Page 32 of Find My Way Down to You

My eyes narrow into a pointed glare. His body rests peacefully against the opposite wall. Still as ice. “At least tell me where we’re going,” I demand.

Expectedly, he doesn’t.

The elevator pauses. Its doors part and two people in black suits blink owlishly at us. Their bodies appear shimmery due to the blinding white light from the floor we’ve paused on.

One of them gasps, bowing. The other stammers, “Oh.Lord Cary. Sorry. We will wait for the next one!”

Cautiously, they back away. Their eyes never leave Cary. Like he’s a viper whose fangs might show at any second.

The doors shut again.

I laugh, the noise caught in my throat. “So, Henri was right.”

Cary pins me with a menacing stare. “What?”

“Youarea lord.”

His cheeks suck inward, eyebrows sloped with clear frustration. Good. At least he looks how I feel now.

The elevator descends—or ascends?—into the belly of the building. I have no idea. We exit into a room that’s not the lobby from earlier, but just as extravagant.

Everything is either a deep wine or smoky charcoal. From the walls to the carpet. It doesn’t seem much like a room either. More of an in-between. A wide passageway that leads from the elevator to a stream of golden light at the other end.

The walls are lined with stone statues. A sugary floral scent tickles my nose. Colorful blooms spill from open mouths and cupped hands, circling heads like the crown Milos wore. I recognize some of the flowers: roses and orchids and hyacinths. As we walk by, their petals unfold and flutter.

I marvel at them. “Do they always do that?”

Cary studies the dancing blossoms. Then his eyes land on me again. “This way.”

I fight to keep up with his pace. He’s only an inch or two taller, but his strides are longer, purposeful. Like he’s desperate to get rid of me.

The feeling is mutual.

He guides me toward the growing light. I remember what Henri said earlier, on the bridge.

He is the ferrier. A guide, if you will.

Out of the blue, I say, “You didn’t really kill Hal.”

His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t slow down.

“I mean,” I clarify, “you’re not a murderer.” As if that sounds any better.

“I am not Death,” he replies.

“That’s…good to know.”

I stare at my feet. Golden beams greet the tops of my sneakers, climbing up my legs. The floral fragrance intensifies as we step outside into a garden with trees that have greenish-white bark. Blooms of various shapes and sizes burst through waxy leaves. It’s as beautiful as my mom’s greenhouse.

How isthisthe underworld?

Somewhere farther, beyond manicured hedges, I spot the beginnings of a structure wrapped in elegant vines.

“I do not end lives.” Cary tilts his head to the light. “I only go where she calls.”

“She?”

“Death.”