Page 19 of The Mirror of Beasts

He drew in a deep breath. The hair on his arms rose and stung, as if threatening a shift into his other form. There was something off about this place. Cold, yes, but that he’d expected. A kind of … stillness, then. The smell of must and something else lingered—decay.

He tilted his head toward another door to the left of him, this one looking like it had been ripped off an ancient fortress. The wood was inlaid with swirling patterns and symbols made from iron. Strange. He didn’t recognize them, but he did recognize the scent that escaped from the room behind them.

Blood. Old blood.

Cabell turned sharply on his heel. He nodded to Lord Death, feeling again that prickling of pride that he had been entrusted with such a powerful god’s safety.

Lord Death entered Summerland House as if he had done it thousands of times before. He stopped beside Cabell, assessing its fine offerings for himself.

“I hope it is to your liking, my lord,” Endymion said, with yet another bow.

Lord Death cast a cold eye on him. “It will suffice. For now.”

“The others are eager to meet you,” Endymion said. “I cannot tell you how long we have awaited your return. To bring you forth into this world.”

To his credit, he knew not to show his back to Lord Death. That, as Cabell had witnessed, was an insult the god wouldn’t tolerate.

Instead, Endymion Dye—the great, proud Endymion Dye—walked backward, his eyes lowered like the servant he was. Cabell was unsurprised to discover that their destination was the imposing door with its strange symbols. He studied them again as they drew closer. Some looked vaguely like the sigils the sorceresses used for protective wards, but he couldn’t be sure. Of the two of them, Tamsin—

His throat tightened. Cabell rested a hand on the sword hanging from his side, gripping the hilt until his fingers ached with it. At the edge of his vision, pale blond hair flashed. He spun, searching for the source of it, but found only shadows.

The massive door swung open with a sound like a dying beast. Cabell felt his feet slowing as he entered, almost against his will. Sheets of silk had been draped to block off the rest of the room, dividing the ordinary from the sacred. Before them, a dozen men, some he recognized from the Hollower guild, stood in the shape of a crescent, wearing crowns of holly. The table, or what might have been a desk, had been transformed into an altar. Beneath the stench of incense, greens, and nervous sweat was the faintest hint of old books.

Cabell’s gaze drifted down. At his feet, a dark stain was just visible on the carpet. The muscles of his stomach tightened, and for the first time, he wondered what ritual had been powerful enough for Lord Death to feel the summons.

“Lord Death,” Endymion began, taking his place in the assembly of men. All of them wore simple robes, and a silver pin that Cabell recognized from his old life. A hand holding a silver branch. “We welcome you once more to the mortal world, and offer you our service, to whatever end.”

“You offer more than what I ask,” Lord Death said, enjoying the way some of the men quailed under his scrutiny. Cabell took more than a little pleasure from walking in slow, searching loops around them. It felt good, so good, to give in to that need. It was in his blood to herd.

“My lord?” Endymion prompted.

“No one summons death, unless they seek its power,” the god continued. “Tell me, then, what you desire of me in exchange for your service. Will you be like the ancients, who merely wanted to smite their enemies? Will you walk in the steps of the druids, grasping at knowledge and power forbidden to mortal men?”

Endymion seemed to regain some of his composure, though he still didn’t dare look into Lord Death’s pale eyes. “We seek to hunt those you hunt yourself. To serve as your sworn blades, your disciples in magic, and end the tyranny of those who hold power they do not deserve.”

Of course, a voice whispered in Cabell’s mind. This has always been their objective.

It was only a wonder he hadn’t guessed it before. Some men hunted relics for the glory. These men, to steal power from the sorceresses.

Cabell sat at the edge of their pathetic altar, arms crossed over his chest, his pulse quickening. His breath came in light pants. He watched the god eagerly. No one would ever replace him. Lord Death had sworn it.

He would have a different role for these fools to play.

Lord Death paced in front of them, a king inspecting his soldiers. When he came to Endymion again, he stopped. A small smile slanted over his face as the man struggled to hold his head high. His bowels had probably turned to water by now.

“You wish to serve in my retinue?” Lord Death asked. “To join the Wild Hunt?”

“Yes,” Endymion said, scarcely above a whisper. “More than anything, my lord. Grant us your power, and we will not fail you.”

Lord Death placed a gloved hand on the man’s shoulder, leaning in closer, as if to embrace him. “I accept.”

Endymion let out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing behind his thin-framed glasses.

“But, my dear child,” Lord Death continued, his voice low and tender, like a true father. The room’s shadows gathered to the hand hanging at his side, wrapping it in writhing ribbons unseen to the others. “Do you not know my retinue is not comprised of the living?”

Endymion’s eyes flashed wide, his breath choking off as Lord Death plunged his fist straight into his chest. Passing through skin and muscle and bone to reach the soul—and tear it out at the root.

Cabell closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, releasing the weakness that had held him captive for so long, welcoming in the darkness, and the terror, and the screams.

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