Page 91 of The Shadow Bride

“Because I know you.” When I open my mouth to argue, to vehemently disagree with her scathing logic, she adds, “Why did you never follow me when I crept out to meet Frederic? I expected to find you behind me at least once, but you never ventured beyond the window. Were you not curious about him? Did you not wonder where we went?”

“OfcourseI wondered.” Though I try to remain just as cool, calm, and collected as my older sister, my voice rings out sharp and indignant. “I asked you, Pippa. Every night, I asked, and I asked, and Iasked, and you refused to tell me a word about him. Clearly, you didn’t want me to know—of course now I knowwhy—so I never ventured beyond the window because it would’ve been an invasion of your privacy. I wanted you to like me. I wanted you totrustme, but in the end, neither of us got what we wanted, did we?”

She says nothing in response—just continues her perusal of the shadows beneath the floor—and I wince, already regretting the bitter words. “Filippa—” I start ruefully, but she interrupts before I can apologize.

“He promised to return Frostine in exchange for my help.”

The confession nearly cleaves my chest in two. “Oh, Pip.”

She gives a mournful laugh, but of course, it isn’t really a laugh at all. “I need your pity as much as I need your understanding and approval.” Her gaze flicks to mine at the last, and in it, I see the lights of Frederic’s and Evangeline’s souls reflected. She kept them. Despite her quiet defiance, her sharp contempt—she keptthem with her, and she is willing to sacrifice everything to keep her daughter too.

And there is my answer.

“I asked him not to involve you in this, Célie.” Filippa glides past without looking at me, just as ethereal in this strange palace as a ghost in the spirit realm. Just as chilling. “I tried to keep you out of it, but Death is Death. In the end, what can either of us really do?” When I do not answer, she hesitates in the doorway, glancing back but revealing nothing. “The real reason I brought you here—it isn’t because I wanted to see you. It’s because he does.”

Before I can say another word, Filippa flicks her hand, and I plunge straight through the ice, screaming and falling until my feet slam into hard earth. Disoriented, I brace my knees instinctively and drop into a crouch to absorb the impact. It takes several seconds to realize I am no longer in the ice palace—no longer with Filippa at all but staring up at a familiar face.

“Hello, my sweet,” Death croons. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

My body stills at the sound, every muscle tensing in preparation to run, every instinct screaming at me toflee. Because this—this isn’t right. I shouldn’t be here, whereverhereis, and certainly not alone with Death.Not again.The last time I saw him, he ripped out Frederic’s heart with a cheery grin—he drained all the blood from his body—and his revenants—hisrevenants—

Their putrid stench surrounds us, clinging to my hair, my skin, my very senses.

I need to leave.

Now.

As if sensing the thought, Death clicks his tongue softly and shakes his head in warning. “And here I thought you’d be pleasedto see me,” he says. “Truly, I thought you might even want to help me, given the circumstances.”

He smirks at my incredulous stare—his silver eyes swirling in the dappled light of another forest—and leans against the trunk of a gnarled and ancient fir. As in Cesarine, tendrils of decay seem to unfurl from his being. They stretch outward into the foliage, blackening the boughs of the trees above him, turning their needles pale and brown.

“No?” He arches an amused brow. “You have no burning questions you’d like to ask? Nothing at all to say to me? That doesn’t sound like the Célie I know.”

The Célie I know.The words feel too intimate—almost intimidating—but instinct warns me not to argue; instead I straighten slowly, warily, my heart lodged in my throat. Because I recognize these trees—all pine and spruce and cypress. Evergreens. Their sharp scent permeates the air as awareness creeps through me. It prickles my nape, that indefinable feeling of being watched, as if these trees see us just as clearly as we see them—as if they’re sentient,alive—their whispers carried on a curious breeze.

“La Fôret des Yeux,” I whisper.

Death grins. “Very good. I assume you’ve been here before?”

I nod, gooseflesh erupting down my arms because—yes, I’ve been in the Forest of Eyes many times, and I’d like to remember approximately none of them. “Is this a—some kind of dream?”

Please let it be a dream.

“Just how often do you dream of me, Célie?” Still grinning, Death pushes from the tree, clad in only a thin white shirt—no coat or cravat—and fitted black pants tucked into knee-high boots. He extends an arm as if expecting me to take it, as if expectingthe two of us to promenade through the rot and revenants. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Best to keep a little mystery this early in our relationship.”

My brows snap together. “We do nothavea—”

An overhead branch crumbles before I can finish, and though I leap aside to avoid its path, a ray of light breaks through the treetops as the branch falls. It falls across my cheek, my throat, my chest with blistering heat. And for just an instant, I do not understand what’s happening, whathurts—then I shriek, clutching my face and lunging into the shadows as smoke curls between my fingers. As it escapes toward the brilliant blue sky now peeking through holes in the canopy.

I blink up at those holes in horror.Sunlight.

It dapples the undergrowth all around Death, whose pestilence continues to spread, poisoning the trees and wilting their foliage. Needles flutter to the forest floor. Another branch splinters. From the angle of light, it must be midafternoon, which means—

Death tuts sympathetically as reality crashes through me in a sickening wave.

Which means I’m trapped.

Even if I miraculouslydomanage to escape both Death and his revenants—not to mention whatever else lives in this godforsaken forest—I’ll have nowhere to go until sunset. Nowhere to hide.

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