Page 81 of The Mirror of Beasts

“That is not your name,” Lord Death said, his voice low and lethal. His icy hand closed over the back of the seneschal’s neck, tightening. “That was never your name.”

“Yes, my lord,” the seneschal whispered, licking his dry lips. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Bledig,” Lord Death said, his fingers tightening, as if to imprint the name on his servant’s pale skin. “I feared that this would prove too much for you.”

Bledig. Yes. That was his name. His true name. The one he’d forgotten in his human life.

“No, my lord. I was pleased to serve you,” he said. “I remain your seneschal.”

He hated the way it sounded less like a declaration and more like a question.

Lord Death’s laugh was like a blade running down his spine. “Is that so? Then why did I witness you engaging with that wretch of a girl? Have you forgotten her callousness toward you? Her dismissal of all that you are?”

“No, my lord,” he said, his chest aching as he remembered. She had chosen her own ignorance over him—her hatred and fear of him. “She was … she is nothing.”

“You told me that you would kill her if you met her again,” Lord Death said. “Was that a lie?”

In ages past, in a world that was full of darkness and curses, there were two children …

At the edge of his vision, a flash of blond hair moved past a nearby tree. He kept his head down but shifted his gaze, his heart battering his ribs.

But it wasn’t her.

The little girl was nothing more than an apparition—a fading memory. Her skin shimmered with translucence as she returned his look with a menacing one of her own. Her tangle of hair was half tucked into a knit cap, her tunic rumpled.

Her name …

Flea.

Flea of Avalon.

“Well?” Lord Death prompted, the word barbed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I …” The seneschal licked his lips again. He had never been a good liar. He’d always left that to his sister.

She’s still lying. About all of it, he reminded himself. Even Nash.

“I simply did not want to risk her taking the mantle,” he said, inwardly cringing at the poor excuse, “or harming it in some way.”

Lord Death let out a huff. “If she could defeat you so easily, perhaps I have chosen the wrong sibling.”

The chill of the wet snow bled into the seneschal’s human skin as he waited for whatever his lord would do next. But something made him look again—made his eyes shift back toward those same trees, where the little girl stood.

He inhaled sharply, having to steel his body to keep from flinching. Bright blood flowed down her face, her clothing, collecting in the snow at her feet. Her lips moved, but no words reached him. And her eyes … they were horrendous. Cold, with no flicker of life.

“Rise, Bledig,” Lord Death said.

He did, forcing himself to obey. To keep his head bowed, so as not to cause his lord any more offense than he already had. The blood—it became a river in the snow, winding around the roots and rocks, cutting a path straight toward him.

“Gather the riders,” Lord Death said. “The night is still young.”

The seneschal let out a shuddering breath. “Yes, my lord. Where will we go now?”

A single gloved finger touched the hollow beneath his chin, tilting his face up to meet his master’s. For a moment, he saw himself reflected in a former king’s eyes.

“That, young one, will depend entirely on you,” Lord Death said. “And who you wish to be.”

When Cabell and I were kids, the library’s attic had felt like a vast amount of space—like our very own kingdom. That was the trouble with living mostly out of nylon tents on windswept landscapes or uninhabited forests; it made everything else feel secure and comfortable in comparison.

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