Page 120 of Between Life and Death

I twirled, facing him, watching as he rolled up the sleeve of his crimson jacket, revealing the tattoo on his forearm—a skull wearing the Crown of Thorns.

“What is the deal?” I cried out, turning to Von.

“That the Crown of Thorns is given back to the Spirit Realm so it can be properly destroyed, so that it cannot hurt you anymore,” Von answered as he slowly rose to his feet. The ice sword was nearly gone, melting from his heat. Even like this, he was still the epitome of a strong, mighty warrior. Proud as ever, even as he was bleeding to death.

“And in return?” I asked, my body aching to go to him. But I held firm, anchored my feet to the ground.

“He asked for your life.” Arkyn paused. “So in return, he is giving me his death—his immortal death.”

My world teetered, spinning as if it were off its axis. An immortal death—that meant Von would be gone—forever. Erased from existence.

“No,” I whispered, panic constricting my breath.

“Come, Little Goddess.” Von conquered the distance between us, unfazed by his gaping wound. He pulled me into his arms, his embrace instantly righting my off-kilter world. Obsidian eyes locked with mine. I had never realized how spellbinding they were, how easy it was to get lost in them.

That was, until now, and now . . . I couldn’t look away.

He tipped my chin up, his deep, decadent voice burrowing into my soul. “And let me kiss you one last time.”

The irony was not lost on me that I was the Goddess of Life and it was my kiss that stole the last and final breath from the God of Death.

Ilost track of the days. They came and they went, just like the waves outside, lapping against the mountainside before they returned to the sea. Not that I had bothered to venture out to see said waves. Each morning, when the housemaids came in, they opened the balcony doors, allowing the sounds of outside to flow in.

From this, I derived that the private chambers that I stayed in overlooked a body of water. I learned from the gossipy housemaids that I was in Clearwell Castle, and it most definitely had a rat infestation problem. Luckily, the rats did not bother me a whole lot. They were better than snakes. I shivered at the thought of the unnatural, limbless creatures. Involuntarily, I pictured the one Von had tattooed on his beautiful, muscular bicep.

Von.

I sighed, sinking lower into my numbness, and rolled on my side. The movement reminded me of the unyielding iron collar wrapped around my neck, reminding me that I was a prisoner. This one was different than the one they used in the forest. Where that one was large and clunky and fit with nails, this one was thin and small—designed for the neck of a woman or a child. More importantly, the inside was smooth—no rusty incisors.

Despite their differences, they were both made of iron, and they both served one purpose—to tamp down my power . . . and my spirit.

Not that my spirit could get any lower.

On more than one occasion, I wondered if my eyes had lost their ability to see color because everything around me was gray. From the stone floor to the stone walls to the stone ceiling. All of it, gray. Even the thick, heavy wolf pelt I lay under was gray.

I nuzzled farther into the embrace of the too-plush bed. Peering over top of the soft-as-silk furs, I traced the vine carved into the bedpost pillar for the sixteenth time today.

Okay, I lied.

Not everything was gray—the pillar could almost be classified as an off-white. Was it made from white rosewood? I could probably tell if I got up and touched it.

The problem with that? It required getting up.

The arched wood door, inlaid with iron, swung open, birthing the last person I wanted to see. The deep red color of his jacket was jarring.

I turned over and tugged the fur over my head. I preferred my world to stay gray.

He walked over to my bedside, plucked something from the untouched food tray, and then tossed it back down. Judging by the sound, it sounded like metal striking a plate. It was probably a spoon—the only utensil they allowed in my room.

“I see you are still refusing to eat. You cannot die of starvation, goddess, but you will grow weak,” Arkyn said, the fur blanket doing little to muffle his voice.

I didn’t respond. I found that to be a foolproof policy. Over the past however many days it had been, we had done this quick meet and greet dozens of times. He strode in, said something about me getting up or eating or taking a bath, I didn’t respond, and then he left. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

So I hunkered down like the little bed flea I had become and waited for his departure, something I would confirm by the sounds of the door shutting and his bootheels fading down the hallway.

“Aurelia, we need to talk,” Arkyn said, his voice soft.

I glowered under the dark of my sheets. I wanted to hear fading bootheels, damn it.

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