Page 14

twelve

I scanned my ticket: middle seat, left side of row twenty-two. Unfortunate. Twenty-two wasn’t a bad number, exactly. It was just the age I’d been when I was cursed.

Ironically, it was supposed to symbolize dreams coming true. Some even said it marked the start of a twin flame journey.

I didn’t buy any of it.

Still, I let Death’s number keep me up at night and my mother’s windchimes get under my skin. So when I sat down, the number sat with me, quiet and unwelcome.

Phillips and Smith were only a few rows behind me, and Phillips made sure to give me an awkward thumbs up on his way past. Smith elbowed him with an embarrassed eye roll. Harmless as they may be, Phillip’s gentle flirting did nothing to quench my dry mouth or the headache building.

An elderly woman sat by the window, already asleep, and the young man in the aisle seat gave me a lust-filled grin as I squeezed past his knees to take the middle.

I resisted the urge to "accidentally" elbow him when he greeted me with a “Hi, beautiful,” and instead offered a shallow smile.

Any hope of sleeping through this five-hour flight had died the moment Phillips and Smith approached me. I wouldn’t be able to let my guard down—not in a packed metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air.

“What brings you to Boston?” my seat partner asked, nudging me in the side.

Great. Just my luck.

I groaned, giving him a short answer, hoping my tone would convey that I’d kindly appreciate for him to back the hell off. “Business.”

“Alright, alright, alright,” he chuckled.

This time, I rolled my eyes.

“Me—” he leaned in, his breath a disturbing blend of salami and coffee. “I’m going for pleasure.”

“That’s nice,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat. Maybe if I pretended to sleep, he’d take the hint.

To his credit, it worked for a while. We made it through takeoff in silence, and he spent the first hour scrolling on his phone. I didn’t sleep, but it was enough. I let the steady hum of the engines muffle my thoughts, letting it all fade into white noise.

It wasn’t death I feared. At certain points in my life, I’d even welcomed the idea, arms wide, heart open. But when you’re immortal, there are far worse things than the grave.

Brett suddenly gasped, blinding me with his phone’s screen as he shoved it inches from my face.

“Do you have a twin, Britta?” he asked, far too loud for the enclosed cabin.

It was a news article.

DEAD WOMAN, MISSING NANNY: CHILLING SCENE AT CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

My heart fell. Wrestling the phone from his hands, I scrolled through the article.

“Hey—!”

But I wasn’t listening.The article was already burned into my brain.

Security footage captured a woman leaving the scene. Authorities are asking for the public’s help in identifying her.

“She looks just like you!”

The photo at the bottom of the article showed me—fleeing the hospital, face tilted toward the cameras. Shit.

“She’s even wearing the same hoodie—” Brett gasped, jabbing his finger at the screen to zoom in.

“We could be doppelg?ngers for sure. Super crazy!” I rushed, shoving the phone back into his hands. “Hey, mind if I squeeze past ya? I need to go to the bathroom.” I unclipped my seatbelt, already shifting toward the aisle.

“Yeah, dude. No problem,” Brett said, leaning back to let me climb over his legs, though he barely glanced away from the screen.

As I made my way past, he turned in his seat and swung his phone toward the guy behind us. “Hey, don’t you think they look alike? Crazy, right?”

I cringed, pulling my hood up as I hurried down the narrow aisle, dodging shoulders and stray elbows. My palms were sweaty and my heart pounded. My face was on that screen. And Brett was on a mission to show it to the whole damn plane.

With a glance over my shoulder, Phillips and Smith both looked in my direction—probably because of Brett’s stupid, shrill voice.

Once inside the tiny bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, my forehead resting on the hard plastic. I was trapped. Flying through the sky. For another three hours.

Shaking my arms out, I tried to regain control, but it was slipping away from me as the events of the day began to take their toll. Count, Astoria, breathe. I walked myself through breathing exercises, staring at my haggard appearance in the small mirror.

Damn it.

I slammed my hand against the sink.

One article. Just one. The information was vague, but the journalist had still managed to spin it in the worst possible light. And how could they not? If anyone dug deep enough, they’d find out Elizabeth Rhodes didn’t exist.

The thought made my stomach turn.

Piper. Sanjay. Ishani.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” a feminine voice called through the door.

“All good,” I lied, wiping my sleeve across my face.

I needed a plan. Something with more direction than show up in a random city and hope the consequences don’t find me .

Damn it.

My fist met the sink again, the pain grounding me for half a second before frustration overwhelmed me—spilling out in the form of hot, humiliating tears.

“Miss?” she asked again, more urgently now. “My name is Charlotte, I’m your flight attendant. Do you need any assistance?”

I clenched my jaw, willing my hands to stop shaking. I had used the name Charlotte once . It only made the pain in my chest worse. I reached for some toilet paper to dab my face, but stumbled, knocking into the wall with a loud thud .

