Page 107 of The Shadow Bride

Dimitri scowls, crossing his arms. “Haven’t we just established I need his blood to survive?”

“You assume I meant Death.”

“I don’t think wecankill him,” I interrupt swiftly, stepping between them once more. “At the grove, his wounds healed instantly, and he also”—I shoot Michal an apologetic glance—“he felt much stronger than me. Faster too.”

Michal’s face hardens. Before he can speak, however, Odessa asks, “What other powers does he possess? What else did you learn?”

“Not much.” Shaking my head, I wrack my thoughts for any detail I might’ve missed, any chink in Death’s armor. “Obviously we know he can bleed, but his blood—it smelled ancient, yes, but also strangely like...” My gaze flicks to Dimitri, who looks resigned.

“Ours,” he finishes in a grim voice. “I assume it has something to do with his hand in our origin all those years ago—probably where vampires’ speed and strength comes from too.”

Odessa frowns, clearly unimpressed with the conjecture. “Yes, well, that’s all very good, but Death is not a vampire. Death isdeath. In his true form, he is all-powerful, infinite—he steals life with the touch of his finger, reaps souls with the slightest of breath.”

“That’s just it, though, isn’t it?” Michal’s eyes turn inward, narrowing slightly as he considers her words. “Death isn’tinhis true form. If he still possessed the ability to steal life and reap souls, wouldn’t he have done it by now?” Though Odessa opens her mouth to argue, he shakes his head, interrupting her. “No. Think about it, Des. He attempted to resurrect La Voisin with Célie’s blood tonight. In re-creating the events of All Hallows’ Eve, he hoped to bring down the veil—”

Both Odessa and Dimitri gasp in unison. “What?”

“I’ll fill in the gaps later,” Michal says firmly, “but my point remains—Death told Célie that he’d find another Bride when her blood didn’t work. Wouldn’t it be easier tocreateanother Bride instead? He could choose anyone.”

Dimitri’s brows furrow. “And if power is what Death wants, why not simply... kill everyone? You know, with all that touching and breathing business you mentioned.” He shoots a furtive look at Odessa, who rolls her eyes, and shrugs unapologetically. “What? The veil wouldn’t need to come down if he reaped all of us, and we would cross into his realm a lot faster that way.”

“I don’t think he can.” The words fall from my lips as if they’ve been waiting all along—because the simplest explanation is usually the right one. If Death still possessed great and cosmic powers, he would be using them; instead he struck a deal with my sister and created an army of revenants. He murdered Frederic quite rudimentarily, slashed open my hand with a knife before burning down the blood witches’ village in a fit of pique. “He seems to be caught somewhere in the middle—part human and part Death. I don’t know if we can kill him, but Idoknow we’ll regret it if we fail.”

Michal’s eyes fall to my injured hand. “Célie—”

“I’m fine, Michal.” I hide it behind my back, fingers clenching over the bandage. “Either way, I think our greatest chance of defeating Death lies in tricking him somehow. Maneuvering him. If we can just lead him where he needs to go—”

Dimitri’s brows furrow. “Which is where?”

“The grotto,” Odessa says simply.

I should’ve known she’d already fit the pieces together. Indeed, she probably fit them together long before the rest of us.

Our eyes meet across the chessboard, and I nod, swallowinghard at the palpable anguish—and anger—in hers. Perhaps I asked too much of her in regard to Dimitri. Him snapping her neck on All Hallows’ Eve is probably the least of her hurts, and I wish we had time to sit together in that pain. I wish Dimitri had found a cure outside of Death. I wish my sister hadn’t aligned with him, and I wish Frederic had never torn open that hole.

The time has come, however, to stop wishing and startacting.

“Death needs to go back to his realm,” I say, “to the true land of the dead. Frederic created a door—which in turn created the maelstrom—when he resurrected Filippa. I don’t know why their tear is so different than the other revenants’, but it stands to reason we can reverse the damage they caused by sending Death back through it. We just need to decide the best way to lure him here. Any ideas?” When no one speaks, when the tension only thickens at Filippa’s name, I plunge onward with determination. “All right—well—perhaps we can stage a meeting via Mila, or perhaps Dimitri can arrangetheirnext meeting to take place—”

“—inside Michal’s bedroom? That isn’t suspicious at all.” Rolling his eyes, Dimitri pretends to consider this before adding dryly, “Though if you really want to lure him to the bedroom, I’m sure we could find a way. Youarehis Bride—”

“Finish that sentence,” Michal says in a cold voice, “and I will tear out your throat.” His hands descend on my shoulders, and he gently turns my body toward him. His eyes remain tight, however—wary, almost apologetic—and I tense, knowing what he means to ask. “How do we close the door, Célie?”

As expected, the silence snaps taut, fraying with the pressure of everyone knowing this answer. No one wants to say it, however; no one wants to condemn my sister to another casket—noone except Odessa, who scowls and says, “We all know what must be done, Michal, and dancing around the subject will not make it any easier. This door might be different than the others, but in essence, it is still a tear in the veil. The only definitive information we have is that which you delivered yourself—when a revenant dies, they restore balance to our realm, and the hole they created repairs itself.” She shunts her bishop diagonally to take Panteleimon’s queen, and I hold my breath, praying for another solution.Please, please, please.

Neither God nor Odessa hears my prayer, however.

“The simplest way to check the king,” Odessa says without looking at me, “is to eliminate the queen. If we want to close the door, Filippa must die.”

Filippa must die.

Michal lightly kneads my shoulders in the silence that follows—bracing me, I think. Perhaps because my mouth tightens and my hands curl into fists. Perhaps because I’ve been seized with a sudden vision of throttling Odessa.Filippa must die.The words reverberate through my head; they pound through my blood with visceral heat. She spoke them as if stating the obvious, as if solving the simplest of equations, but there is nothing obvious or simple about executing my sister. Not to me. “We don’tknowthat,” I say evenly. “Filippa isn’t like the other revenants—”

“—which isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m not at all sure fire will work on her.” Odessa strides through the chess pieces with an inscrutable expression, pulling a piece of folded parchment from her robe. She thrusts it toward me, and—seeing little choice—I open it with stiff fingers. Slashes of black ink mark over a dozen locations on an intricate map of Requiem: the forest, the theater,the aviary. The largest X, however, crosses the castle.The grotto.Odessa taps it with a sharp nail. “If you require proof, Guinevere has been reporting holes closing all afternoon as my sentinels dispatch revenants.”

Michal’s hands slide down my arms. He does not shy away from me, however; instead, his dark eyes burn with regret.They need someone to sit with them.“The rip we saw in the forest,” he confirms. “It was closed when I brought you back to the castle. Mathilde was right—killing the loup garou mended it.”

Sharp, debilitating emotion weakens my knees. It hammers against the mental barrier I’ve constructed—that familiar and wretchedknock, knock, knocking—but I barricade the door with trembling fingers. I cannot open it again. I cannot succumb to grief, to despair, and I cannot—willnot—bury my sister again.

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