A subtle glow unfurls across his skin, and his eyes, his hair, take on an otherworldly luster. Even I gasp at the great and terrible sight of him, stumbling back a step as he groans, bowing inward, and enormous black wings rupture from his shoulder blades. They span the length of the temple. They cast us all in shadows too dark, too sentient, as if the Fathoms itself has arrived.
Vesper curses and grabs her sister, holds Eos tight in her arms. Gavriall snatches Amaya’s wrist and scrambles toward the exit. The enchantments upon each of them shatter.
And Arion—he rises from the dead like an avenging spirit, the hole in his chest knitting itself together right before my eyes. His blackened veins don’t recede, but theydofade into a faint silver on his beautiful light brown skin, and his wings don’t simply twitch. They haul him onto his feet, stretching wide, white and gold against Mortem’s darkness. Arion Stone is gloriouslyalive. Every part of him. Every piece of him. Alive, alive,alive.
Stronger than before, stronger thanever, his head snaps up, and his gaze burns with gilded fury. He’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything else in this world. His knuckles crack. He tilts his head. He glares at Mortem, at the mirror image of himself, magic sparking in his palm in a brilliant display of blue fire and amber lightning and fearsome vengeance.
“Arion,” I whisper.
He looks at me. His silver-gold eyes widen. “Zephyra,” he murmurs.
And that word—it’s not enough. I want more. I want hours of his voice. Years of it. Decades and maybe evencenturieswith him. I want the futures we spoke of. I want to be happy, and I want the cottage, and I want it with him by my side.
But I can’t.Wecan’t.
Arion and I end here.
“We have a deal,” Mortem whispers.
His words, his wicked and cruel voice, are the last thing I hear before he hauls me against him. The God of Death’s hands curl in my hair, vicious and unrelenting, nails slicing into my scalp. Without wasting another moment, without Arion able to turn his magic onto Mortem and save me, the god twists. Flames burst beneath my flesh, pain blistering,burning, and then—
Nothing.
Mortem snaps my neck, and I die.
EPILOGUE
THE FATHOMS
Death is cold.
An icy river unspools from endless darkness, crystalline waters splashing onto a checkered shoreline. Black-and-white marble, pristine and glistening, juts off in seven different directions—seven different paths—but I stand here not knowing where to turn. Which to choose. I can’t even remember my name, although… I remember something of warmth. Of life. A golden glow. A silvered cord. I should find that again. I should stop shivering.
A sheer white dress does little to protect me from the cold, my feet bared to frigid puddles along the path. I need shelter. Fast. But I’m already dead—that much I can recall, the breaking of bone, of life fleeing, ofsomeoneroaring in pain—what can frostbite do to me now?
Thunder rumbles overhead, and I glance up with chattering teeth and frozen lashes. Heavy clouds hang low in starless skies, but they do not spill rain, and they do not streak lightning. Rather, they cry diamond tears, and they wail a ghastly song.
Iridescent gemstones pelt my skin in the sudden downpour, somehow bruising my flesh, leaving me no time to think. No time to contemplate my past or my future. I race to the left, tripping over myself as I head straight into winter-white woods. In seconds, theatmosphere changes. As if I’m running not through the Fathoms at all, but through the pages of a storybook.
Snow tumbles thick over the ground now, disguising the remaining checkered floor, while fir trees crowd the new landscape. Gingerbread cottages line the horizon, dappling the world with browns and reds and greens. My toes scrunch in the snow, and I’m struck with an instantaneous thought.
It should be sand.
No sooner than I think it does the horizon change, shift,morph.
I blink, and the world grows hot. Too hot. Sand burns the soles of my feet, and a dazzling sun drips sweat from my brow. I lift a hand to shield my eyes, positively parched. The horizon is blazing now. Pure white, reflective, and I can’t see a single fucking thing. A scream of frustration builds in my throat. Maybe I’ll throw myself down and never get up. Maybe I’ll die here. But no—
That’s not possible.
Dunes begin to roll underfoot at the thought, like the waves of a wicked sea, forcing me to move, to run—
The sea, I think suddenly, breathless.I am a mermaid. I should be in the ocean.
Another starless sky, but this time, I’m drowning in roiling waves, reaching up for salvation as salt water burns my lungs.
Someone usually saves me.
The ground becomes the sky now, and I tip up and over before falling with a gracelessthudonto pitch blackness. Not the sky at all, but dirt. Moist, thick, and muddy. Disgusting. “What thefuck?” I lift my hands, wiping the muck on my white dress, before glancing up.
