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twenty-three

Astoria

I held the necklace in my palm, noticing the inscription I’d never seen before: My Darling Curse .

It had been almost fifteen years since he'd given it to me and I couldn’t help but smile at the memory and how I'd hurled it at his head, watching it clatter across the echoing tile as he vanished into thin air. Instead of leaving it behind, I’d tucked it into a napkin, adding it to my small collection of treasures beside my mother’s book and my father’s letter.

It was strange—being here in Death’s house.

It was late evening, and I was alone. Day popped in and out a few times, but between the bouts of exhaustion from traveling through the portals and the fact I was now in a different time zone, I spent most of the day asleep.

Outside, the horizon stretched in a wash of greens, where long grasses bled into a stormy sky that kissed the rough, restless sea.

Melancholy was the first word that came to mind.

Yet something about the wind—the rhythmic breathing of the grass as it bent to its will, a pulse echoing over the hills—stirred something deeper inside me. It wasn’t sadness. It was rest.

I’d half-expected to find myself in the depths of a fiery cavern, leagues below the surface. But instead, I looked out over the rugged lands of Iceland. When I’d asked Day about it, he’d only shrugged before retreating behind the closed doors of Grim’s room.

The cottage wasn’t what I had imagined. It wasn’t cold or imposing, some cavernous mansion filled with stark reminders of Death’s existence. It was small, touched with a quiet, lived-in charm.

A living room with worn leather couches and throw pillows, a fire crackling in the hearth.

The scent of wood smoke and leather filled the air, casting an inviting warmth.

The kitchen, though simple, was well-equipped, with rough wooden cabinets painted a hushed shade of blue and shelves stocked with what appeared to be a lifetime’s collection of spices and teas.

A small dining table sat near the window, the soft light from outside spilling over the top of a few dishes, plates, and mismatched mugs.

I had slept on the worn-in leather couch last night, curling up under an old quilt that smelled faintly of oud.

Grim’s room was the only bedroom in the house, tucked behind a low door off the living room. The bathroom was small but functional and there was an office at the end of the hall, where dusty books and loose papers were piled high and strange-looking artifacts littered floor-to-ceiling shelves.

His space was a peculiar, cozy mix of lived-in chaos and comfort. Nothing at all like him: so neat, so calculated. So cold.

Yet, here in his space, he felt like something else entirely. Something predictable. Remarkably enough— human.

I stood from the couch and wandered over to the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside. The world outside was both wide and wild, but from my perch I could almost forget the gravity of it and the dark presence that haunted it.

After waking sometime after lunch, I spent a few hours snooping through every unlocked room and cabinet I could find. Grim’s pantry was stocked with the basics, his fridge holding milk and eggs, nothing too out of the ordinary. And it only made me more curious about the being I had sold my soul to.

The bathroom was simple, yet comforting, with soft yellow walls, clean white tile, and a large soaking tub that looked heavenly.

Even it had bare essentials that felt oddly domestic: scented bath gels, dried florals in tubes, a variety of salts, and fluffy towels.

I wanted to be discomfited, but at each turn of a knob, I’d unsealed secrets about Death that were so at odds with what I thought I knew about it…

About him.

His office was now locked, thanks to Day, and the fact that he’d done so made my teeth grind. A reminder that, for all that plagued me, I still did not belong. What kind of secrets did they not want me to discover?

Despite the comfort of the cottage, I couldn’t help but worry about Grim. I stepped up to his ornately carved door, raising my fist as if to knock, but hesitated. Day had made it clear that under no circumstances was I to open it.

Clenching the large brass knob, I began to twist it gently, and the soft click of the latch confirmed it wasn’t locked. My heart raced, and the tension in my hands almost made me drop my hold. All it would take was a little push, and I could see him, check on him, make sure he was all right.

He might be in pain, unconscious. That rebellious streak, the part of me that had refused to be caged for over a century, flared hot. I should at least check, make sure he wasn’t convulsing alone in his room. But then...

A wave of uncertainty washed over me.

I let go of the handle, reluctantly, and set my ear to the door.

Silence.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe I didn’t need to know what was happening behind that door. Except that even as I backed away, the unease clung to me, stubborn and sharp.

After eating the soup Day left for me and taking a long, hot bath, I wrapped my body in a fluffy towel and climbed under the quilt, eyes heavy with the events of the day. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow Death would wake, and we’d plan to go back and see Gentry.

He knew something important. Even if Gentry knew nothing of the curse, he was significant. I could feel it in my gut, a feeling my grandmother always said would never steer me wrong. The feeling my mother spent her life chasing, in every breeze, each crossing path, and every number.

Gentry held a key to freeing me, and I needed to get back to him as quickly as I could. I should have stayed to finish the conversation we’d started, to press him for answers. But my heart was still keenly aware of the man in the other room, the one who had spoke my name when he cried out in pain.

I couldn’t bear to leave him... but why?

The wind howled like a living thing, hurling rain sideways against the window.

I woke to a crack outside, loud, deafening, as if the cottage itself was going to fall apart or split in two.

The windows rattled again, just as a blinding light of silver swept through the room.

For a breathless second, Grim’s things were cast in an ethereal and violent glow as strange, sharp-edged shadows wrapped their mottled fingers around the walls.

