And so she tucked into Gundry, shut her eyes, and forced sleep to claim her.
TWENTY-SIX
LATE THAT EVENING, AS RAIN THRASHED AGAINST THE WINDOWS and the thunder raged, Signa woke to hands squeezing her throat.
She’d been lost in nostalgia, dreaming of eating sweets with Percy and taking lessons in the drawing room with Marjorie until the corners of her vision tunneled inward with darkness. Suddenly it was Percy’s face she saw, eyes dark as a moonless night as he squeezed her throat. Blythe stood behind him, half turned and ignorant of what was happening. Signa reached toward her, trying to call out. Her scream rang silent in the night, vision fading. Yet even as Percy’s image disappeared, the grip on her throat did not cease. It was then—as Signa gasped for breaths she could not find—that she realized her breathlessness was no dream and jolted herself awake.
Gundry stood across from her, at least three times his normal size. His fangs were bared, shadows dripping from his maw. He was snarling, though it was impossible for Signa to hear anything over the rushing of her blood.
She tried to lurch upright only to find that she couldn’t move. Sitting on her chest was an older woman Signa had never seen, who beamed down at her with a watery smile that reminded Signa of her grandmother. The woman smoothed hair from Signa’s forehead with one hand as she pressed down on her throat with the other.
“It’s all right,” crooned the spirit. “Go back to sleep.”
Signa tried to reach into her pocket, panicking when she found it empty. She’d used the last of the belladonna while revealing her powers to Blythe. Her hands trembled as dread rolled over her. She bucked, desperate to free herself, but the spirit held tight, and the cold sank deeper into her.
It was like the time Thaddeus had possessed her all those months prior, back in Thorn Grove’s library. Though this was no possession—Signa still had control of her body, even if she was having trouble using it—the spirit was wholly consuming, and it was a horrifying realization that she could very well be murdered.
But all Signa could think was that she had no right to die. Not with Elijah’s fate hanging in the air, and certainly not before she was able to have a life with Death at her side. This wasn’t the time to test whether her ability to evade death extended to suffocation, and so, as her heartbeat slowed and Signa stood on the threshold between life and death, she seized the short opportunity she had and let her powers flood in before she lost consciousness.
Signa? Death’s voice was in her head at once, and if not for the spirit on top of her, she might have cried in relief. Signa, what’s happening?
There was no time to tell him. The familiar frost of her reaper abilities settled into her veins, steadying her. Every shadow in the room consumed her, and she felt invincible. She pushed aside her doubts and the memory of the terror in Blythe’s eyes as tendrils of darkness snaked around her fingertips. She drew it around her, letting it feel her desperation and need for escape. And then she pushed that darkness out like a weapon, and let the night do her bidding.
Signa couldn’t say what happened in those final moments. She didn’t know just how many shadows had gathered to her, and she had no awareness that all of Foxglove had stilled in awe of the power she’d commanded. She only knew that moments later she was rolled over on all fours and choking on the breaths her body demanded. Her throat was raw, aching, the skin around it bruised. Whether from the cold or the death that had nearly claimed her, Signa trembled so fiercely that it was impossible for her to move from the grimy sheets on which she’d fallen asleep.
Only then did Death arrive. He came in a gale that shook the windows, clashing against the manor as he pinned the spirit against the wall and shackled her with his shadows. Thunder crashed as he lifted his hand, the night pooling into a scythe in his palms.
Death did not speak nor give the cowering spirit so much as a moment before he struck. But the blade hovered against the woman’s throat, stalled by the shadows Signa used to halt it in the final second. There was fury in Death’s eyes as he whirled to face her.
“She was trying to kill you,” he spat, pressing down harder and testing Signa’s hold on him. “Do you realize how much energy it takes for a spirit to touch a living soul? For even daring to lift a finger against you, she should die.”
“Gundry would have taken her,” she argued, trying to keep her voice calm.
“You foolish girl. Gundry can’t reap spirits!”
Signa steadied her hold as the hound whined. “Don’t take her,” she said, staring Death firmly in the eyes until his shoulders eased, his rage ebbing just enough for Signa to drop her shadows and trust that he wouldn’t make any rash moves.