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More disturbingly, the dead shove their way into his mouth.

The Thief’s eyes are open, and the entire time he stares at me, his eyes sharp with desire and alarm. Euribios reaches for me, either in want or in need, the water around his arm darkening with his shadowy blood.

But I never take that offered hand, and the spirits crowd in so thick that after several moments, the Thief disappears behind so many ephemeral bodies.

The moment the two of us lose eye contact, his screams start up, the sound muffled by water and the spirits forcing their way into his mouth.

I linger underwater, my ears feasting on his dying cries. They grow fainter and fainter, until eventually they vanish altogether.

And then—

BOOM!

The Thief’s magic detonates, rippling outward. It slams into me, throwing me back before continuing on, blasting across the throne room.

In its wake, the spirits begin to fall away from the Thief. Only, there’s no more Thief. No body, no bones—just a few drops of inky blood. The last of his dark magic unfurls in the water, then dissipates away.

His death wasn’t the sweet seduction I promised him it would be. It was painful, brutal. As it should’ve been.

He’s gone.

The Thief is finally dead.

Maybe there will always be darkness and shadows and all those things that happen when the sun goes down. Maybe night will always be waiting to swallow up the earth, but today—

Darkness died.

Chapter 45

When I risefrom the water, the dead cling to my clothes, not wanting to release me. Eventually—and reluctantly—they do. I gave them the blood they demanded, after all.

They slip back into the pool where they wait for whatever it is that the rulers of the underworld do with the souls of the dead.

Now that the Thief is well and truly gone, his staggering magic lifts from the air, and the room around me brightens.

The siren’s savage nature is still riding me hard. I want to kiss and touch and taste and torment. I want it all so badly that my wings and claws throb.

I’ve only taken a step or two when Des appears several feet from me.

I come to a stop, and I don’t dare breathe.

This feels like a spell, one that will be broken the moment I move.

We stare at each other for one beat, then two. And then the spell is broken.

Des disappears, only to reappear right in front of me. The Night King crushes me to him, and it is everything I’ve needed.

I gather his shirt into my fists as his lips find mine. Suddenly, it feels like I can breathe again, like the world has colors and purpose and joy because Desmond Flynn, King of the Night, is alive and in my arms.

He tastes like magic and mayhem. I want to laugh; I’m sure I’m going to cry. Des is no dream, no apparition that will be swept away when the Thief has had his fun.

Somehow, he outwitted death.

When the kiss ends, I stare up at him. Those pale, silver eyes, that softness right around his mouth, all those planes of his face that are so very heartbreaking—I didn’t know I could miss anything so damn badly.

“You’re real, right?” I whisper.

“I’m real.” The Night King is giving me that gaze of his, the one that makes me feel like I’m something worthy of worship.