Page 1

Prologue

Asingle drop, that is all it takes.

I can hear that precious sound.

Lub-dub.

Lub-dub.

Lub-dub.

Music to my ears, this human heart. It wants what I want—albeit with different intentions.

The boy was only small when his parents offered their souls in exchange for keeping him alive. Humans never read the fine print, though, do they? It is well past time for us to collect the death-touched tribute, and the only way to get near it is by claiming a mortal vessel.

It has been a struggle, deciding which to choose. The husband seemed the obvious choice, but it is no fun trying to corrupt one already so monstrous.

This one, though? This one is better. He gives an offering without even realizing.

I feel it coming, feel the vibrant heat of it as it drips into the water and spirals lazily down toward me. I reach for it, through that barrier between here and there.

Foolish mortals, all of them.

The man’s face looms above, through the veil of murky water, confusion wrought across his features. Naivety draws him closer to my waiting claws. Or perhaps it is morbid curiosity? A puzzle for him to decipher. What could this be, this thing in the water?

In seconds, he will find out.

A single drop.

That is all it takes.

Chapter One

Sunday

My obsession with the end started at the very beginning. It’s definitely not normal for a young kid to grasp the concept of death and become completely fixated on it, but that’s what I did. Typically, kids’ Christmas wish lists involve gaming consoles or scooters or other boring crap like that; I still have the book Mom gave me on death and the afterlife as soon as I was old enough to read.

It sits across from me now, nestled between some other books and my godawful attempt at a mount I’d made with my first taxidermy kit and a dead squirrel from the backyard.

I’ll never get rid of it, though. Serves to remind me how far I’ve come—now I actually get paid for my creepy infatuation with dead stuff. I started working at Salem Natural History Museum about a year after I fucked up my love life catastrophically (much to my mom’s woe), and I’ve been here ever since.

Speaking of Mom, the idiot geology supplier dropped my shit at the wrong address again. No matter how many times I give them my work address, they keep delivering to my folks’ place. I haven’t used that address since I ordered my ex-boyfriend some crystals as a birthday gift back in college.

I stick one more pin in the animal I’m working on, then wipe my hands on my jeans before pulling out my phone. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing before hitting dial on Mom’s contact.

“Mourning Mortuary Services, Clarissa speaking,” her bright voice sings down the line. She’s clearly busy; otherwise she would have noticed it was me calling.

“Mom, it’s me,” I mutter. I love my parents dearly, and props to them for playing their cards right and opening a funeral home with that last name, but did they really have to call me Sunday? I wasn’t even born on a fucking Sunday.

“Sunday! How is my child of the charnel house?” she squeals into the phone, something metallic clattering in the background. Judging by the echo, she must be in the embalming room, the very room I was born screaming into.

Growing up, I learned to appreciate the process of embalming. I could have followed in Mom’s footsteps, but between her smothering and Dad’s constant lecturing (and the fact I was generally a mess after college), I needed to find my way elsewhere.

“Peachy, Mom. Listen, can you send that package to my loft when you get time?”

I like making small bespoke mounts and dioramas to sell online outside my day job, and people go crazy for the shiny-rock-plus-dead-bug combination. Throw in a bit of moss and dried flowers; it’s easy money.

“Don’t know what package you mean, honey,” she tells me, her voice climbing slightly at the end.