by Karina Halle
I glance at her. “Just in case of what?”
What could possibly happen to her here?
Silence. Then she says, Old habits from the old days. Shall we move on?
I don’t want to move on, not from our conversation, but I have a feeling she won’t give me any more. Why would Raila need an iron cross? I know that in some myths and superstitions they ward off fairies, but since those don’t really exist here, what exactly are they warding off?
I ponder that over as Raila leads me out of the Solar Room and down the stairs, showing me the rest of the castle and giving me background information.
I have to admit, she points out some good gossip, like how one time Death was entertaining Tapio, God of the Forest, who then tried to revive all the furniture in the castle that was cut from trees of his forest, or when Vellamo and her mermaids stayed with them for a week, and the underground waterways were filled with mermaids for days on end, which attracted Gods from all over.
I have to wonder if that’s when Bell was first introduced to Death, but instead I ask if I can see the waterways, knowing that they must be a level below the Crypt.
So Raila leads me down, down, down, all the way to the cellar.
She points out the various sweetvine and frostmint wines he has stored, plus those procured from my world, then talks about the dungeons, the torture chambers, and the oubliettes, really sinking her teeth into all the gory details.
Finally, we come to the crypt.
This is the crypt, she says to me. The Sect of the Undead.
“Can I see inside?” I ask.
She hesitates, a pause hanging between us, weighing her options.
Then she says, If you wish to. The Master himself will avoid it completely, but he’s never explicitly said that it’s off-limits to others.
“Great,” I tell her, giving her an expectant look.
I swear I hear her sigh. She turns and then takes out a long key from somewhere in her robe and inserts it into the metal door. With her veiled hood, she looks extra ominous against the flickering candlelight. She turns the lock and the door opens.
We step inside.
Hell.
That’s my first thought, and maybe it’s a bit sacrilegious, but still.
Hell, and snakes.
The moment the door opens, a multitude of black snakes start slithering from the center of the room, disappearing into the shadows, hissing as they go.
I gasp, nearly jumping into Raila’s arms. I think after my tussle with the Devouress, I’ve developed a new phobia of them.
Don’t mind them, Raila says. They are only relics. They protect the crypt.
And the crypt itself is like an all-white tomb. There are no windows, and the walls are this smooth, blasted stone, so unlike the dark textures of the rest of the castle. But while the space is bright, the things within the space are not.
First, there is the manner in which the crypt is laid out. It looks like a church, with a few pews on either side of an aisle. But the pews consist of the type where it’s all about being on your knees—there are no benches or seats.
At the front of the aisle is the altar.
The altar is made of bones, white and shining, which prop up two stands. One is empty, the other holds a crown made of black bones and red jewels. A crown of crimson, just as Raila had described to me, waiting for the next Goddess of Death.
But the crown isn’t what’s caught my eye, nor is it what’s made my blood run cold.
It’s what is lined all along the sides of the crypt, which I’m starting to realize is more of a church, a place of worship, than anything.
There are six statues, three on each side.
Four of them are of people in flowing robes, with gaunt faces, arms outstretched or together in prayer, crowns of needles or blades or porcupine quills or antlers on their heads. All of them have their eyes removed, blood or gold or tar running down their cheeks, while lit candles sit on their shoulders, the wax dripping down, making it hard to decipher what’s covering their bodies.
The two other statues are in similar poses, also wearing candles on their heads and shoulders and arms, except the upper halves of their faces are covered by intricate masks, with no holes to see out of. They are essentially blindfolded, one with a mask made of gold, the other of iron, their mouths set in a chilling grin.
“What…is all this?” I ask Raila. Fucking creepshow.
The Saints of the Undead, Raila says, and she quickly does some kind of curtsey and hand gesture in front of the crimson crown that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“And so what does it mean?”
It means… she trails off and slowly walks down the aisle, seeming to stare at the sightless statues as she passes. It means that the Old Gods are still worshipped. You see their eyes are missing? The old believers, the real ones, they removed their eyes because they were promised riches if they did so. They were told they could gain the sight of the Old Gods if only they gave up their eyes.
I try not to shudder. The crypt is feeling increasingly oppressive by the minute. “And the two with the masks?”
Those are the Gods, the Gods that believe, she says. They do not have human eyes nor human sight, but to be initiated into the sect, they must give up their sight in another way. It is also the way you must approach Vipunen.
“Vipunen is a giant, right?”
Vipunen is an Old God. The only real one we have left here. He has been here since the dawn of time, and he will remain after. No one has ever seen Vipunen, not even Death himself. He lives deep in the caves under the mountain and, because no one has seen him, there are only rumors to what he is like. But a giant he does seem to be, maybe a hundred feet tall. He’s helped Death rule, he’s trained his daughter and son in combat, and perhaps one day he’ll train you as well, depending on what happens to you. If you were to have him train you with the sword and the blade, then you would do so by donning a mask like this one. It signifies your status, but at the same time respects the one who doesn’t wish to be seen.
She looks around the crypt. Some say that to lay your eyes upon him is to die. Even the Master might suffer that fate. The masks protect both.
