Mr. Grayson’s words felt true, and yet so cruel. Cruel that fate would bring her and Killian together, only to tear them apart again. Cruel that Mr. Grayson would spend decades chasing after something, never to see it through. Cruel that her happiness would come at the expense of another’s.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t accept his grace, yet couldn’t deny it either.
Mr. Grayson spoke for her. “I made my choice the second I saw him in your arms,” he told her, simple and decided. “And you know what a stubborn old coot I can be.”
Elyse squeezed her eyes tight, holding in the tears. Her lips twisted into something reminiscent of a smile. She let her gratitude wash over her for a long moment, let it soothe her weary heart. Then she opened her eyes and nodded to Mr. Grayson.
The old man walked to the fire and dropped the gloves. He chanted something, an unfamiliar phrase, repeating it again and again. But Elyse didn’t hear it. All her energy was focused on Killian, on praying this wasn’t a mistake.
A loud crack stole Elyse’s attention and rendered Mr. Grayson silent. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive. Elyse and Mr. Grayson stared at one another, waiting. The entire house was silent aside from the crackling fire. A wicked chill settled over the room.
The doorknob rattled. Elyse wrenched her eyes toward it, unable to breathe. Her skin pebbled as the knob slowly twisted. The door slid open to reveal a shadowy figure, silhouetted by a cloak.
The figure slithered into the room, its cloak dragging against the floor in whispers. Its face was hidden by its hood, but a pale, slender hand emerged from the dark sleeves to push the door shut.
“Hello,” sang a voice—a voice that made Elyse’s breath hitch. It was not raspy or haunting, as she had expected. It was sultry. Delicate hands lifted to pull back the hood. Luscious red curls framed an ivory face with full crimson lips and cunning gray eyes. Dark lashes shadowed those eyes as the figure looked up at them.
Death was a woman.
2
Elyse
Elysewas enraptured. Lady Death stood statuesque, a single brow arched in cool curiosity. Her pearlescent skin was stark against the black of her cloak and the surrounding darkness, like she was some sort of beacon. Elyse was reminded of tales of sirens, luring sailors to their demise. An uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the goddess before her.
Lady Death did not wait for their reply. She glided forward, her movement transcendent, and bent before the flames. As she reached her hand into the flaming bowl, Elyse flinched. But Death never lost composure as she reached into the fire and retrieved her gloves.
“I’ve missed these.” She sighed as she studied the unscorched leather, then slid the gloves on smoothly, pulling the snug fabric over her wrists. “No other pair seems to fit as well as these do.”
Elyse could now see the details of Death’s cloak, the rich obsidian velvet and the fine brocade trim. The dress beneath was every bit as splendid, her figure voluptuous. Power radiated from her, eviscerating everything else in the room. Her stormy eyes dared anyone to challenge her.
For years, Elyse had sought to be this cold, this intimidating. Watching Death now, she felt a confusing mixture of envy and pity.
“Lady Death.” Mr. Grayson dropped to his knees and bowed his head low. “I am honored to be in your presence.”
Elyse fell to her knees as well. Any other time, she wouldn’t have humbled herself so. But for Killian, she would. She would beg, she would grovel, she would debase herself in any way necessary.
And for Lady Death, whose power demanded reverence, she would make an exception.
“Why have you summoned me here?” Death demanded to know.
“We request your help,” Mr. Grayson answered, his head still bowed. “We offered the gloves as a token of good faith.”
A mischievous gleam shone in Death’s eyes, sharpened by the flicker of the firelight. “There’s always a string attached,” she purred. She strode toward the table where Killian’s body lay. As she passed the black crystals on the floor, intercepting the barrier they made, the crystals hummed with magic. “Name your request.”
Death stood poised over Killian’s body, staring down at him with an interest that set alarm bells ringing in Elyse’s mind.Death already knew what they wanted. She was a cat playing with her food.
Elyse rose to her feet. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Bring him back,” she asked of Death.
Death surveyed Elyse, her expression unreadable. Elyse remained unflinching.
“I am able, but the cost is high,” Death said as she returned her gaze to Killian. She stroked a finger down his sharp cheekbone. “I require a soul. If I cannot have his, then another must be given.”
“Take mine.” Elyse took a step toward Death, the movement involuntary.
“Elyse,” Mr. Grayson breathed from behind her. He’d never used her given name before, and the warning was sharp, even in his frail voice. It might have startled her if she wasn’t so resolved to give Death whatever was required.
Death’s crimson lips twisted into something like a smile. “He is right to urge caution. The giving of a soul is not to be done lightly.”
