Page 104 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

MISCHE

V incent tucked his hands into his pockets and looked me up and down.

“You look better than when I last saw you,” he remarked.

I blinked slowly. We stood together in hazy, dreamy nothingness—a blurry version of the underworld. Vincent stood right next to me, but he seemed very far away. Still, he was whole. Not dissolving, like he was when I saw him last.

“You do, too,” I said.

“The underworld is stable now. I take it, due to your actions.”

Was it? I hoped so. I looked down at my hands—brown skin, marked with the ethereal red ink of my Heir Marks and the distinctly imperfect texture of my scars. Human, vampire, and god all in one.

I blinked, trying to remember the events that led me here. Gods, goddesses, bargains, and divine hearts. And of course, Asar’s embrace.

“I’m not dead again, am I?” I asked.

“I should hope not. I can’t bear to go through this all again.”

“I didn’t think I was, but?.?.?.” I shrugged. “I figure that with my history, it was always a possibility.”

An almost—almost—smile twitched at the corner of Vincent’s mouth. “I advise you to do all you can to only die once more. Ideally many years from now. Unfortunately, I know firsthand that it is difficult to be an effective ruler if you are dead.”

Ruler.

For some reason, hearing Vincent, of all people, refer to me by that word just made it all feel staggeringly real.

“Oh, gods,” I muttered, swaying a little. “I don’t know that I know how to be an effective ruler alive, either.”

“It’s simple enough. Be deliberate in choosing your next actions. Be ruthless in executing them.” His gaze flicked down to my chest—where, even in this dream world, I felt such an unnatural heaviness sitting beneath my ribs. “And guard that heart of yours.”

I pressed my hand over my chest. Felt the twin hearts beating there. My mortal heart, alive again. And that little piece of divinity throbbing beneath it.

Both precious. Both equally powerful.

“Which one?” I asked.

A faint smile. “Both.”

Then he looked out into the mists. “The veil heals. I’ll be returning to the underworld, where I belong. I will no longer be visiting your dreams. Or your mirrors.”

He was right. I could already feel the distance between us—the chasm between life and death opening. Healthy, and good. Yet, the words came with such an unexpected, bittersweet pang.

I watched Vincent’s profile as he stared out into the fog. What, I wondered, did he see out there? What possibilities would the afterlife offer him?

“Will you find her?” I asked quietly. “Alana?”

Vincent’s throat bobbed. “It would be selfish of me to seek her forgiveness after all I had done to her. She deserves her peace with her family. I gave her a safe afterlife. I gave our daughter a safe kingdom, albeit for now. That is all I need.”

At the mention of Oraya, his gaze slowly turned back to me—moon silver, even in death, just like hers.

“I was watching her in battle,” he said. “She was incredible, wasn’t she? Greater than a queen. A demigoddess.”

He said it the way parents in Vostis used to brag about their children’s performances. With such unrestrained pride.

I smiled. “Yes. She is incredible.”

He slid one hand out of his pocket and withdrew a piece of folded parchment. He stared down at it, then said stiffly, avoiding my eyes, “I don’t know how your Shadowborn tricks work. I don’t know if you will still have this when you awaken. But if you do?.?.?.”

He somewhat hurriedly pressed the parchment into my hands, then turned away. In elegant script, a name was written on the envelope: Little Serpent.

“I thought you said that you had nothing more you could say to her,” I said.

He said, after a pause, “I was told that it was worth trying, anyway.”

My chest tightened. I took the parchment. “I will give it to her.”

He cleared his throat and looked away, as if trying to physically shed his vulnerability.

“So,” I said, “what will you do with your afterlife now?”

“I don’t know.” He shot me a sly, sidelong glance. “What does a missionary do once their mission is complete, acolyte?”

Sun fucking take me. To think I had been the lost soul this whole time.

“I heard you aren’t supposed to address a queen by her first name,” I said.

“Surely you cannot expect me to call you ‘Highness.’?”

“The rumor is that I’m the queen of the dead. And you are dead. Therefore?.?.?.”

His eyes narrowed at me, unamused.

I couldn’t bite back my laugh. “But anyway, the answer to your question is, whatever you please .”

“Hm,” he said, considering this.

