Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(38)
“Signa.” Death’s grip on her tightened. Her body was flickering in and out of its spirit form, visible one second and translucent the next. Shadows wisped around her, frenzied. “If it wasn’t Percy they had to mourn, it would be Blythe—” He cut off sharply as the handle of the door wiggled.
Death threw his shadows around them. Though Byron wouldn’t be able to see or hear them, both Signa and Death kept as still as could be, feeding off each other’s anxiety.
Only, it wasn’t Byron who entered the study. It was Blythe, and as Signa stood there, invisible in her reaper form, she felt rather silly for not having first asked her cousin about the key to this room. She’d been walking on eggshells around Blythe when it came to her suspicions about Byron, yet she should have known that her cousin would be as suspicious of him as she was. Signa should have known that while she was avoiding her, Blythe was doing her own sleuthing.
Blythe was as quiet as the dead as she made her way to the desk, though not nearly as careful as Signa had been as she riffled through the papers. She didn’t always close journals to the page they’d been opened to, nor was she careful about keeping everything organized. So that Byron wouldn’t realize they’d been there, Signa took care to reorganize things every time Blythe looked away and moved on to the next parchment. They were to be little more than ghosts passing through, just as Sylas had told her all those seasons ago.
Blythe dug deeper than Signa had, prying her way through the desk until she happened upon a tiny velvet box in one of the drawers. She stilled, and Signa gripped Death’s shoulder. Even without looking inside, the contents of the box were undeniable. Still, Blythe pulled the top open to reveal a stunning emerald stone set on a gold band.
That’s Elijah’s desk. She threw the words at Death as his shadows stirred, seeming unnerved.
Byron’s been using it for a week. The ring could belong to either of them.
The ring likely wasn’t Elijah’s, given how he was only just beginning to spend his days without losing himself to thoughts of his late wife. Byron, on the other hand, had been far more invested in this season than ever.
She thought back to how odd his behavior had been at Fate’s soiree, and how he and Eliza had stood beside each other on more than one occasion. Surely, there couldn’t have been anything going on between them… could there?
Blythe snapped the box shut, dropping the ring back into the drawer with a deep frown. She shifted her focus to the desk, eyes more critical now as she lifted several of the clippings to skim through once more. It took a beat longer for the realization to hit Blythe than it had Signa. It wasn’t until she noticed the article about the fire that she dropped the news clippings, face turning bone white as she pored over Byron’s theory. Not that Percy was gone but that he, too, had been murdered. Blythe was stiff as she read over the words too many times. Then she scooped up the papers and placed them back where she found them. She gripped the desk by the edges, unaware that Signa was beside her, watching as her cousin sorted through the names on Byron’s list. Watching as she saw Elijah’s name. Signa’s.
“No,” Blythe whispered, and oh how Signa wanted to take her cousin’s hand and tell her everything. But Blythe would never forgive her. And why should she?
Signa had told herself that she wasn’t keeping this secret for her own sake but for Blythe’s. But as guilt pressed against her, Signa realized how deeply she’d been lying to herself. She wanted to spare Blythe, of course. More than anything, though, Signa was terrified of losing her. She was terrified of returning alone to Foxglove, once again left behind by those she loved. Had Death not been gripping her, she would have reverted into human form, if only to reach out to her cousin. To apologize for everything she’d had to do to save Blythe’s life that night in the woods.
Fate’s words rattled in her head, over and over again: What if those hands of yours could do more than kill? You’d want that, wouldn’t you?
In that moment, she did. If it meant never again being the one responsible for the tears of someone she loved, then God did she want it.
The world spiraled around her, too warm. No. Not warm. Hot. Blazing, scorching, like something was burning her alive. She clutched her head, sinking to her knees.
This was not the cooling comfort of death but a blazing fire that tore its way through her as thick vines erupted from the wooden planks beneath her feet. It was like that night in the woods, back when Gundry had stood at her side and Signa had raised the dead garden to ensnare Percy. Only this was no dead bramble rising from the earth, but thriving ivy that clawed its way up through the floor like wildfire.
What’s happening? Signa demanded, panicked as thick lichen devoured the legs of Elijah’s desk and wisteria wove itself between splinters of wood. Death careened backward, hissing as he clawed at the vines that somehow ensnared his shadows.
Blythe threw herself from the desk and away from the growing earth with a squeal, kicking at moss that worked its way up her boots. She rubbed at her watering eyes as if trying to disillusion herself, though when she lowered her hands, ripe green stems stretched from the wall and curled around her fingers. This time Blythe screamed as she stumbled over a chair.
We should leave. Death grabbed a fistful of the ivy that had ensnared Signa’s hands. Thorns dug into her skin, drawing wisps of darkness rather than blood. She couldn’t see straight enough to get them off herself, and she was shaking as Death ripped them free and hurried her out of the study. They didn’t stop once on their way back to Signa’s suite. Not to speak. Not to ask questions. Not for anything. But the moment they were back, the flowering vines fell away from their bodies, swept aside by the shadows that Death let drip from him as he returned to his human form. Only then could Signa see the pointedness of his gaze and how he set about watching her as though he’d never seen her before.