I looked back.
Gentry… the only thread I had to the curse, the only chance at answers I’d been chasing for so long. Would he even remember meeting me? Would I get a chance to return?
The questions clawed at my chest. But there were no answers.
Grim’s weight buckled against me, and instinctively, I shifted under him again. The second our skin touched, his fever seemed to ease, and his breathing slowed. Settled.
It soothed the raw edge of my nerves, even as the ache of uncertainty gnawed at me.
“Astoria,” he sighed, lashes fluttering weakly.
My heart pinched.
“Storybook,” Day muttered through gritted teeth.
I hesitated, my mind flickering back to Gentry, to the answers I’d chased for so long. But those answers would still be there tomorrow. Right now, my relentless shadow, the very thing meant to finally end me, was crumbling in my arms.
And it wasn’t as if the curse couldn’t wait one more day.
twenty-two
Astoria
November 2003
The museum was quieter than usual today, the light dimmed by the overcast sky outside. For once, there were no hurried footsteps, no tourists crowding the halls, no reminders of how out of place I felt. The air was filled with the soft murmur of hushed voices, the clink of a distant coffee cup, and the muted echo of footsteps across polished floors.
I wandered through the galleries, pausing here and there to admire the stillness. There was something comforting about the quiet. The constant moving, the transient nature of my existence, always left me searching for something to root me. But I hadn’t been able to settle anywhere in years.
Instead, I observed.
Couples, young and old, strolled arm in arm through the museum, their shared smiles lighting up the dim rooms. Lovers, caught in the rapture of an easy connection. My heart ached for the fleeting beauty of it, the simplicity of what I’d never have. How long had it been since I’d shared that kind of joy with anyone? But I found myself watching families the most.
Parents with young children, arms full as they explored the artwork. Small hands clutched tightly to their mothers, a sense of wonder in their eyes. I wished to go back to those days.
Turning toward the back of the museum, the Gates of Hell loomed in all their grotesque beauty. The twisted forms, the pain and anguish carved in stone, always left me breathless. A small part of me hoped that, perhaps, this visit would finally give me some semblance of peace. Some time to justbe, without the constant reminder of what I was: a walking curse.
Until I saw him.
Sitting on a bench, his long legs stretched out before him, was Death. The last person I wanted to see, in the place I’d come to find some fleeting solace.
His cold eyes met mine, and that familiar, wretched chill rushed over me, the same shiver that seemed to settle into my bones every time I encountered him. He was looking at me with the same unreadable expression he always wore, his posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the world—mytime.
I didn’t want to let him have the satisfaction, but despite the steel I’d built around myself, my chest tightened. It was hard to escape the truth of him, the truth of everything he symbolized in my life.
“To what do I owe the honor?” I muttered with contempt. His gaze remained locked on the figures in Rodin'sGates of Hell. They were reaching for one another in a way that made something deep inside me stir, the reminder of everything I could never have.
A crease formed in his brow, as if the tragedy of the sculpture bothered him too.“You know I have no control over you…” His words dripped with something eerily close to sincerity.
That gave me pause. I hesitated, chewing on my lip, before remembering I’d worn red lipstick and the chalky taste now lingered on the edge of my tongue like a taunt. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
Grim turned his head, slowly. His eyes were dark, not just in color but in a way that made my stomach flip. There was a glint there—was it amusement? Something darker? He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his dark sweater bunching. He ran his thumb over his lip, savoring the moment.
“It means a great deal,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. The kind of gravely tone that broke and felt dangerously close to a caress.
Reaching for my purse, I attempted to keep my hands busy, not wanting him to see how his words were making my pulse pick up. I pulled out the worn journal I’d been keeping lately, the edges of the leather cracked from age, the pages filled with the scribbles of a life I couldn’t quite contain.
“Sorry that my curse is so difficult for you,” I said, with faux-sympathy. “I’ll take that up with whoever it was that designed this personal level of hell.”
