He points to his temple. “Just in here.”
“You made that up?” I can’t hide my amazement. “You’re seriously talented. That was beautiful.”
“We studied nothing but war,” he says, his voice going distant. “And death.”
The haunted look in his eyes breaks my heart, but I’ve learned that too much sympathy makes these guys uncomfortable. Instead, I grin at him.
“Well, now it’s time for music. And furniture making, apparently. It’s your renaissance.”
He looks startled, then frowns at his bed frame. “Just wanted a real bed. I never had one.”
Jesus Christ.The casual way he says it—like never having a bed is normal—makes me want to cry. But I swallow back the tears and smile instead.
“You wanna dance?”
He stares at me like I just spoke in tongues, which honestly makes me love surprising him with kindness. It’s so obvious these guys have never experienced gentleness.
“You whistle that tune, and we’ll dance. I always wanted to dance more than I could before.” I step closer and take two of his hands. “I was the queen of the head bop and foot tap when my legs wouldn’t cooperate.”
He freezes when I touch him, then slowly relaxes.
“Now whistle,” I instruct, but he shakes his head bashfully.
“Fine, I’ll sing, but fair warning—I’m not great at it.” I start singing an old song about star-crossed lovers and immediately tear up. Not because of the lyrics, but because for years my illness made singing almost impossible. No breath support, slurred speech—and now I can sing clearly.
Thing watches my mouth like he’s mesmerized.
“Now we dance,” I say, picking up the melody again. I try to guide him through a simple box step. He’s clumsy at first, then suddenly it clicks.
For such a massive guy, he moves with incredible grace.
I laugh with pure delight, and the high-pitched sound bounces off the walls. Thing’s face transforms, the smallest smile appearing as we move together.
In this moment, in this candlelit room with this gentle giant who never had a bed, dancing with Death—this feels more real than anything I experienced in my old life.
FORTY-NINE
ABADDON
I leftHannah sleeping peacefully in our bed, her face soft and unguarded in the morning light. After everything we shared last night—the tenderness, the connection, the way she whispered my name like a prayer—she deserves the rest.
But I can’t afford to rest. Not when something’s out there, watching, waiting.
I bring Romulus down to the old dungeon where he can focus without distractions. The space still carries the stench of centuries of imprisonment, but if anyone can handle that particular kind of suffering, it’s him. He spent enough time down here to become intimate with every stone.
As he settles into position, legs crossed, arms raised to begin calling the runes, I’m struck by how calm he appears. This is the twin who bears our tactical mind, our strategic thinking. If anyone can navigate the spiritual plane safely, it’s Romulus.
“Remember to shield yourself,” I remind him.
“Perhaps you should leave,” he says without opening his eyes. “I know what needs to be done.”
A growl rumbles in my throat, but I stay. “Just see what’s coming for us. And try not to get blasted across the room this time.”
“They were strong,” he murmurs, and only because I’ve known him for millennia do I catch the uncertainty beneath his controlled tone.
“You’re stronger,” I state firmly. “Now focus.”
The white-blue runes begin to appear between his hands, spinning faster as they form their familiar vortex. The stale air stirs, responding to energies from planes beyond our own. He’s lasting longer than his last attempt—that has to be a good sign.
