Hot, viscous blood bubbled from my lips as my surroundings began to spin. Somewhere, over the overwhelming hum of beating wings, I heard someone shout my name. The world seemed to drift out of focus one moment, only to slam into me in jarring clarity the next.
Other than knowing from an early age I would meet my end at the hands of Leonora D’Arcy, I had never given much thought to how I would die. However, I took solace in knowing my mother had been stripped of life by the one person who had known the true depths of her depravity.
Someone laid me down, a dark blur silhouetted against the brightest light I had ever seen. I choked on the acrid taste of copper as it filled my mouth.
I craved sleep, to close my eyes and shut out the world for a few measly minutes. For if I slept, I could dream; if I dreamt, I could find peace. Leonora could not haunt my dreams anymore.
What a beautiful respite that would be.
Though I could not see or feel her, I knew Calia was near. I would find her again, whether in the final moments of this life or the first of the one that followed.
“Calia,” I whispered with my last breath. As the warm blanket of darkness settled over me, I took comfort in knowing her presence was a beacon. Where she led, I would follow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Warmth licked my skin, the sound of crackling wood burning in a fireplace nearby. I burrowed into the sensation, slowly opening my eyes as the aroma of a rich pipe tobacco my father used to smoke filled the room.
As a young boy, I loved tiptoeing into his study as he worked, watching him with reverent intent. He never looked up when I entered, but I always noticed the upturn of his lips as he heard the door creak open and the soft padding of my feet across the hardwood floor.
My father considered himself a collector of sorts. Varying knickknacks lined his shelves—rare finds he stumbled across in his travels, or gifts from foreign dignitaries. He never balked when I asked questions or begged him to tell me stories of how he acquired each one, not even if I had heard them a thousand times before.
I would sit on the worn rug by the fire as he plucked the object from its home and settled into his favorite leather armchair. He spoke purposefully, ensuring I understood thehistory while regaling me with tales that seemed fitting for fantasy novels.
Most items were older than we could comprehend, displayed atop deep-set bookshelves built into the wall. I modeled much of my style after his own; the mixture of dark wood and deep, jewel-toned colors quickly became my haven.
On the day of his funeral, Leonora had his room dismantled, turning it into a parlor she never used just because she could. Everything he loved had been removed, leaving no sign that he had ever claimed the spot as his own.
It was comforting, knowing that here, some things had been preserved.
“I had hoped to see a more wrinkled face, son.”
I slowly turned toward the voice, noticing a familiar figure lounging on the leather armchair across from me. He looked just as I remembered, with soft silver strands peeking through dark hair. His grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he studied me, running his hand down a neatly trimmed beard.
“Father?” I sat up, noting the lack of pain I experienced. “Am I?—”
“Dead?” His expression sobered before nodding. “You are.”
I hardly remembered what happened in the moments leading up to my death. Each memory seemed out of reach, placed behind a distorted pane of glass that did not make sense. “And this?” I asked. “Where am I?”
My father took his pipe and brought the curved stem to his mouth, burning the sweet tobacco inside. He savored the flavor, tipping his head back and sending soft smoke rings from his lips. “This is an in-between, of sorts. A holding place for those departed souls that have not yet found a home.”
My brows furrowed. “As in judgment?”
“Yes and no,” he said, setting the pipe on its stand. He twirled the smoke around his fingers, letting it dance betweenthe spaces. “There are many reasons one may end up here, and that is but one of them.”
I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “Will you always speak in riddles?”
My father laughed, the deep, rich sound making my heart long for the time we no longer had. “I cannot spill the secrets of the heavens,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I am merely a messenger with a morbid curiosity.”
“And what would that be?”
He tilted his head. “To meet the man my son grew to be.”
Shame crept in from the shadows, draping its bony hands over my shoulders like a leaden weight. It fed off my distress, knowing I would much rather take my failures to the grave. “I do not know if you will be pleased with what you find.”
My father crossed his ankle over his knee, settling into the leather. “Why not let me decide for myself?”
My gaze fell to my lap. “Because I would rather not sully whatever you have envisioned.” How was I to tell him of the atrocities I had committed during my lifetime? In his absence, I had let my mother poison my heart and mind, changing me into the very monster he never wanted me to become.
