As we continued down the hall, we passed doors of wood, of frosted glass, and of shimmering metal. I opened my mouth to ask how muchfurther we were going when a wind rose from nowhere—no vents, no open windows, just a fierce wind buffeting against us. It fluttered our clothes, pulling at fabric with invisible fingers. My hair lifted, strands catching in my mouth, and I tasted copper and salt.
Damien stopped at a pair of tall doors carved from crimson wood. Like the previous doors we walked through, these too were automated and opened before him. The sound the doors made as they swung open was like a sigh of relief. Like a welcome.
The room was a gothic study out of a movie or dream. Shelves lined with ancient books climbed the walls, spines cracked and faded, titles I couldn’t read in languages I didn’t recognize. Some looked older than anything I’d seen, even in university archives, covers of vellum and leather and possibly human skin, binding knowledge I was willing to bet should have stayed forgotten.
A great fireplace hissed with green and blue flames that threw shadows across a wide oak desk scattered with papers. Upon the desk, serving as a hideous paperweight, sat a large bust of a boar-faced man with massive tusks. The scent of cinder and wine clung to the air throughout the room, thick and almost narcotic, making my head swim.
This is where Damien really works, not the office upstairs.
Damien crossed the room with unhurried grace, each step measured and deliberate, laying Rowan onto an immense settee. It was wine-dark velvet, a piece of furniture that probably cost more than my entire tuition.
Rowan looked small on it. Fragile. Two things he’d never been in all the years I’d known him.
Don’t die. Please, don’t die. Not like this.
“I will get something for the blood,” Jules murmured. Her voice was steady, but I caught the tremor beneath it, the hairline cracks in her composure. She darted off through the door, leaving me alone with Damien.
He was bent over Rowan, unbuttoning his torn shirt with long, deft fingers that moved with practiced efficiency. Stripping away blood-soaked fabric, revealing pale skin painted with violence. The wounds were ghastly: strips of missing flesh near his neck and arm,clawed marks that had gone to the bone, meat and muscle exposed in ways that made my stomach lurch.
I’d seen worse in my previous life. I’dexperiencedworse. But this was different.
This was Rowan.
“Is he still alive? Can you help him?” My voice sounded thin and thready, like it was coming from very far away.
“He very well might live, but whether or not he wakes is far more uncertain.” Damien’s tone was even and conversational. He sounded as if he were discussing what he’d had for lunch and not Rowan’s mortality.
My throat closed. Acid burned the back of my tongue.Uncertain.That word shouldn’t exist in a world where I’d clawed my way back from death itself, where I’d been given this second chance.
“What can we do? What canIdo?”
This time, Damien’s eyes met mine. They were gold, yes, but a shade so dark they reflected the blue firelight, framed by impossibly long lashes. He was beautiful in ways that made my core clench and rushed heat through my body. I caught the scent of wine and cinder on his skin, something spicy and dangerous and intoxicating.
Stop. Don’t look at him like that. Don’t feel that. Rowan is dying, and you’re getting wet over this guy.
“Ah, sweetgatita,” he said, “I am afraid that there is little either of us can do for him right now. It is faint, but I can feel the presence of a Grim waiting beside him.”
“What doesthatmean?”
Jules reappeared, balancing a basin and a cloth. She knelt across from me, movements quick and practiced like she’d done this before, cleaning wounds with a tenderness that belied her efficiency. Her hands were steady, even though I could see tears tracking down her face, cutting through makeup and leaving pale trails.
How many times has she done this? How many dying people has she tended to?
“Gatitameans kitten,” Damien said as he stood, tossing Rowan’s shredded shirt into the blue-green flames. The fire hissed like a living serpent, sparks jumping high enough to make me flinch. The shirt didn’tburn so much as dissolve, fabric turning to ash and acrid smoke that made my eyes water.
“You know that’s not what I meant.” The limited Spanish I knew from my family made it simple enough to follow the pet names he seemed to assign people. Now he was just pissing me off.
He rubbed his wrist, thinking aloud. “A Grim is a sort ofchaperoneof the soul to Death’s realm. Most mortals have no clue how to find their way in the ever-expansive afterlife, so a Grim is often sent to offer guidance and assistance.” He sighed. “I must confess that I did not expect this to happen.”
I strode to Damien’s side, desperation finally spilling over. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking. “You explain likeI’msupposed to know what that all means. Tell me, how can we save him?”
I’ll do anything. Trade anything. I already offered myself once tonight, and I’ll do it again. Just save him.
Damien began to speak, mouth opening around words I desperately needed to hear when Jules’s astonished voice said, “Look!”
I spun, heart in my throat, and watched the impossible happen.
Rowan’s bare chest glowed faintly, like a dying ember fighting to rekindle. Gold light seeped through his skin—illuminating veins and arteries in a network of brilliance—as his wounds knit together.Knitis the closest word I can use to describe how his bite marks, slashes, and gashes weaved themselves closed. It was as if time ran in reverse, wounds fading away as though they had never been. His breathing steadied, deepened, and became the strong, even rhythm I’d heard thousands of times.
