Page 78 of Between Life and Death

I winced.

My gaze darted from my reflection back to the deep cut in my arm. The corner of the cloth had fallen into it. Carefully, I pulled it out. Not wanting to repeat the mistake, I took extra care as I cleaned the rest of it.

After I was done, I dipped the cloth in the water, my blood tingeing it red.

It took about an hour for us to get to the city. Weary-boned and wide-eyed—decapitation first-timer here—I turned in for the night as soon as Arkyn had paid for our rooms at the inn.

The quarters were small but cozy. A single bed pressed against the wall, a chest at the end full of extra quilts—all of them hand stitched. A hearth, matching the size of the room, crackled, the fire inside well stoked. It scented the room in the sweet smells of burning birch and bathed the walls in a flickering, honey glow.

I closed my eyes.

For a moment, it was almost like I was back at the cottage. I waited to hear the shuffle of feet in the kitchen, waited to hear the chopping of wood outside, but no such sounds came. Only the muffled thrum of laughter and music drifted from below, through the thick, wooden floorboards.

The laughter reminded me of my new extended family—of cracker sandwiches and sibling rivalry. And bourbon.

But just like Ezra and Kaleb, they were not here.

There was no Harper. No Ryker.No Lyra. No Soren.

. . . No Von.

I didn’t know why, butall of itwas hitting me hard. Maybe it was the loss of my old world—of the simplicity, of how things used to be. Maybe it was the building pressure I felt to get Kaleb home. Or maybe it was everything that happened tonight.

Maybe . . . it was all of those things.

A single tear slid down my cheek.

I brushed it away with the back of my hand, fighting to rein in the rest.

Somethingtap-tap-tappedon the window, the sound reminding me of a chicken pecking the ground. It sounded birdlike.

I rose from the worn stool, deflated and flat from too many years of use, and walked over to the window. My fingers did a poor job of convincing the brass latch to open. It was stiff, like it hadn’t been used for quite some time. Adding a bit more pressure, finally, the latch complied. My hands went to the wooden handles on the window and opened them inward, into my room.

Fresh air filled my lungs, scented with the distant smell of rain.

There, on the lip of the weathered sill, a black feather teetered in the lullaby of the gentle wind.

I took it. Cradled it in my hands. Its color was like the blackest of nights, dusted with a shimmer that twinkled like stars. It was just like the others. Magical. Ethereal. How could such a lovely thing belong in my world? Perhaps it didn’t.

Remember.

The word echoed, carried in on a phantom thought.

Closing my eyes, I leaned into its command, following it like a child would a mother. It took me to the part of my mind that I had never been able to connect with. It was like a vast canyon, where you could yell and yell and yell but nothing would ever reply. That part of me had always been vacant—a house without fixtures, furniture, or inhabitants. It was my void, lifeless and empty. My very own Endless Mist.

There came a loud knock at the door. Arkyn’s voice called from the other side, “I brought you something to eat.”

Although the feather looked delicate, it was far from it. It was sturdy. Strong. Impossible to break. Still, I carefully placed the feather in my bodice before I walked to the door.

My gait was a bit slow—Arkyn’s presence determining my pace more than anything now that he knew I was Cursed. Considering who he served, that could not be a good thing.

Using my unwounded arm, I opened the door and stepped back, allowing Arkyn enough berth to walk inside. Like Von, he didn’t just take up space—he dominated it.

I was reminded of the first time I saw him, of all those men surrounding him in the pool at the bathhouse, their serpent bellies up, basking in his light.

Arkyn slid the wooden tray on the end table, effectively pushing a few books to the side while he did it. He wore a long gray coat that looked brand new, and like the rest of his clothing, it was perfectly tailored. The coat was unbuttoned, exposing a crisp white tunic beneath. His red hair was slicked back, still wet. Any evidence of what happened earlier was now washed away.

He glanced briefly at the window, the sheer drapes gently mussed by the wind, and then to me. One brow shot up. “Is it not counterproductive to have the fire going and the window open?”

---