I gesture at the candles, but even that feels like I’m tempting the Old Gods to smite me or something. “So who comes down here and lights the candles? Who here worships the Old Gods this way?”
A lot of us, Raila says in a stern voice. There are a lot of us who do. The Stragglers, the leftovers.
Ones who have been rescued from the bowels of Inmost. Ones who wander the halls of Shadow’s End without any eyes. Some of which are hidden by veils.
But I don’t get the feeling that’s Raila. Not that it really matters what the Deadhands and Deadmaidens believe—it’s the least of my concerns. Then again, if they worship the Old Gods and there is talk about an uprising, well, who are the followers going to protect? It won’t be Death, or his family. They’ll defect.
And that’s why you need to get the fuck out of here, I remind myself. Before you get caught up in this shitty situation that doesn’t concern you.
“I think I’d like to go back to my room now,” I tell Raila.
With a nod, she obliges. It isn’t until I’m out of the dank depths of the castle and almost back at my room that I wonder aloud, “Let’s say that I stay here forever and rule as the new Goddess of the Dead. If there was to be an uprising, how would that effect, say, my father back in the Upper World? Or any other mortal? Are there far-reaching implications, more than just what happens in Tuonela?”
Raila pauses and I can feel her stare at me for a moment. Why, if the uprising were to happen and the Old Gods were to take over, and the Creator didn’t step in, then dying itself would be punishment. It would revert to the old days, before Death was called in here, before an afterlife in the City was built. There would be no order, no judgement, no fairness, nor no mercy. It would be Kaaos forever on end. All of humanity, of creatures, of species yet discovered, would suffer f
or eternity.
I try to swallow as my heart fills with dread, dark like ink.
Okay. So it seems like even when I do get the chance to skip out of here, that there’s a chance that all the realms in all the universes might have to suffer until the end of time. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
“Well then,” I tell her. “Let’s just hope and pray that damn uprising doesn’t happen.”
I give her a shaky smile but I don’t think she gives me one back.
* * *
* * *
After my visit to the crypt, I shut myself into my room and stewed over the new information. It’s just my luck that the moment I can see a somewhat clear path out of here that there’s a bunch of universe-altering consequences to go with it. Not that any of this is my problem, but the fact that I even know it’s a possibility kind of makes it my problem. I might be the only mortal out there who actually knows what’s at stake.
This is something I want to talk to Death about. I want to know how much of what Raila said is true and how much is just rumor and hearsay. It obviously doesn’t affect him as much as it does me, because if he’s ripped off the throne, it’s not him that has to suffer for eternity, it’s everyone else that’s not a God.
Then again, I don’t know what the Old Gods would do to him. I do know the relics from that era are jerks, like Surma and the flaming children and the murder swan. Then again, Sarvi is a relic too, and so far he seems pretty badass. You know, for a bat-winged zombie unicorn.
But as much as I want to talk to Death about it, I don’t see him for the whole day. In fact, I get the feeling that he’s doing the very human fuckboi reaction after sex, which is to avoid the woman at all costs. Maybe it wasn’t quite what he wanted. Maybe I scared him off. Maybe he’s already moving on by calling up every mermaid in his phonebook. I don’t know.
But even so, just in case, when night comes and I go to bed, I go to bed naked and I lie on top of the sheets.
And I wait.
And I wait.
The clouds finally start to clear, showing a hint of the moon, and then the door to my room opens.
His smell, his energy, his aura fills the air and my mouth waters and my body is already squirming in place, waiting for him. Damn, he’s already got some supernatural hold on me and he’s only had me once. Just once. And yet that’s all it has taken for my hormones to utterly betray me, to make me fucking greedy for him already.
“There you are,” he says, his voice as rich as cream. “So obedient. So exquisite. All for me.”
I feel him come to the end of the bed, his shadow looming over me, his presence overwhelming. The bonfire smell floods my senses and I’m squeezing my thighs together.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” he murmurs. “How you’ve changed, fairy girl. So unsure at first, and now you can’t get enough of me, can’t get it fast enough. But I’m in control here, not you. I’m the one who decides when you’ll get it.”
I hear the buckle of his pants as they’re undone.
“And how you’ll get it,” he adds huskily.
I hold my breath as I wait for his touch.
“Soft?” he goes on, his voice gentle. “Will I give it to you softly, slowly?”
I gasp as he touches me, a tentative slide of his fingertips along my waist, back to my hips, my ass, my thighs, and then back up again, all the while his breath gets shorter, louder, like he’s already struggling to remain in control.
He begins to slowly massage my hips, my ass, his gloves feeling extra grippy today as he kneads my flesh, almost to the point of pain. He does this for a while, taking his time, torturing me. Then adjusts his position, and I know what’s coming next.
I don’t fight it.
I want it.
More than I’ve ever wanted anything.
I suck in my breath and feel the thick wet lap of his tongue as it slides up and down each cheek. I shiver from the sensation, wanting desperately for him to go lower, to where I already feel the pressure building. I start to move my hips back, trying to guide him.
