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You will never die alone.Those were the words he had whispered to her when she had died at the base of a cliff, his black robes whispering over the stones. And every time her life had ended after that.
So many deaths.
Sometimes it was at his hands.
Sometimes it was at hers.
Sometimes it was at the hands of a stranger.
But every time, the fact remained that he had not lied. It had been a threat and a promise. It was meant to be fearsome and comforting.
And that single statement that had ghosted past her ear was filled with two other dichotomies that she wished she could avoid. Two deep, intrinsically human emotions that defined all of society.
Promise and threat. Fear and comfort.
Hate and…
She shook herself out of the line of thought and looked away from him. Downing half her glass of water, and wishing it were vodka, she took a moment to choke out three words. It was all she could manage. “I…don’t know.”
“Then tell me this—each time you died, how did it make you feel?” When she shook her head numbly, he twisted on the bench to face her. Placing one hand on the table in front of her, his other arm draped on the back of the seat behind her. He caged her in. The scent of him—of cologne and cigars, homey and warm—washed over her.
He had asked her that question so many times at therapy. And each time she had answered the same way. “Afraid,” she whispered.
“And what else?”
Images—no, they’re my memories—rampaged through her mind. Death after death after death.
Bullets. Noose. Poison. Torture. Stabbing. Falling. Drowning. Fire.
It was all there.
And every time he was beside her. No matter how hard she tried, or how far she ran, when her life ended…he was there. Like her Grim Reaper.
Each time it happened, he looked at her with so much time within those silver depths…that same aching and forlorn expression. A tear would roll down his cheeks.
As she died, he would place a kiss against her lips as the warmth fled her body.
“Answer me, Marguerite. I need you to finally answer me.”
She was trembling. Her hand felt numb where she gripped the barely-more-than-a-breadknife desperately in her palm.
Maybe some secrets were better left unknown. Maybe some moments were better left forgotten. Maybe death was a mercy.
The single word left her in little more than a whisper as she finally told him what she had refused to admit so many times during their sessions. “Relief…”
She wished she could have lied. Not because it hurt her to admit that she had greeted death each time wishing it were the last, but because of the pain that flashed through his face at her admission. She thought for a second that she had stabbed him without realizing it. But she had gutted him in a different way, instead.
The maw of some great pit stretched out in front of her. Truth was what lived in the bottom of it. Promise and threat. Fear and comfort.
Hate and…
She turned away from Gideon and squeezed her eyes shut. No. No! She forced it all away. If she could have ever willed herself into a blackout, now was the time. But the bite of the cheap metal silverware in her hand and the trim of the diner window digging into her shoulder never changed.
He’s right.
I’m not ready.
“The Vatican.” She looked up at Rinaldo. “I’ll go with you.”