We stood in silence for a long moment. Then, past a lump in my throat, I said, “Thank you. For all of it. I wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

“It was what any king would do to save his kingdom,” he said without hesitation, but I felt his piercing stare on the letter in my hand—on the name that adorned it.

He turned back to the silver skies. A cold gust howled.

“A lonely afterlife sounds quite dull,” he said. “Especially when there are such interesting times ahead. Should you ever need to lead an army of the dead, Deathborn Queen, I may be willing to volunteer my expertise. I was quite a formidable force in my time.”

He stepped off into the mists. Then turned, one last time. Lowered his head in an almost-bow.

“Be ruthless, Highness,” he said.

And the winds of the underworld, at last, swept him away.

Welcome home, Morthryn breathed.

I drew in a sharp breath.

Breath.

Gods, that felt so good. Air rushing through my lungs. Real.

I was already grinning by the time I sat up. I was giddy in all my aches and pains, in the headache and the dizziness and even the hungry clench of my stomach. It was all so damned wonderful .

I lifted my hand to see smooth brown skin, painted over with red marks. The eye of Alarus stared back at me, nestled within swirling lines that reminded me of lightning. Reminded me of scars.

I let my hand fall, and my eyes rose.

I recognized this room immediately. No, I hadn’t spent much time here before we left on our journey to the Descent.

But Asar’s room here still felt like home.

The books meticulously indexed and sorted on the shelves, no angle left askew.

The velvet blankets that seemed to be slept in too little.

The neat desk with parchment perfectly stacked.

And of course, the piano in the corner, keys well-worn.

The windows looked out into a sunless sky.

They were cracked, and several gouges ran up the walls, but otherwise, this room was shockingly well-preserved.

As if, even in its worst possible state, Morthryn had protected it for him.

For him.

Asar was at my bedside, leaning forward in his chair and fast asleep over my legs, fingers lightly clutching me. I could imagine that he had spent many dawns like this over his desk. Now, instead of standing watch over knowledge, he stood watch over me.

His face was pressed against the velvet bedspread, dark lashes over his cheeks, lips barely parted. His scars danced over his skin, pulsing slightly, the light within them only barely shifting, like even it was at peace. He looked so innocent, so peaceful. And so very mortal.

Gently, so gently, I traced his scars from his throat, up his jaw, over his lips.

He startled awake and immediately flew upright. When his eyes landed on me, his entire body collapsed in relief.

“Mische—” he breathed.

But I threw myself against him, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him.

His arms folded around my body. We were awkwardly hanging over the edge of the bed, barely keeping our balance, but I didn’t notice or care. I just kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

“How?” I managed to choke out, between them.

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered, words stifled against my mouth.

He was right. None of it—gods and divinity and wars and wraiths—mattered at all to me now.

With an unceremonious tug, I pulled Asar onto the bed with me.

Clumsily, we peeled our clothing off. He bit my lip hard enough to draw blood and groaned at the— alive, alive, alive —taste on his tongue and mine.

I raked my fingernails down his bare back and shivered with delight that it left marks on his— mortal, mortal, mortal —flesh.

Soon, we were bare skin on bare skin. We relished every fallibility.

Every small pain, every reminder that we were alive, and mortal, and together.

I pushed Asar down and climbed over him.

I pressed my hand against his, our fingers winding around each other’s.

Our scars and our Heir Marks alike were perfect complements, weaving together like they’d always been meant to be that way.

And when I lowered myself onto his length, when we were at last combined, I had no doubt that we were, in fact, one being.

The sensation of him inside me felt so devastatingly real. I leaned down, my forehead pressing to his, eyes squeezed shut.

It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.

Only now, with him as close to me as two beings could physically get, did it feel real.

I know, he murmured into my mind. He kissed my cheek. I know.

Those were the only words we needed. The only words we had. Total understanding.

We took each other slowly, relishing each movement of muscle, each gasp of breath, each wonderful pain of teeth or fingernails. I held his hand through it all. And when we came together, in a synchronized wave, I stifled my moans against his kiss.

As our bodies relaxed, I still didn’t move. We just stayed there, wrapped up in each other.

At last, he said quietly, “I could not let you go, Dawndrinker.”

I closed my eyes and buried my face between his neck and shoulder. Breathed in his scent of ice-dusted ivy.

The sacrifice I could not make.

And in this moment, I was so, so happy to be alive.

“Good,” I murmured.