Page 43 of Grim

DanceoftheDescent

C rossing into the OtherWorld hits like a fever dream, where you wake up freezing, sweating, and shaking simultaneously.

The air is cold and crystalline. Icy particles assault my throat and lungs on each fractured inhale.

The sky is an endless swirl of color and movement, shot through with violet and silver.

The ground beneath my feet isn’t earth, but something that feels like stone carved from glass and fog.

This place feels like it’s breathing, and we exist inside its breath.

For being the home of the dead, it sure does feel alive.

My gaze flicks to Kane. He hasn’t really spoken since the bedroom. Not that there was much time to do more than clean up and head out. Still, he seems on edge. Though taking a living woman to the OtherWorld is probably fraught with anxious potential.

I look around, wondering if this will be my home after tomorrow.

Will I live here? I want to ask Kane. I want to ask him if he’ll be with me through the intake process, but I’m also scared to know the answer.

Kane has told me he has no idea where I will end up once AfterLife Processing is complete and if we will ever even see each other again.

The thought of never seeing Kane again after tomorrow makes forever feel like a very long time .

Maybe that’s why he’s so quiet. Perhaps this is his way of dealing with the fact that he and I are essentially ships passing in the night.

Kane turns and looks at me, his eyes dragging over my body like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Hold still,” he says, voice low enough to make something flutter deep in my belly.

From inside his coat, he produces a delicate black mask. Unlike the metaphorical one he wears at almost all times, this mask I can touch and hold.

It is made of lace, leather, and whisper-fine mesh.

The edges are etched in silver detailing that catches the ambient light like frost catching moonlight.

It’s shaped to hug the face closely, arching up at the temples in curling designs that remind me of thorns and wings.

There are thin feathered accents, not soft or dainty, but sharp—sleek black plumes that fan up like a crown of raven quills.

It evokes an immediate sense of danger and beauty, like the mask itself could harm someone and it would be impossible to look away as it happened.

I reach for it instinctively, but Kane stops me with a slight tilt of his head.

“Let me.”

He steps in closer, and both my breath and spine tighten. The space between us feels like nothing at all, like we fill the empty air in the gap between our physical connection. His scent lingers with hints of cold night air, laced with charred wood.

His fingers brush my cheekbones and then the mask is against my skin. It feels momentarily cold against my flesh.

“Close your eyes, ma chère ,” he murmurs, and I do.

His knuckles graze the curve of my jaw as he cinches the mask into place. Instantly, it feels as though it were molded perfectly to the contours of my face, like it was only ever meant to belong to me.

Cinderella had her glass slipper. I have my black leather-and-lace mask.

The ribbons slide behind my head like satin serpents as he knots them patiently. He moves slowly enough to make me hyperaware of every breath in my lungs and beat of my heart .

When he’s finished, he doesn’t step back. Not yet. His fingers linger near the hollow of my throat, hovering just above my collarbone.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I whisper, breath catching.

“Of course I am.” His voice slides against my skin like warm smoke. “You should see yourself.” He steps back and stares at me like I’m the only flower in bloom.

I shift under the weight of it, suddenly more aware of the dress, the mask, and the way my chest rises and falls beneath the corset.

Kane clears his throat and breaks the moment like he’s snapped a whip.

“Something’s missing,” he says, scanning me appraisingly.

“Missing?” I lift a brow. “You’re not about to suggest glitter, are you? Because if you bedazzle me, Grim, I swear I’ll—”

He cuts me off with the barest twitch of his mouth. “Hold out your hand, Mayday.”

I hesitate momentarily, then comply.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a long thin black box that looks an awful lot like a jewelry box.

“Is that?” I ask, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Just open it,” he grumbles with an expression on his face that I have not seen before. There is a crack in that confident veneer as he hands over the box.

I open the lid of the felt box to reveal a gorgeous gold necklace inside. A delicate gold chain holds a pair of sapphires, set off by a stunning diamond in the center. This is not just any necklace. It’s the necklace—the one I saw during our trip to the mall.

I blink away the moisture in my eyes as I wrap my head around the gesture.

“You …” I trail off, looking up at him. “How did you get this?”

