Page 142 of The Shadow Bride

Michal takes my hand when I move to follow, shaking his head subtly as his voice lowers. “Célie...”

I glance up at him, the hair on my nape lifting at the way he looks back at me—as if trying to memorize my eyes, my lips, the curve of my cheek. As if suspecting he won’t see them again for a very long time. But... no.

No.

“Don’t do this, Michal,” I warn, tightening my fingers around his. Because I know what he plans to say. I know what he plans todo, and I will not let him. I willnot—

“I cannot go back with you,” he says quietly.

My stomach sinks, and my throat burns like I’m still choking. I scowl at him. “What are you talking about? Ofcourseyou must come back.” I wave my hands to the garden around us, that hateful river, before stabbing a finger in his chest. “The entirepointof all this was to resurrect you—”

“If you resurrect me”—he catches my finger and brings it to his lips—“the veil will come down. Death will win.”

My scowl deepens at the truth of his words. His truth isn’t the only one, however; mine exists too, and I refuse to live without him. “I cannot go back without you. The bond”—I tug on the cord, and it pulses brightly between us—“it’ll bring me right back here, remember? We cannot be apart.”

Frustration builds inside me as he sadly shakes his head. I was so focused on rescuing Michal, on reuniting with him, that I forgot everything that comes after: Death, namely, and his ticking clock. The fate of my mother, of all our loved ones. The fate of the entire world. We stare at each other as the bleak reality of our situation settles between us.

“Death—his magic—has kept the bond alive.” He closes my hand around the cord, and perhaps it’s my imagination, but itseems to dim slightly at his words. “If you return to the realm of the living, it’ll vanish.” A pause. “You’ll be free.”

Free.

Instantly, that frustration spikes to anger, and Michal flinches as I rip the cord closer. “Don’t be stupid. If I return alone to the realm of the living, I will not befree. I will become Death’s Bride in truth, and it’ll be all your fault—your noble,infuriatingfault.” I glare up at him, seizing his shirtfront. “You once called me a martyr, but I’ve never met anyone as hypocritical as you. I will not let you sacrifice yourself again.” Then, lifting my chin, “Twice was enough.”

When Filippa snickers from up ahead, I turn to glare at her too. She stops walking, refusing to cower as she says, “Let me get this straight—when Frederic did this, it was wrong, but now that it’s you—now that it’s Saint Célie—the ends justify the means?”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Dimitri snarls. “Frederic isnothinglike Célie—nothing like my cousin either. Your dear oldFrednever thought about anyone but himself. Case in point: he murdered yoursisterto bring you back, and he didn’t think twice about the consequences. Not just all this”—he waves an agitated hand at the storm cloud—“but also how it would affectyou. Can you honestly say you approved of that sacrifice? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t have hated him if you’d lost Célie forever?”

Though Filippa opens her mouth angrily, she snaps it shut again as his words wash over her. And when her gaze flicks to mine, I look away swiftly, unable to meet it.Do you think—if she stood here now—she would choose death in order to let you live?“He said it should’ve been me,” I whisper to my feet.

All three of them still at the words. Even the wind diesmomentarily, and I glance up to find Filippa looking stricken. After another moment, she swallows hard. “He was wrong.”

Dimitri shakes his head, his expression darkening as we four hesitate—torn between the river and the veil. True death and life. “There is no happy ending for you and your daughter. Death does not care about you, Filippa. He does not care about anyone. If you do not obey his every whim, he will cast you aside, and if youdo, he will never bring back your daughter. Without Frostine, he cannot control you. You have always been just a pawn to him—and so have I.” His voice softens. “The two of us are alike in that way.”

She blinks rapidly, her hands falling limp at her sides, and perhaps Idohave a soft and bleeding heart; perhaps I shouldn’t protect her right now, but I also cannot help it. She is my sister, and she will always be my sister. I never want to see her cry. Michal and I move closer to them. Closer to the veil. “Just think about it, Filippa. Your life has been hard, but it didn’t always need to be. Let us help you.”

She still does not answer, however, as if paralyzed by emotion.

I look away to give her distance, focusing on the shredded veil, and Dimitri does the same, the wheels spinning inside his head. He studies his hands then, suddenly rapt in thought. “If we returned to our original bodies when we entered this realm,” he begins slowly, “what would happen to Death if he followed us?” His gaze snaps abruptly to Michal. “Perhaps we have a third path before us. One that doesn’t involve the end of the worldorthe two of us crossing that damn river again. Permanently this time.”

Michal raises a brow, intrigued. “You think Death would return to his original body too.”

“I think it’s worth exploring.”

“What does Death’s original body even look like?” I ask.

Seconds stretch between us, wrought with tension, apprehension, even the smallest flicker of hope, until at long last, Filippa speaks. “He doesn’t have one,” she says quietly, refusing to look at any of us. “He came to me after Morgane finished her torture, but I couldn’t see him. I felt his presence instead—like a gentle night settling over me. I simply closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was here. Death isn’t meant to be a villain. He is meant to be...Death.”

“Yes, well, that’s all very good, except—” A bite of impatience sharpens my words. Not at them, but at this wretchedly circular conversation. “Look, we’ve already failed to lure Death, thevillain, here once, and even if we hadn’t, we have no way of mending the veil to trap him—not without you crossing the river and dying all over again.” Filippa doesn’t look surprised by this information. Instead her emerald gaze glitters with cunning. She already knows all of this—three steps ahead, as usual—yet she still refuses to share anything else.

We stare at each other, both refusing to budge.

“If I return,” Michal says after another moment, “you won’t even be able to try. Perhaps my resurrection will not bring down the veil completely, but it will tear another hole, create another maelstrom. Potentially it could even trigger the end of the world as we know it.”

I resist the urge to stamp my foot in refusal. He still doesn’t seem to understand that I will not—cannot—live without him. I would rather cross the river myself than return as Death’s Bride. “We’ve been over this too,” I insist. “How many times have you watched me do it? I can mend any tear I create. I canstopthesickness before it becomes permanent, which means—”

Which... means...

I can mend any tear I create.

---