Page 153 of Lourdes & the Mafia
Thepassingwasaritual that I always oversaw. It didn’t matter that Ramiel was the lord of the entire Underworld or angel of death. There was something soothing about guiding the spirits from the Land of Lament back to Mount Vita in preparation for their leaving.
It’s not always souls that have lamented that go to Mount Vita. It’s our crematory for the bodies that end up here. Or, I guess you could say, theblanksouls. The ones that are still. The ones with nothing in them for us to torture or heal. The ones that are officiallygoneand just waiting to be pushed through the fires of Mount Vita in order to emerge on the other side in a new life.
Reincarnation, some call it.
A second chance for those who deserve it.
I’ve prepared many blank souls for their journey. A meticulous process. From bathing their body, to purifying it, to letting it slide through the fires of rebirth.
Prepping Lourdes for the passing should have been no different.
Yet it was.
The tears wouldn’t stop flowing from my eyes. Lesser people thought men shouldn’t cry, but that was a toxic way of thinking. We felt deeply, too. And sometimes when emotions overflowed and we couldn’t communicate our sorrow with words, it was the tears that did the talking for us.
I’d never held back my feelings for Lourdes, not since we met, and I wouldn’t do so now that she was…
I didn’t want to think about her perfect stillness. How the vibrant and rich brown skin has been reduced to something almost waxy and too still, into something almost doll-like. So different from the woman I’ve come to know. Come to love.
The tears don’t stop streaming down my face as I begin the ritual on her still body and soul. The ephemeral part of her is still trapped inside. Silent. Quiet. Waiting for me to set her free.
Because lesser demons aren’t allowed in Mount Vita, I’m on my own. Ramiel and Kane never accompany me during this process, and though they could have now, I asked them for privacy.
I need to be alone with her for this.
So I get to work.
While water from a steaming stream fills a nearby bucket, I carefully undress her. The dress slips easily from her body with a slice of my claws down the middle. The torn fabric slides off her sides and I push it away until she’s bare on the stone slab before me. When water reaches to the brim, I pull the bucket over and begin the process of washing through her curls.
I shampoo and condition them, watching as the suds fall onto the stone floor. It splashes against my slacks, but I don’t care that the material clings to the skin of my legs.
After her hair is finished, I arrange it against her shoulders. Only then do I finally take a sponge and dip it into the bucket. My fingers work with extra care, and while the ache in my chest is a prominent, strong thing, this ritual feels almost healing for me. Like I’m giving myself closure.
I know I’m meant for this. I’ve washed her hair and body before, and now I get to do it for the final time.
After wringing out the sponge, I start the cleansing part of the ritual. Swiping it across her skin, I wipe with water and oil, trapping different scents within the cavernous space. I take my time going up her body, cleaning meticulously at one arm before I move on to the other.
The tears haven’t stopped, and I blink them away to look down at her as the sponge passes against the ball of her shoulder.
Despite it all, I force a smile to my mouth, even though her eyes are closed. Even though she cannot see me. I want to pretend that the soul trapped inside her body in a slumber can.
That’s who I smile for.
“You left us,” I whisper, feeling something within me cave. Like my heart is pitfalling down to my stomach and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. “You left us before I could take you out on a proper date. A proper shopping spree.” My fingers enclose around the sponge.
Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. Guilt. It all comes crashing over me.
I want to scream, to ask her why. Why she dared to leave us—to leave me.
“Don’t you love me?” The tears burst forward all over again. And even though an impulsive part of me is demanding I toss the sponge aside and leave, I control myself, setting it off to the side to take a deep breath.
I reach down and interlace our fingers together, squeezing though she doesn’t squeeze back. My other hand caresses the skin at her wrist and I—
Wait.
My breath catches and I swear for a moment my fucking heart stops beating as my fingers glide across her wrist again feeling something cold, metallic.
A bracelet is wrapped around her wrist. A small, unassuming, dainty thing. The string is as thin and nearly as invisible as a spider’s web, but with a close look and a gentle touch, I can both see and feel it.