Kane shrugs nonchalantly. “I thought it suited you.”

“You thought it suited me?” I repeat in disbelief.

“I thought you’d like it,” he mutters with that slight crack appearing again. He hardens in the next beat when he says, “Don’t make a scene.”

I blink again, trying not to let it show on my face how much this gesture means to me.

The piece of jewelry is beautiful, but more than that, the gesture says that he saw me.

He remembered something that mattered to me and found a way to make it mine.

I lift the necklace, fingers brushing the cool metal, and Kane steps in again, taking it from my hands with a sigh.

“Turn around,” he commands.

The moment his fingers touch the back of my neck, I forget how to breathe. He fastens the clasp, then lets his fingers trail just a second longer than necessary against my skin. Not enough to be overt, but just enough to make me melt.

“ Superbe ,” he murmurs in French. “ Stupéfiant .”

“Wait, did you just say it looks stupid?” I ask, a bit stunned.

“Stunning. Both words mean some version of stunning, but this looks so good on you that one version was simply not enough.”

I am speechless as I watch the confident Kane reemerge before me. He offers me his elbow like a man raised right, and I thread my arm through his, my fingers coming to rest atop his gloved hand.

The leather of his glove is cold beneath my fingers, but his presence at my side radiates with heat and a gravitational pull.

He leads me through the open arch of a long, crumbling corridor that gives way to a ballroom carved from midnight itself.

It is unnaturally, almost impossibly beautiful. Like walking through cracks in the mountains until you round the corner and gaze on the treasury at Petra, only this place has an ethereal quality to it that could not exist in the world I come from.

A black glass-and-mirrored dome ceiling reflect this singular sky—velvet dark, threaded with violet lightning and glowing embers, like stars on fire.

The walls are lined with towering candelabras that burn with silver flames.

Light shimmers across the marble floor, which looks wet, but doesn’t make a sound underfoot .

Everything moves like it’s part of the same dream—guests in masks, drifting across the floor in elaborate gowns and shadowy suits; laughter echoing in strange, slow rhythms that feel like music, even when none plays. Some of the dancers have no shadows. Some have too many.

Everyone wears some sort of mask. And yet I feel them watching me. Their attention prickles my skin like the eyes behind the masks are shooting invisible needles in my direction. Not entirely aggressive, but it feels invasively curious.

“Are they staring at me because I’m not a part of their world?”

“No, Mayday. They’re staring at you because you are the most beautiful creature in this room.”

My knees go weak, and I lean deeper into his steady arm.

He smirks at the noticeable effect that line had on me, and then, like the smug bastard he is, he undercuts the compliment by adding, “Or perhaps it’s because you’re still alive.

We don’t get a lot of full-flesh humans down here.

Who’s to say? We could ask some of them if you’d like. ”

“Dick,” I mumble under my breath.

We move deeper into the ballroom. A man made of smoke offers me a glass of something that looks like wine but smells like petrichor. Kane plucks it from the tray before I can reach it.

“Not for you,” he murmurs, sliding the glass back.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m too delicate?” I say, feigning irritation to mask the flutter in my chest.

“No,” he replies simply. “This is the part where I keep you alive.”

Before I can argue, he veers left, guiding me through the swirling chaos of lace and shadow until we stop at the far side of the ballroom.

To our right, pairs of spirits swirl and sway in timed rhythm to the music playing from the string quartet in the corner.

Each instrument hovers in front of the smartly dressed musicians, the bows moving without the use of hands.

It is another visual indication that this party is taking place in some other realm, somewhere that could not be Earth .

The music is haunting and flawless, minor chords strummed with deep pathos.

I’m just starting to relax into the shadows Kane picked as our temporary sanctuary when a ripple cuts through the air. It slices through the room like a cold gust through a cracked window.

And then I see him.

He moves like a predatory wolf. His liquid walk is full of grace and confidence.

Sharp lines cut the air around the edges of his fitted charcoal suit with oxblood undertones and a paisley pattern that glints red when it catches the light.

His mask is a sculpted slash of metal and shadow, curling up over his cheekbones like smoke, concealing half his face, but I know who it is.

Even before he opens his mouth, I feel it in the static coil of energy radiating from Kane.