Page 93 of The Shadow Bride

Chapter Thirty

A Date with Death

After the Battle of Cesarine, Coco often spoke of her vision to build a permanent settlement for les Dames Rouges. It made sense; her people had been forced to wander the forest as nomads, never remaining in one place for fear of attracting unwanted attention. Though I never visited their camps myself, Coco described them as dark and dismal places under La Voisin’s rule—hopeless, even, when temperatures plummeted and supplies became scarce.

Nothing like this charming village peeking out between evergreens.

Instead of felling the ancient trees, the blood witches simply built their cottages around them. Despite Death’s presence beside me, a seed of wonder still cracks open in my chest as I gaze at their brightly painted roofs, their matching front doors—a motley assortment of blush, terra-cotta, and robin’s-egg blue. Carved pumpkins from All Hallows’ Eve still leer on the steps beside them. Plots of winter vegetables flourish in each garden, bursting with leeks and parsnips and squash as pine needles flutter down to blanket everything in gold. Including—

Firepits, I realize, eyeing the stone circles in every makeshift yard. The logs within them still smell slightly of smoke—of blood—and a chill skitters down my spine as I remember Coco mentioning such a ritual last March. We’d been planting seeds inLou’s flower beds during their Ostara celebration when I’d asked about their autumnal rituals too.

“We light bonfires in November”—Coco patted the earth smooth while Lou sprawled in the grass beside us, twisting two blades around her finger to form a tiny crown—“to protect from evil spirits that might’ve crossed on Samhain.”

I returned her ghoulish grin with a delighted one of my own—because Samhain and its spectral fingers seemed very far away then. Because they could never reach us while we basked in the sun on that brilliant spring afternoon, surrounded by dirt and flowers.

The irony of that conversation is not lost on me now.

And that wonder in my chest—it withers with everything else we pass, curling into itself like a dead spider until only Death remains.

I skirt another patch of sunlight as he lifts a hand to examine the string of pine cones draped along the wellhead in the village square. Scraps of parchment flutter from each cone, and on them, they’ve written— “Wishes,” I say abruptly, inching closer to read the nearest one:I wish to kiss someone I meet for the first time.“This is a wishing well.”

“Wasa wishing well,” Death says, perusing another piece of paper with idle interest. “Or have you not noticed this village isn’t a village any longer?” At my blank expression, he sighs before plucking another bit of parchment from its pine cone. “People, Célie. Where are thepeople?”

“What do you—?”

“Listen.”

Brows furrowing, I do just that, tilting my head and concentrating on the cottages around us, but... no sounds emanate from anyof them. No rustle of curtains, no footfalls upon floorboards. My frown deepens as Death releases me to stalk around the well, jerking the scraps of parchment from each pine cone and skimming every wish.

I hear no breathing either. No heartbeats.Odd.

I glance behind us, to the left and right—unsure what, exactly, I’m hoping to find—when my gaze catches on the paddock beyond the wishing well, where the witches kept their livestock. The gate stands wide open between two enormous spruces, and the cows, sheep, and chickens living within have vanished with the rest of the village. There are no signs of struggle, however, or violence of any kind. No bodies, no blood other than that which has dried in the witches’ bonfires. They appear to have simply... left.

My intuition prickles again.

Fled, the wind seems to whisper.

I glance at the cottage nearest us, taking in the drawn shutters before stepping tentatively toward the door. When none of the revenants stop me—simply watch from the shadows—I close the distance swiftly, ducking under a moldering branch and pulling at the handle. The door swings open without resistance.Unlocked.A single forgotten jar of elderberry jam rolls across the wooden floor, and a quick sweep of the pantry confirms it to be the only food left in the kitchen.

Twin waves of relief and dread crash through me as I close the door without a sound.

If I know Coco at all—and I think I do—she would’ve evacuated this place the instant Lou told her about Death and his revenants. It was her aunt’s grimoire, after all, that helped them tear through the veil in the first place; the blood witches would be the firstto whom Death turned if he had any questions. Coco would’ve made the connection. If she suspected Death might pay a visit, she wouldn’t have hesitated to whisk her kin to safety. They kept their whereabouts—their sheerexistence—secret for hundreds of years before this village, and they can likely hide for a hundred more.

Thank God.

Because if Death seeks blood witches, it cannot mean anything good.

I consider him warily now, holding my breath and awaiting his reaction, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned with the empty village. He doesn’t even seem surprised. Instead he dumps an armful of wishes into the well with a disgruntled expression before turning to find me. “To inspire laughter,” he says in answer to my unspoken question. “To help others. To ask questions.” Scoffing, he lifts his face to the wind and inhales deeply. “That one could learn a thing or two from you. Honestly, the only things to which I could even remotely relate werevisit a chocolate farmanddo a handstand. Humans are so incredibly tedious.”

“There is nothing more human than chocolate and handstands.” Then, before he can argue— “Did you know the village would be empty?”

“Yes.” He inhales again, eyes narrowing on the tree line in search of something. “Do you know if the lovely Cosette burned her aunt’s body?” he asks abruptly. “Did she ascend the ashes?”

I stare at him.

Whatever I expected him to say, that was not it, and any answer I might’ve given catches in my throat, which constricts to the size of a knifepoint. And it certainlyfeelslike a knifepoint has lodged there—because the only thing worse than Death seeking bloodwitches is Death seekingthatone. That very old, very evil, verydeadone. I shake my head, mustering every ounce of my conviction. “There is nothing more personal than ascension to a Dame Rouge.IfCosette chose to ascend her aunt’s ashes, it’s really none of your—”

“Ah, well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Death chuckles darkly, stowing his hands in his pockets and strolling into the trees without warning. He expects me to follow, and I do—oh, I do, chasing after him like a bat out of hell.This is bad.“Itismy concern—and yours too, I might add. It’ll be a damn difficult job to locate her body if Cosette didn’t bring it here. The Chasseurs could’ve buried it anywhere...”

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