I rotate back to my mom and place a hand on her back. “Mom. Mom,” I say. “You’re alive.”
“No,” she moans again, shaking her head and closing her eyes like she can shut out the truth.
I stare at her, aghast, something sick churning in my stomach.
“Death brought you back. He took your life unfairly,” I say.
She begins to laugh, and I think she’s lost it completely, but then she opens her eyes and they sharpen on me.
“Lazarus Gaumond, my beloved daughter, shame on you for doing this.”
For a moment, I don’t react to her words. I simply can’t. Once more I’m that lost, confused child, my heart breaking.
“Now you listen to me,” she says sounding just like her old self. My chest aches—it aches so damn bad—because this is my mom. Not the wailing creature I held in my arms, but this lively, take-no-bullshit woman. And clearly this situation has gone sideways, but only yesterday I would’ve given anything to hear her scolding me.
And now I get that.
“Whatever you have done to bring me here, you undo it.” Her eyes move to Death. “You undo it,” she repeats to him.
He stands motionless.
She turns back to me, her body trembling as though in shock. “I don’t want to be here, Laz. I lived, I loved, and I died,” she says carefully. “And you don’t get to change the rules.”
I suck in a sharp breath, and my tears, which never really stopped, are coming faster now.
She reaches out, uncaring that the blanket has slid off her shoulders, exposing her once more. She cups my face in her hand. “I love you, Lazarus. You are strong and brave and I know you have endured so much more than what should be asked of you. You do me proud. But right now baby, you need to let me go.”
“Mom,” I protest.
“My time has come and gone. Let me go, my sweet girl.”
I begin to sob, my whole body shaking. My mother pulls me in for a hug, and I can feel her own body trembling.
“Let me go,” she murmurs to me over and over, stroking my hair. “Let me go.”
And I’m sobbing in her arms and this is all I get, and I know it’s more than anyone else gets, but I still feel robbed.
Reluctantly, I begin to nod. “Okay, Mom,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
She releases me, and I rise to my feet, backing up. I suck in my cheeks and force myself to stop crying, even though tears continue to well in my eyes.
I glance over at Death. He stares back at me stoically.
Letting my gaze fall in defeat, I give him a nod.
I sense his own gaze soften on me before he turns to my mother. He doesn’t say anything, but I see the moment his power takes effect.
For an instant there’s a flicker of relief in my mom’s eyes, and then her features slacken as Death releases her. My mother’s body disintegrates before my eyes, skin and muscle and bone turning into earth once more. A gust of wind whips up, blowing it away until there is no trace of the woman who was here a moment ago.
I fall back heavily onto my ass. It feels like it was all some sort of horrible dream, but I know it happened, I know that Death called my mom here because I asked him to, and then he released her because I asked him for that as well.
I press my palms to my eyes, and suddenly, horrible, wretched sobs are falling from my lips, and I am violently crying, my entire body shaking from the effort.
I didn’t get to mourn my mother’s death—not really. I threw myself into hunting down the horseman, and it left me so little room to mourn. The only time I grieved was during those quiet hours when I traveled, but even then, it came second to my purpose: to find—and stop—Death.
Now I’m forced to relive my mom’s death all over again, and the wound of her passing cuts sharper than it did the first time.
Thanatos moves to my side, kneeling next to me. Then he’s wrapping his arms around me, holding me close just like he did the night Ben was dying. Then it was comforting, but now it mocks me. He’s the one taking all my loved ones away. I don’t want his comfort, I want him to stop.
I push Death away. “Don’t touch me,” I tell him.
The horseman frowns, but that anger that simmered beneath his skin is now gone. He looks as though he’s the one carrying the heavy burden.
“I see your pain,” he says, “and I hear it, and I don’t like it. It makes me frantic.”
I ignore him, my head bowed as I weep.
After a moment, Death stands. “Bringing the dead back—truly back—is a curse, Lazarus. I know you are grieving, but it is in vain. Your mother is in a better place.”