He chuckles wickedly.
“Look at you,” he purrs. “You’re begging for me.”
“I’m not begging,” I manage to say against the sheets.
“Then what are you doing? Asking politely?” He gives me a hard squeeze until I cry out in pain. “Is this what you want?” His fingers go lower and slip between my folds, stroking them. “Is it?”
I nod, taking in a deep breath, the pain melting to pleasure.
“I need to hear it,” he commands. “I like to hear it.”
I swallow thickly. “Yes.”
“Yes, my God.”
Oh hell.
“Say it,” he says sharply. “Yes, my God.”
I nod. “Yes. Yes, my God.”
He groans. “You don’t know what that sounds like,” he says. “Like the fucking spirits are singing just for me.”
He thrusts his fingers up inside me and I gulp, my body going stiff.
“Did you think you’d be so wet for me?” he asks, briefly teasing my clit before plunging his fingers inside me again. “Does it surprise you, how much you’ve wanted this? Wanted me?”
Do not give him a bigger ego, I warn myself, but then my thoughts dissolve as he starts pressing against my G-spot.
Holy hell.
I need to come and I need to come now.
He lets out an amused huff of air, and I hear him unbuckle his pants further, hear the thwack of his heavy cock against his gloved palm, a most erotic sound that makes my nipples ache.
I want…I need…I’m dying here.
There’s a moment’s pause, and then the swollen head of his cock slides up and down my ass, and his hands go back to gripping my hips and he moves me over an inch and back into him. He eases the tip of his dick inside me and then pushes a hand between my shoulder blades so my ass is raised, the angle all the higher for him.
Death lets out a primal moan as he sinks into me, and I can’t help but respond in the same way. From this angle, he’s packed in so incredibly tight, nearly pressing against my cervix. It’s borderline uncomfortable, but then the sensation gives way to pleasure. I’ve never felt so full before, like his cock was always made to fit inside me.
Like I belong.
He slowly begins to slide out and then pushes back in, holding me in place until I start to slip forward. I grip the sheets, my face pressed against the bed as he slams into me again and again.
And again.
I pant for breath, trying to hold on and wanting to let go, while a gloved hand goes for my clit, rubbing wild and messy, making me moan, while the other one goes back to my ass, searching, exploring, testing me.
Yes, yes, please.
I groan loudly, wanting more, so much more.
Who am I right now?
What have I become?
An animal, just full of base instincts?
“You like that, don’t you?” he growls. “Your eagerness is showing.”
He pushes his thumb all the way in and I gasp.
“If you could see what I see,” he murmurs, making a raw, primitive sound from somewhere deep inside. “How you cream around my cock, how tight you grip me.”
And just like that, his finger presses down in one slick motion and I can feel how wet I am and how every inch of me feels so damn full and I’m coming.
Fuck!
The orgasm rips through me and I hold onto the sheets, feeling like I’m being flung somewhere very far away, a world beyond this and the next, and my skin is blistering as the need finally dissipates. I feel reduced to nothing but a puddle, while Death is still going, still working away at me even though my body has yet to come down from the ride.
He lets out another growl, this one pure instinct and animal, and I’m not sure if he’s even a God right now; I think he might be more primordial and simple than that. He fucks me like he’s born to fuck me, driven to come, like that’s all he ever wants to do.
The sounds are so hyp
notic that I feel my sensitivity fade away, and I’m getting hot and swollen again, ready for more.
“Oh, God!” I cry out, and I can’t believe it.
I’m coming yet again.
“Yes,” Death grunts loudly. “Fly again, little bird. I want you sore in the morning.”
I’m riding this insane high, panting, moaning, screaming, swearing and then his fingers dig into my skin and I know he’s close, so close.
“Hanna,” he bellows, his voice filling the room as he climaxes.
My name sounds amazing on his lips.
The way he comes seems violent this time, the way his body shakes, the way his cock pounds inside me until finally he slows, sweat dripping onto my back.
I didn’t even know Gods could sweat, but I’m quickly learning they can do a lot of things.
Like fuck your brains out.
He collapses against me this time and my body buckles, slamming against the bed. I’m boneless, I’m floating, I’m just a soul crushed beneath Death, and he’s holding me hostage, yet he’s letting me live.
He’s letting me live.
This is living.
Chapter 18
The Full Moon
I press my fingers into my earlobes and look in the mirror, hoping to see the color change in the aurora stone studs. Ever since I got to Shadow’s End, I’ve tried to use the earrings to find a way to know if my father is still okay, still alive. But while the rock that Rasmus had would glow like the northern lights to let us know, the studs are so small that any flashes I see might be because of the way the stones have been cut.
In other words, I have no way of knowing if my father is all right. I came to the Land of the Dead hoping to find him, hoping that he was alive. Now I’m in this land, permanently, and he’s supposed to be back home and I’m still wondering.
“I wish there was some way I could know,” I say to Bell, my heart feeling waterlogged and heavy in my chest. I twist around in the chair and glance back at the tank. “Are there, like, messenger pigeons in this land or something?”