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“We need to get this over with before something else goes wrong,” Death says, putting distance between us as his hand slides to my elbow, cold air slipping between us. “We’re doing this now.”
“Very well,” Kalma says, walking past us toward the altar, his Jedi-type robes flowing behind him. “Let’s get started then.” He stops and picks up the crown. “Since there are no formalities, or other witnesses, Sarvi, you will have to be the witness here.”
Sarvi nods, its iron horn catching the candlelight. I will, it says, even though only Death and I can hear the unicorn’s verbal response.
Kalma gingerly picks up the crown in his skinny hands and holds it out in front of us. The energy coming off it is indescribable. Not threatening, but not benign either. “Then Tuoni, Hanna, please approach the altar, walking side by side but not touching.”
That’s easier said than done considering how wide Death’s frame is. I keep to the side of the aisle, brushing past the statues instead as I walk forward.
You’ll regret it, an inhuman, echoing voice says.
I stop and turn to look at the sightless statue I just walked past, one with spikes sticking out of her crown, her eyes gone, just sockets filled with tears of waxy blood.
We’ll make you regret it, the voice says again, and I swear it’s coming from the statue.
“Hanna,” Kalma says patiently. “Don’t mind the statues, please. Keep walking.”
I’m barely unable to take my eyes off the figure, the way it seems to be staring at me without any eyes. I can feel it reaching into the depths of my brain, slithering around like snakes. The more I stare at it, the more I realize that its face is made up of dozens of other, smaller, screaming faces, as if countless souls are trapped under the marble skin.
You will make her rise, the statue hisses as I start to walk away, nearly tripping as I go.
By now Death is standing at the altar, his mask pushed up on his forehead. He’s frowning at me, confused. Maybe a little fearful. I have to admit, I like it when I see fear in him, even if I’m currently feeling it myself.
“What is it?” he asks me.
I could keep it to myself and pretend nothing happened because it would be easier that way. But I don’t. “Uh, that statue just threatened me. I think.”
“What did it say?” Kalma asks.
“It said I’ll regret it, they’ll make me regret it, and that I will make her rise. I don’t know who she is.”
Death and Kalma exchange a look. “Have the saints ever spoken to you?” Death asks him.
Kalma shakes his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean they don’t speak to others.” He dips his chin, eyes on me. “I understand how disconcerting that must be, but you must come forward, Hanna, to take the crown.”
I nod. “Okay,” I say, my voice coming out small. I mean, I already had cold feet about this whole thing, what’s a little threat from a statue that may or may not house a dead saint?
I continue walking down the aisle until I’m at Death’s side. I keep glancing over my shoulder at the statue, expecting it to move but it doesn’t. Behind me, Sarvi stops in the middle of the crypt and watches us. The patches of hair it has are stiff, reminding me of the way my old neighbor’s dog would get whenever you walked past the fence. Something has Sarvi spooked too.
“Hanna Heikkinen, of the country of Finland of the Upper World,” Kalma says, bringing my attention back to him. I’m about to tell him that technically my country of residence was the United States but then he says, “Hold out your hand, palm up.”
“Why?” I ask as my scalp prickles with alarm. I make a fist in response.
“It is part of the ceremony,” Kalma says. His old eyes squint in a smile. “It won’t hurt much, I promise.”
“Much?” I repeat, my brows raising.
“I’ll go first.” Death lets out a huff of impatience and takes off his gauntlet, undoing multiple straps, the metal clinking as he reaches over and places it on the altar. I rarely see his hand and watch in awe as he holds it out to Kalma.
Kalma flinches. I know he can’t help it. He gives Death a quick, sheepish smile and Death flips his hand over so his palm is facing up. His skin looks so soft and pure, as pale as the moon.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
They don’t answer me. Kalma takes the crown and pulls one of the bleeding spikes off the top of it, like he’s plucking a porcupine. He holds it out and with a swift motion cuts a line down the middle of Death’s palm.
“Jesus!” I swear, watching as the bright-red blood rushes up out of his skin, coating the spike.
