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Michal rears his head. “Let hergo—”

Death ignores him. “Dearest little Mila, my eternal damsel,” he purrs against her lips, and her life—or what remains of it—radiates between his fingers. “Will the third time be the charm? Surely you’ve realized by now that some memories, even imprints of memories, are best left forgotten.” He twists his hand, and she falls to her knees before Michal, who desperately tries to reach her. I lurch to my feet, bracing torendDeath limb from limb, but Mila does not flinch or weep. Instead resolution burns in her eyes.

There is no fear there. Only acceptance.

She looks at Michal, her gaze as endless as the seas and the skies and the heavens themselves. She looks, and she looks, like she’ll never stop looking. “I love you, brother. I’ve always loved you, and I’ll still love you after I’m gone.”

“No—”

“It’s time.”

Oh God.Not Mila.Not Mila.The girl who taught me to see the dark, the first one who dared me not to fear it. The ghost who held my hand and stayed. She always stayed.

She can’t leave now.

I scramble for the veil, clutching at vapors, forcing my emotions to the surface as I tear and tear. Perhaps I can rip her backward, or... or push her through it. Perhaps I can save her as she has always saved us. “I never should have blamed you, brother,” she whispers. Though tears stream down Michal’s cheeks, he leansforward to press a furious kiss upon her forehead. “Do ponovnog susreta.”

She smiles.

And Death fully clenches his fist before ripping the light from Mila’s chest. “How touching,” he says, and Mila’s existence implodes into stardust around us.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Sins of Another

I cannot think in the aftermath, in the great divide. I cannotexist. Because before there was Mila, and now there is not. Chest heaving, I clutch the grass in an attempt to orient myself, but Death treads on my fingers as he passes. “Come,” he tells my sister.My sister, whose last words still ring in my head. “Mathilde clearly escaped. We’re leaving.”

He hesitates beside Dimitri before crouching to ruffle his hair. “And thanks for the tip, Dima. This trip has been most”—he flicks an arch glance to where Mila used to be—“productive.”

As Death rises, Dimitri begins to stir.

No.Dima.

Thanks for the tip, Dima.

I close my eyes in defeat, letting the words wash over me. The betrayal.

Dimitri told Death about Mathilde.

All at once, the realization is too much. It’salltoo much—Dimitri, Mathilde, Filippa.Filippa.My head snaps up, and I stare at my sister in anguish, unable to touch her. Unable toreachher. Unable to let her go. The words tear from my throat, unbidden, and my voice breaks on a plea. “Don’t go with him. Please.”

Filippa glances back, hesitating for a second too long as our mother weeps beside me. “Pip,” I breathe. And for just an instant—one cruel, faltering beat of our mother’s heart—I think she might listen. I think she might stay.

Then she turns and follows Death through the veil.

Maman falls to her knees as the revenants go with them, and I drop with her, cradling her in my arms and stroking her disheveled hair. She feels so feeble. So frail. As Michal struggles to free his cousins, she erupts into another fit of rattling coughs.From the shock, I tell myself.Only from the shock.

Dimitri crouches beside us in the next moment.

Despite his role in this, I allow him to pull my mother upright. Perhaps because his ankles and wrists still seep crimson, and in order to heal them, he must feed from someone who is not Death. Perhaps because without Death’s blood, he will hurt them. He will kill them.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead, unsure for what I’m apologizing.

He shakes his head. “I don’t deserve your compassion, Célie.”

“Dimitri—”

“Mila is gone because of me. I let slip about Mathilde, and now—now Mila is gone.” His expression fills with revulsion. With complete and utter self-loathing. “I should have died instead.”