Something strange was going on with her powers, but Fate wouldn’t let her take ill enough to die if he suspected she might be Life. It wasn’t a comforting thought, but it gave her the confidence to move forward with her plan. She popped the berries into her mouth before she could change her mind and chewed, grimacing at the rot that soiled her tongue. She knelt against the bed frame after that, waiting for the familiar effects to overcome her. It took longer than usual, the berries less potent. She would need to move quickly to avoid getting stuck on the other side of the study door.
Eventually, when the world had spun into a haze of gray and her body turned cold, Signa opened her eyes. She didn’t need to turn to know where Death stood, for his shadows had already curled around her, bringing her to his chest. He hugged her so fiercely that Signa wondered whether he’d ever let go.
She settled into the familiar rush of power that coursed through her in this form, tipping her head against him as she summoned the night. Shadows swept to her, gliding up her feet and swathing her fingertips until they blanketed her skin like armor. Signa’s hands flexed as she welcomed them. The power felt so natural that she pitied Fate and his hope.
“Hello, Little Bird.” Death’s voice cut through the night, a cool burn against her skin.
God, it was good to hear his voice. Not just in her head but sweeping through the room like a glorious storm. She leaned away so that she could look at him—not a human, but shadows cast in the shape of a man, face and skin masked by darkness.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she whispered, and though she would have loved nothing more than to let herself fall back into his arms and feel him there against her, Signa feared she’d have less time than ever to remain in this state with the berries as old as they were. “There isn’t time.”
“There’s never any time these days. And it’s no use being angry; I have resigned myself to the understanding that you will forever ignore my wishes and will do whatever you want.” Though he kept his voice light as he followed her out the door, he hovered within arm’s reach, observing her every move. They kept to the walls, close to the portraits of the Hawthorne lineage, which Death inspected as they walked. “There really are a lot of them, aren’t there?” He took a few more steps, stopping at another portrait of a woman with flat eyes and an angry mouth. “I remember the day I picked this one up. She wouldn’t stop screaming and told me that if she was dead, then I needed to take her husband, too. He was perfectly healthy.”
Signa smiled and let her hand slide into his, savoring the moment while it lasted. She’d journeyed down these halls with Sylas before, sleuthing for clues about Lillian Hawthorne’s murder. She knew she shouldn’t feel nearly as giddy as she did, but Signa’s life had never been normal, and sneaking into the study to investigate her uncle with Death at her side felt like her own personal brand of courtship.
“This is the one.” Signa paused to listen for any footsteps or signs of life from inside. When only silence answered, Signa shuddered as she slipped through the door.
Elijah’s study was as she remembered—an expansive room with leather chairs as rich as caramel and sleek, polished furniture. It had a masculine essence, warm and sophisticated and smelling of pine. The hundreds of books shelved across the walls were pristine and untouched, though the desk was another story. It was a mess of tea-stained papers and journals filled with notes on every page.
Death joined Signa as she prowled around the desk, commanding her shadows to slide the chair out of the way so she didn’t have to stand in the middle of a piece of furniture and feel like a true ghost. He laughed, low and pleased, as he watched her. “I didn’t expect you would have such control already.”
“Of course I do.” She summoned the shadows around her again, their tendrils turning the pages she could not touch in her spirit form. “I’m a reaper, after all.”
The words were as much for her own benefit as his, though she stumbled on them. When she was in this form, being able to command the shadows made her feel more powerful than anything in this world. She liked that she and Death were so similar. Liked that there was a side to her that only he understood.
But as much as she craved the thrum of this power coursing through her, Fate’s suspicions still beat against the back of her mind. If he was right—if her hands really could bring life instead of death—then shouldn’t that be the power she craved?
She didn’t want to believe it could be true, and yet the idea had burrowed too deeply into her mind, a constant itch she couldn’t scratch. She had to distract herself from it by sorting through the pages and clippings scattered on the desk. The first that drew her eye featured a story of the garden fire.