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My fingers wrap around the hilt.

Across the grotto, the clock on the desk strikes midnight. Its bells toll one after the other, twelve beats. Twelve breaths. Then—

“This isn’t the end, moje sunce.” Michal’s hand joins mine around the dagger, positioning it at his chest. His eyes burn into mine, and his voice lowers, darkens, until it could just be the two of us in the grotto. No one else exists. “Truth or dare?”

Torn between a laugh and a sob, I cannot help but answer. “I thought you’d grown tired of playing with me.”

“Never.”

“Dare.”

“Don’t be gentle.” His fingers tighten around mine, and he pulls me closer as if for a kiss. “Just make it quick.”

So I do.

Chapter Forty-Four

The Realm of the Dead

I slide the dagger between his ribs and straight through his heart. “Iwillfind you,” I whisper fiercely, but I do not know if he hears me. As the blade slides home, he closes his eyes, and his last breath sounds like my name. His hands fall from mine. And his body—it desiccates around the blade, aging years, decades, centuries in the span of seconds until—

Until he’s gone.

Silent tears pour down my face.

His body fades into dust and then nothing at all, and I am left clutching a dagger where Michal used to be. My hands drop it instinctively—it clangs loudly,cruellyagainst the stone—and I stumble back a step, shoulders shaking now. Chestaching. Falling to my knees, I claw at the place where our bond resided—whereMichalresided—yet find it empty. It’s gone too.

He’s gone.

And it feels like I’ll never be whole again.

A small hand touches my shoulder as Death applauds, shattering the silence, and when I finally tear my gaze from the dagger, I find Odessa standing over me, her face pale and set. “This is not over,” she says quietly.

In my periphery, Lou nods—just a single drop of her chin. To my surprise, Filippa doesn’t lift her blades again; she simply staresbetween our mother and me, her expression vacillating between uncertainty and antagonism.

“A splendid performance!” Cackling, Death loops his arm around my shoulders and crushes my body against his like we’re old friends. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Itoldyou that we’d make—”

“How do I enter the maelstrom?” I deadpan. “Do I jump?”

His wide grin slips for just a second before he affixes it back in place. “A fair enough question, I suppose, and one with an easy answer—yes.” He shunts me toward the water’s edge with more force than necessary, and I stumble again, nearly crashing to my knees. Numbness prickles along my arms, my legs, like needles sticking my flesh. Detached, I watch as Lou and Reid both move forward to help, yet Death blocks their path, glaring past them at Filippa, who still should’ve been restraining them.

“Filippa, darling?” He throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Are those knives at your sides just props, or do you plan to wield them anytime soon?”

Filippa does not answer.

His eyes narrow, and any euphoria he felt at Michal’s death seems to sharpen to a knifepoint as he stalks toward her, clicking his fingers in her face. “Hello?” he asks softly, dangerously. “Did you hear me? I asked you a question, my dear.” When she merely looks up at him, thoroughly unaffected—her stitches taut and her mouth set—he cocks his head with dark amusement. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. This is all part of theplan, or have you decided you’d rather waltz into the sunset with this lot than meet your precious daughter?” His lip curls. “What the hell was her name again? Frosty?”

At the mention of her lost child, Filippa’s face twists. “Frostine,” she says reflexively.

“Not an improvement.” Death’s brows rise in quiet disbelief. “And I must say, darling, I don’t love your tone.” His chin jerks between me and the maelstrom, but those silver eyes never leave hers. “However, if you insist on indulging this little fit of rebellion, by all means—join her. Keep your sister focused on the task at hand—ensure she returns to me—or you can kiss that little brat goodbye.”

Filippa’s fists clench almost imperceptibly around the knives. For just a second, I think she might attack, but instead she says, “Do it yourself.”

Death stills. All humor vanishes from his expression, and the silence between them snaps tighter, deadlier. Still Filippa does not flinch—not until Death’s hand darts out and captures her throat, squeezing until the tendons strain. And I should fear for my sister—for myself—but I cannot bring myself to care about anyone but Michal. My gaze flits back to the maelstrom. He is down there somewhere; he iswaitingfor me, and each second I remain here is a second wasted.

“Andwhy,” Death murmurs, tilting his head, “would I do that?”

A vein in Filippa’s neck pulsates; the muscles in her jaw feather. When she swallows hard—her silence now an acquiescence—his grip loosens, and his thumb rubs tender circles against the bruises he left on her skin.