bouts of excitement. Bell keeps trying to give me tips and pointers for my meeting with Death, but eventually I have to put the towel over her tank, shutting her up like you would a parrot. She gets the hint.
I’m about to put on the white nightgown he picked out for me (I’ve been sleeping in the black one), then remember his instructions for last time. I may have initiated this round, but I still want to comply when I can.
So I let myself be naked and go over to the bed, lying down on my stomach. I don’t even know if he will come by, he never actually said he would, and while I feel a bit of relief at the thought, I also feel a hit of rejection.
Which is weird. Because I shouldn’t be looking forward to this, not even a little. I mean, he’s essentially my captor and, while I walked into this bargain, it doesn’t mean that I have to like it. I shouldn’t like it. I should hate every moment of it.
And yet…and yet…
I’m curious.
I can still hate this and yet want it to happen, purely because I want to know what Death has planned for me.
I want to know what he’s like.
What he feels like.
The noises he’ll make.
The fact that he’ll come undone. and there has to be power in that.
It’s my power to give.
Make him want you, make him want to keep you, make him love you.
Then fly.
I think I must fall asleep because suddenly I hear the door open, flickering light briefly slicing into the room, and then it closes.
The room is dark now, the candles having been blown out, and yet I’m tempted to turn around, to see him approach.
As if sensing this, he says in a thick, rough voice, “Keep still.”
And so I do, my pulse racing so fast I think it might burst. I take in a deep shaking breath, my nerves in a frenzy, and close my eyes.
The sound of his boots on the floor is ominous as they get closer and closer, and then I feel the strength of his presence behind me. I know he’s standing at the foot of the bed.
I hear the buckle being undone.
I hear his breath get deeper.
I feel his eyes as they coast over my body, leaving licks of fire in their wake, heat that starts to gather between my legs.
I swallow hard, holding my breath. Every single muscle and nerve is waiting for his touch. Will it be hard? Will it be soft?
Will it be the touch that ends me?
A low growl comes from his chest and then he’s grabbing my hips with his gloves, the leather textured this time like roughed-up serpent scales. He yanks my ass up impatiently.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into my flesh. He slowly brings his hands down beneath my ass, grabbing hold of my thighs and kneading them lightly. “Who is the last man to give you release?”
I frown, confused by his question. “Um. I-I don’t remember,” I say, my words shaking.
“Then it couldn’t have been very good,” he says, his fingers now slipping between my thighs, delicate at first.
Truth is, I probably could remember if I really thought about it, but it had been awhile and at the moment my brain is complete mush. I don’t think I could tell him my name right now. I’m too focused on those roughly textured fingers slowly sliding up and up and up…
He runs his finger gently along my cleft and my breath hitches. So we’re just going there. Okay.
“When I’m done with you, little bird, you’ll forget everyone you ever let inside you. You’ll forget every climax you’ve ever had. Every tongue that’s licked your body, every finger that’s touched your skin, every cock that’s fucked your cunt. After this, there will only be me.”
I gulp. Dear lord.
Death is a dirty-talker.
“I may not be able to feel you with my bare hands,” he goes on, voice getting huskier, “but I promise my tongue will know every single inch of your body. What it feels like, what it tastes like. What it sounds like when I make you moan. I bet it sounds like music.”
His finger runs all the way up the crack of my ass and I hear the leather of his gloves crease as he adjusts his grip, parting my thighs.
Every part of me is on fire with anticipation, my breath coming short and sharp, panting like a dog in heat. There’s a possibility I might pass out.
Then he moves behind me, a rustling sound, and he places something next to me on the bed. I open my eyes, finding myself face to face with a grinning skull.
His mask. Oh my god, he’s taken off his mask!
I have to look. I have to know what he looks like, if only for a second.
But before I can even chance it, he grabs my thighs, yanks me back toward him, and buries his face between my legs.
I gasp loudly, my whole body flinching from the intrusion, but his grip holds me in firmly place.
Oh my god!
His tongue assaults me, making hard passes over me before flicking my clit over and over, causing my nerves to start spinning like a pinwheel. His tongue is long, thick and strong, moving with deft precision, sliding over the exposed part of me like he’s a panther lapping up blood. I don’t know what I was expecting from the God of Death, but I didn’t think he’d so readily devour me. Then there’s the rough scratch of his facial hair against my sensitive skin, something I never imagined him having.
Death groans, the sound vibrating through me, almost making me come, then puts his lips in motion. They feel full and soft and they suck at me, his tongue lashing with so much ferocity that I’m thrust forward, but his hands are a vice and they hold me in place. It’s messy and it’s raw and there’s no part of me that he’s not consuming.
My body doesn’t know what to do at first. It’s caught up in my mind, which is trying to remind me that this is the God of Death, that I’m his prisoner, his captive, to use at his dispo
sal. But then the thoughts and worries start to leave my mind and my body takes over. My hormones have been whipped up into a frenzy by Death’s relentless attack and I’m starting to ache inside with the need for release. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before, to have my wants and desires take such control of me.
With another rough groan he thrusts his tongue in deep and I’m clenching around him, wanting more, suddenly feeling insatiable and greedy and out of my mind. My hands make fists in the velvet blanket, as if I’m trying to hold on or hold back, I can’t really tell.
He raises his head, breathing hard, and starts playing with me with his rough fingers, rubbing soft wet circles around my clit. “You taste better than honey,” he murmurs. “Rich and sweet enough for my morning coffee.” He pauses before flicking me. “So fucking creamy.”
Oh, mercy.
My cheeks flush. My whole body feels like it’s on fire.
I swear I hear him smile. A couple of fingers thrust inside me and I gasp, moaning, gyrating my hips against him to get more purchase. The texture of his gloves is rough and soft at once and I feel it all as his fingers drag against my sensitive spots. The ache inside me intensifies, my skin growing tight and hot.
“I had to get you wet enough to take me. But you’ll take me now,” he says hoarsely as he adjusts himself behind me and I feel the head of his cock tease at my entrance, the sound slick. He begins to push himself inside me and I’m sucking in my breath as he slowly enters me.
“Fuck yes, you’ll take me,” he grinds out, his fingers digging into my hips as he keeps squeezing himself in. “You’ll take all of me, every thick, hard inch of my cock until there’s stars in your eyes and no air left in your lungs.”
I’m already there. For a moment I can’t breathe, it’s like he’s filled up every inch of me with himself, and I’m stretched as much as I can go. He’s in to the hilt.
“Do you feel me?” he rasps, stilling behind me. “All of me? Can you take more?”
The fuck? There’s more?
I make a sound that sounds like yes, but before I can take it back, he pumps his hips against me, somehow driving in even deeper.