Page 146 of The Shadow Bride

It recoils.

“Don’t fight the current in the maelstrom,” I tell them, “and don’t look back.” Tackling Michal around the waist—dragging Dimitri behind—I careen through the ripples and into the grotto before the darkness can re-form.

Instantly, the ocean rips us apart.

It turns the world upside down, turnsusupside down, but I’ve done this before.I am not afraid.Relaxing into the current—and praying fervently Michal and Dimitri do the same—I allow it to spiral my body down, then up, up,upuntil I break the surface.

“They’re here!” Odessa’s shout splits the air as Michal resurfacesbeside me, then Dimitri. Diving past three revenants, she reaches for us from the shore. “Come on! Swim,swim—”

Instantly, I know something is wrong. The air is too thin, too cold, and the world is too gray—all color has leached from the grotto entirely, spreading beyond it in a silent and suffocating wave.

“What isthat?”

Reid’s eyes widen as fresh blood trickles from his tear ducts—bright scarlet amidst the gloom—and he stumbles back a step, grasping his chest. Lou collapses in front of him. And the storm winds—they must’ve followed us through somehow, because the broken bedpost spirals high in the air. Pieces of the splintered desk hurtle toward us.

No.

Towardit.

Lungs burning, I inhale sharply at the enormous waterspout rising beyond the maelstrom. It spins viciously, sucking the debris of the grotto into its vortex as the veil around us trembles. Oh God.The veil.

In resurrecting Michal and Dimitri, I have created— I havebroken—

Everything.

Reid faints in the split second of my realization, and Dimitri pulls himself from the heaving depths and onto the shore, sprinting to Reid’s side. To Lou’s. He drags them both away from nature’s wrath—from its last great retaliation at the damage I have caused. Not everyone is so lucky, however; everywhere I look, revenants are clawing at the ground, the walls, anything they can reach to remain standing, yet the wind sweeps several—sweepsmost—high into the air. The waterspout rips them apart. Their viscera rains down upon the grotto, but I cannot dwell on it—not as the water whirls higher, deadlier, and shrapnel flies in all directions.

“I have to close it!” Waves crash into my mouth—no,blood—as I swim for the islet, as the winds tug and pull me closer. Closer. I need only to mend my tear. I kick out, propelling myself forward, allowing the riptide to speed me along.As soon as I close it, it’ll—

Death’s icy fingers close around my ankle, and he drags me under again.

He’s re-forming.

Frantic, I kick out blindly, connecting with his face. When his grasp loosens, I wrenchhishair this time, and I hurl him headfirst into the waterspout’s vortex—into the door.

Without so much as taking another breath, I dive after him into the heart of the storm.Mystorm. Wind pummels me, water battering my skin like fists, but I do not concern myself with the bruises. Iwillclose the door.

Iwillstop Death.

Clutching the veil with both hands, I fight the tumultuous weather and begin to mend the rip. I focus on the emotions flowing through me, find strength in each one—fear of losing my loved ones, anger at sparring with Death,hopethat we can still fix this—and allow them to thread from my fingers as if I’m in my nursery once more, sitting beside Filippa and cross-stitching snowdrops and roses onto pillows and handkerchiefs.

All at once—or perhaps it is slowly, time losing its meaning as I grapple with the waves, with Death, with the balance of our very world—the veil mends. The waterspout dies. The deep blue of theocean gradually returns, along with the silver specks of mica in the grotto walls. And I—I did it.

I did it.

Death’s presence vanishes with the disaster, the water and debris crashing back into the sea, but this isn’t over yet. Filippa still needs to mend the hole in the maelstrom, or Death will return—andsoon. Shouting my name, Michal crouches on the shore and reaches for me, while beside him—

“Get a move on, girl!” Mathilde gestures weakly toward the maelstrom, toward the islet, and tears well in my eyes at the sight of her.She came back.Despite her attitude, her scowl, her parting words—she came back. She ishere, and— “Your sister seems to be experiencing performance issues!” She jerks her warty chin toward Filippa, who stands on a shelf near the islet, wringing her hands hysterically. “Andthat”—she points to the tendrils of darkness already creeping from the maelstrom—“does not look promising.”

Fuck.

Changing directions abruptly, I throw myself toward my sister as Mathilde lifts her hands with a determined expression, shouting, “I cannot hold the bastard for long! One way or another—no matter the cost—we must close that damn door!”

“Filippa!” I heave myself onto the shelf, gasping and shaking. “You need to—to close it. Do itnow—”

Filippa drops to her knees, reaching into the water and attempting to hold the veil, to force it together in her hands. Her movements are jolting, however, almost convulsive. With each thread she mends, another splits apart. And this tear—it spans larger than the grotto, larger than life itself. It’ll take more thanher anger to mend it.

Did Death even teach her how to wield her power? Howcouldhe have? He never learned to control his own emotions, and Filippa has always fled hers. As if realizing the same, she whispers, “I can’t do it.”

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