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She asks that so sincerely that I have to laugh. “I’ll be fine. Raila fixed me up right.”
I give Raila an appreciative nod and then place my hands on the rope hanging from above. I’m still quite weak so it takes me longer than I thought it would to pull myself up, especially with my sore palm. By the time I get to the top, pulling myself over onto the stone floor of the dungeon, my hand is rubbed raw and my muscles are shaking. But I made it.
Lovia quickly follows, her movements like a dance, and I’m envious. Even though I’m a Goddess in name, I’m still a basic mortal and I’ll never have the preternatural grace that she does. I know she learned a lot in training with Vipunen, but there’s no way I’ll be at her level. Gods always have the advantage.
“You coming up?” Lovia yells at Raila over the side.
I get to my feet and look over the edge beside her. Raila stomps out the flame fern fire with her shoe, then throws the bag over her shoulder and picks up the empty bucket.
Instead of grabbing the robe, however, she crawls up the side of the oubliette like she’s a fucking spider monkey, her satin gloved hands disappearing into the cracks of the rocks, moving so fast that she emerges out of the hole in seconds.
“What the fuck was that?” Lovia exclaims.
As I said, I’m agile, Raila says and there’s a small hint of pride in her voice as she places the bag and the bucket down on the dungeon floor.
I look to Lovia, my eyes wide. She looks just as shocked as me. Okay, so that’s something new—and slightly horrifying—to know about my loyal Deadmaiden from Hell. She puts Peter Parker to shame.
As impressed as I am though, I have a mission ahead of me. A God I need to fight with. Anger that needs a place to go.
A place in this castle to rightfully claim.
“So, now that I’m free,” I say, dusting off my dress, “where’s my husband?”
Though Raila’s face is hidden by her veil, she exchanges a look with Lovia.
The master is in his solar room, at the very top of the castle, Raila says.
That’s all I need to know.
I turn to go.
Chapter 12
Hanna
“The Snowbird”
“Do you really want to start a war right now?” Lovia says, reaching out and grabbing my arm to stop me. “I must admit, my father is fun to fight with, but he’s also never tossed me into the oubliette to rot.”
“I can handle myself,” I tell her.
She swallows and glances at Raila with a helpless look. “Alright then.” Then she shoots me a quick smile. “Guess I have to listen to my stepmother now.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. It’s going to take eons before that term means anything to me.
Lovia lets me go. I turn and go up the steps out of the dungeon, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone. From behind me, Raila protests that she should accompany me, but Lovia tells her to stay back.
I hurry, just in case. I make my way up to the main floor, then up the numerous winding staircases lit by flickering candelabras, passing Deadhands on the way. Their empty socket eyes under iron helmets stare straight ahead, their swords and armor encased over their bones clanking as they go. I hold my breath as I go past each one, afraid that they might stop me, remembering the way skeleton hands feel against my flesh, but all of them pass by me like I’m not even here at all.
By the time I get to the very top floor of the castle, I’m not even out of breath. I should be, since stairs are always a killer for me no matter how hard I work out, but I feel like I could go all day. In fact, I feel better—stronger—than ever. Strange, considering how little I’ve had to eat and drink.
I’ve never been to Death’s solar room, though I know where it is. I follow the long hall toward the south wall of the castle and don’t even pause when I see the iron doors closed shut.
I put my hand on the knob and turn it as if willing it not to be locked and barge right in. I’m met with a darkly furnished office and library hybrid with floor to ceiling windows that makes you feel like you’re in the middle of the rainstorm currently lashing at the windows and blurring the glass.
Death, sitting in a throne-style chair, immediately jumps to his feet, a move that makes the room shake, an old leather-bound book falls from his lap to the floor, a cup of coffee spills onto an iron side table.
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” he bellows, staring at me in a mix of fury and confusion. He’s the most casually dressed I’ve ever seen him, almost disheveled. He’s wearing black pants with boots, same as usual, but his charcoal shirt is unbuttoned and untucked with darkened patches on it, as if wet. His beautiful face is free from the mask, his long black hair loose around his shoulders.