I was already clawing my way out of a nightmare when strong, moonlit hands fell to my shoulders, a dark shadow overhead.

“Shhh…” He knelt before me, hands moving gently to my back to help me sit up. Grim’s fingers brushed my forehead as he pushed stray locks of hair from my sweat-dampened skin. “You’re okay, Astoria. You’re safe.”

Waking in strange places drenched in my own fear was nothing new. I'd moved more than anyone else, sometimes staying only a few hours. It never got any easier, never less disorienting, never less heart-pounding. But as I looked into Grim's dark eyes, something in me finally settled.

The storm rattled again, shaking the windows, the walls, the very bones of the cottage. He stayed crouched in front of me, his eyes tracking mine, his hand still resting lightly against my back as if he was afraid I might bolt.

"You’re not sleeping out here," Grim said finally, his voice low but certain.

Lightning flickered again, throwing the planes of his face into stark relief. Beautiful and terrible, all at once.

It was at the tip of my tongue to argue, to tell him I was fine and shake off his comforting touch, until the space lit up once more, and a shudder ran through me.

“You’re sleeping in my bed.”

I gave the smallest shake of my head, a weak protest, but Death never listened.

His strong arms came around me, lifting me out of the heavy quilt.

I could have sighed with content, and perhaps a bit of relief, but I was keenly aware of where our skin touched and where sparks trailed my skin, erupting my nervous system in a signal fire of longing.

“You know this would be easier if you’d just wrap yourself around me.”

"But you're not wearing a shirt," I argued, finally waking enough to realize just how terrible of an idea this was. We'd shared a bed at the inn, but only because he'd been unconscious and I'd fallen asleep beside him.

My mind felt thick with confusion as I tried to ground myself.

What was happening? Why was my heart pounding like I’d just run miles, and why did my thoughts keep drifting back to him?

His strong, muscled body, his skin—that usually looked ashen—now glowing softly in the storm’s light.

It shouldn’t be doing this to me, but it was. And it was him . Grim.

His hands, the same hands that had been wrapped around my thighs just moments ago, were now poised at my waist as he lifted me effortlessly, his touch warm and firm.

The feel of his strength under his soft touch made me dizzy, the slightest pressure of his fingers making it hard to focus on anything else.

My sleep shorts and t-shirt felt like they barely covered me, the realization making my pulse spike, even as I tried to push the thought away.

I should protest. I should tell him to stop, that this wasn’t right, that I wasn’t ready for this, for him.

But then his gaze met mine, so sure, so steady, and the words I wanted to say dissolved on my tongue.

Why was he so… compelling ? His proximity, the heat of his body against mine, the almost imperceptible smile playing at his lips.

It’s too much. And I hated it. I hated that the warmth spreading through me felt more like desire than anger or defiance. Why couldn’t I just stay mad at him?

Before I could make sense of my feelings, he was carrying me into the bedroom. His strong hands, gentle and unyielding, were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, but it wasn’t what I expected.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance as he pushed open his door.

It was dark, the storm having chased away every semblance of light.

The only sliver of light was a dull burn from the corner of the room where a candle burned, one he’d probably magicked to appear in his haste to reach me.

It revealed a small cramped room with a bed dressed in white.

Pictures covered his walls—random newspaper clippings, old photographs and drawings.

Each one hung proudly against a dreamy wallpaper.

He set me down, my bare feet tickled by the heavy sheepskin rug at the foot of his bed.

For a moment, I anticipated him taking a step closer, to close the gap that was erect between us, the wall I’d built and that he had enforced.

Instead, he stepped away, his dark eyes momentarily flitting toward the bed, then to the corner of the room.

It was as if he was deciding, weighing something, before he moved toward the wardrobe.

"I—um... I’ll grab another quilt.” He scratched the back of his neck, his voice suddenly tight. His usual certainty was gone, replaced with a strange hesitation that didn’t belong to him.

I blinked, the sound of his footsteps on the floor pulling me back into the present. For a split second, I thought it was absurd. Death , this force of nature, this man who never seemed rattled, who controlled every moment of our interactions, was... nervous?

“Grim,” I said softly, and the sound of my voice seemed to break the tension hanging in the air. “It’s alright.” I didn’t know what possessed me, but before I could second-guess myself, I took his hand in mine, the coolness of his skin, as familiar as it was unsettling, grounding me.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, as if he hadn’t expected me to move.

I didn’t stop there. I tugged him gently, urging him to sit beside me. The bed felt large, too large with the space between us.

“Let’s just… stay here.” My heart raced at his nearness, but I was unwilling to pull away now.

I could feel him tense, he was ready to withdraw, but instead, I climbed into the bed, curling up on the side where the sheets were still untouched, and waited.

There was a slight relaxation in his posture. His hand, still gently in mine, wasn’t pulling back. He paused, allowing the moment to unfold, unsure whether to follow me into the small, intimate space I had made.

The storm’s thunder shook the windows, but it felt quieter now, less menacing. And despite the tension, despite the storm still raging outside, I could almost hear him breathe a sigh.

“I’m not sure what to make of this,” he finally muttered.

And in that quiet moment, he laid down beside me, his body still radiating warmth, but the room felt different. Not cold. Not distant.

Just new.

It was a start.