“Ma’am!”

The voice was sharp now. I could hear her moving. Probably calling for help.

“Britta?” Officer Phillips' voice cut through next, in a way that felt as if he was speaking to a frightened animal. “Are you alright?”

He murmured something to the attendant, who replied, but their words blurred together, distant against the pulse pounding in my ears.

“I’m fine,” I called weakly, even though I wasn’t.

My body wouldn't stop shaking.

I need help.

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and the second it landed, my entire body flushed with feverish shame. Help meant trust. Help meant surrender. And there was only one person I knew who might show up if I asked.

Death.

God, even thinking it felt like falling off a cliff, except I didn’t see another way.

I stared at my reflection, pale and wild-eyed, and mumbled to the mirror, “Alright, Death. You win.”

There was no protocol for this. He had a habit of appearing when I least wanted him—never when I actually called. Still, desperation made fools of us all.

“Come on, Death,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair and pressing it to my forehead. “Just this once, show up on time.”

“Britta?” Phillips again, louder. Closer. Maybe he was outside the door now.

My heartbeat stuttered. “Death, I need you!” I hissed, louder now, fists gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

Silence.

No shift in the air. No flicker of power. Not even a chill. Just cheap plastic walls and fluorescent lighting.

I snapped.

“Death, I swear on my life I will haunt—”

A voice, low and amused, curled around the words as one might see smoke.

“ Haunt , huh?” he drawled.

His reflection appeared beside mine, in the cramped bathroom, head tilted in lazy amusement. “I thought I was the one who did the haunting.”

That crooked smile. That voice like velvet and daggers.

And those eyes, searching mine in the mirror.

I spun around, and there he was. His body pressed into mine in the tight space, his presence swallowing me whole as he looked down at me.

“You came,” I said in a hush—trying, but failing, to hide the relief in my voice.

“You called,” he replied, as if it was that simple. He reached up and wiped my cheek with the back of his hand, his touch lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. It hung in the air, a spark in the silence, as Phillips' muffled voice called to me through the door.

The air was thick now, stifling, and my chest constricted for a reason entirely different than panic. Grim’s gaze sharpened as he took me in, I tried to not squirm, but with my enemy before me and my mistakes closing in, I couldn’t lower the sword.

“Britta,” Phillips’ voice crackled through the door, “I’m going to have them open the door—”

Before I could react, Grim snapped his fingers. The harsh sound sliced through the air, and the annoying prattle of Phillips’ voice went silent. Whether he’d sealed his mouth shut or sent him back to his seat, I couldn’t tell, but the space fell quiet. Calm.

“You need me?” Grim asked, his tone laced with quiet command.

“No,” I argued. When it came to fight or flight, I had always picked flight. Unless Grim was in the middle of it all, then the fight came rushing to the front like I’d forgotten how to hold my tongue.

“Oh? I must have mistaken your pleas for that of the wind. I’ll be going…” he snapped his fingers again, and Phillip’s voice returned beyond the door.

“No!” I reached out, grabbing hold of his arm. “I’m sorry, yes. Yes, I need you.” My self-preservation was much too strong to pay any mind to the naked glint of mischief in his eye.

His hand came atop mine on his arm, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand in a soothing motion. “I’ve waited a century to hear those words from your lips.” Smiling, he leaned in closer. “They’re sweet. Like honey dripping from the comb.”

With a short glare, I yanked my hand from his grip. He’d make this hell itself, which was fitting because Death was nothing if not consistent, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I’d made it this far without being thrown into prison or worse.

I never fancied the thought of becoming the next test subject of the government.

Death could not hold me; fear had already taken its cut and the hollow shell of my life would not be spent dissected for those wishing to recreate my fiery inferno.

I’d found the fountain of youth, and it was not as one might think.

“Just get me out of here,” I clipped, pressing back against the sink, acutely aware of the limited amount of space between our bodies.

Death leaned closer, running a finger down my cheek. “Eager to escape me?”

“Always,” I bit out.

He chuckled, clearly amused. He wore jeans and a heavy cabled cream sweater.

His hair was disheveled and met by a shadow of a beard that I’d never seen him sport before.

“We’re not going anywhere without an agreement.

I was prepared to offer you my services last night, but you—very rudely, might I add—did not want to listen to what I had to say. ”

“Well, we’re here now. No reason to gloat.”

“There’s always reason to gloat,” he quipped.

I couldn’t decide what was more infuriating: the fact that he must argue with each word out of my mouth, or the fact that he’d continued to run circles over my skin. The motion was disgustingly soothing.

“What do you want, Death?”

He smiled. The kind of smile that felt like utter ruin, lips curling into a threat and a promise all at once. Dread pooled in my stomach.