Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(48)
“What other choice did I have?” she asked. “It was either a bargain with him or never getting to see or speak with you again. Besides, it was my idea, not his.”
Death’s laugh was the most intoxicating poison, and even amid her mounting annoyance, Signa found herself wanting little more than to drown herself in it.
This is what he wanted to happen. He spat each word, as if he could not get them past his lips fast enough. It was Fate who laid out this game and placed its pieces precisely where he wanted them. And you fell for the trap.
There was a storm brewing in Signa’s chest, rage heating her cheeks and palms. This was her idea, not Fate’s. She had come up with it. She had approached him, ensuring that every word was spoken with intention so that she could get precisely what she wanted out of the deal.
She was in control… wasn’t she?
These are not decisions you have to make alone, Death told her, and Signa knew he must have been close from the way frost brushed across her lips. And yet you have done so.
His last few words were spoken pointedly enough that Signa took note. She braced herself against her desk, squeezing the edge of it. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
Death’s answer did not come with storm-sharpened wind but with a sigh that eased much of the pressure in the room. I would understand if you wanted to make the deal, Signa. So much has been thrown at you, and you have options now that you didn’t have before. It makes sense if you’re curious, though I must warn you—
“I have no need for your warnings.” Signa realized then what the strange tension was in Death’s voice: fear.
He thought she was interested in Fate. The very idea was absurd, yet no laugh bubbled in her throat. Instead, she followed Gundry’s eyes to where Death stood and gave herself no time to contemplate before she stalked toward him. She ripped off a glove at the last second and managed to find a bare slice of his skin before Death had the chance to pull away.
Immediately, Signa’s heartbeat slowed, only this time her shift into the reaper was far from peaceful. She fell to her knees as her lungs collapsed, head swimming as her body fought for breaths that refused to come. She gripped her throat, clawing at it until all she saw was white. There was no saying how long she was like that before irate shadows slipped into her vision, seizing hold of her. Even in his rage Death was tender, and Signa leaned into his embrace.
“My foolish girl,” he whispered, drawing her into powerful arms that wound tight around her. “What were you thinking?”
That was the problem—when it came to those Signa loved, she often wasn’t thinking at all. She leaned back, cupping his face.
“You’re the fool,” she told him. “When I made that deal, it’s because I wanted you, not your ridiculous brother. Why are you so afraid of him?”
Death set his hands atop hers, and though he offered a smile for Signa’s benefit, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not him I’m afraid of, Signa.”
“Who, then?” she pressed, searching his eyes, which hardened as he looked at her. “Who are you afraid of?”
There was no reading his stare. No deciphering the tension in his jaw as he stepped back and extended a hand to her. “Come,” he whispered, and Signa wished she could disappear into that honeyed tone. “I’ll show you.”
Wisteria Gardens was almost unrecognizable as Death led Signa through its once-illustrious courtyard. If not for the marble fountain and the thriving wisteria draped over them from the canopy above, she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea where he’d taken her. As it was, she hesitated as they approached a palace that looked nothing like the one she’d ventured into only a few nights prior.
“We’ll need to be quick,” Death said. “There’s no saying when Fate will return.” He held Signa’s hand as they cut across the lawn to the dilapidated stone building. It was the very same one she’d glimpsed in the moment that Fate’s powers had slipped during his soiree. Able to see it fully in the glow of the setting sun, Signa took in the ancient gray stones that looked one door slam away from crumbling. If not for the fact that she was in her reaper form, Signa might not have dared approach it for fear of it toppling upon her.
“Why does it look like this?” She frowned at the withering grass beneath her feet, missing the verdant green fields from the days prior. There were no animals, either, she noticed. No bleating sheep or hoofbeats to fill the air. The palace was eerily silent—a resting dreamworld awaiting the return of its dreamer.
“My brother created this home ages ago.” Death cast a look around them before he pulled Signa through the front wall. “It is a part of him and has always reflected who he is and what he’s feeling internally.”
Where there was once a grand entryway and a gorgeous parlor with a roaring hearth, now the entry coughed thick plumes of gray smoke from dying embers. The interior walls were every bit as bare and ruined as the palace’s exterior, and though much of the art was still on display, the colors had dulled to blend in with the gray stone. Gone was any hint of the extravagance Fate had made such a show of.
“It doesn’t even look like the same place,” Signa whispered, taking one step up the staircase. It was so rickety that she had no doubt the planks would have snapped beneath her feet were she not gliding across them.