Belladonna

A DAYTIME JOURNEY TO THE LIBRARY WAS FAR LESS EERIE THAN HER visit with Sylas had been two nights prior.

Signa took the stairs two at a time, easing the double oak doors open as to not frighten Thaddeus in the event that he was reading. “Thaddeus?” she called as she swung the doors open. “Sorry for interrupting. I wanted to thank you for your help—”

Her stomach lurched at the immediate sight of smoke. Clutching her skirts, she ran toward it. Thaddeus stood outside the row of shelves she and Sylas had been searching through. Handfuls of books lay scattered upon the floor, burning. It was a fresh fire, and if the flames weren’t put out soon, it might gain enough momentum to burn all of Thorn Grove. “Who did this?” Thaddeus didn’t answer. He watched his beloved books burn to cinders, flames reflected in his hollow, bespectacled eyes.

Signa wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself. This was her fault. Just two nights before she’d stood there, smiling and laughing and thrilled that she’d finally found a way to help her cousin. Someone hadn’t liked that. Someone, it seemed, didn’t want to give her the chance to find anything more.

She needed to fetch some water, or get help, or do something. If they put the fire out now, they could preserve most of the books. They could preserve the library.

Yet the moment Signa turned to run, the library doors slammed shut. Panic rose like bile in her throat as Thaddeus spun toward her. There was no warmth in his eyes. None of the smiles or kindness that there’d been before. His movements were jerky and his eyes like weapons; he appeared every bit as volatile as Lillian had been the night in the garden.

“Thaddeus, help,” she pleaded, voice raw and scratchy in the growing smoke. “We can stop this fire from spreading any farther, but you have to let me go.”

His expression remained hollow, untouched by her words as he stalked toward her.

Signa pressed her trembling hands against her sides to steady herself. “Thaddeus—”

He lunged, moving not toward her body but into it. A cold sharper than anything she’d ever felt numbed her limbs, freezing in the same way it did when Death touched her. And yet this did not feel remotely similar, for there was no power waiting for her. No connection to the world or her abilities as a reaper. There was nothing but ice.

She tried to blink eyelids that wouldn’t shut. To move fingers that wouldn’t close and feet that wouldn’t walk. She couldn’t so much as tremble, and she realized—distantly, for even her thoughts were beginning to haze at the edges—what this was.

Death had warned her that a spirit had the power to possess a person, though she’d never anticipated it happening to her.

The spirit was taking control of every inch of her, seizing hold of her body and even her mind, for her thoughts were now as wild and chaotic as his. His desires became her own.

Thaddeus wanted to toss more books into the fire and let Thorn Grove be consumed. But there was a part of him, too, that recognized help was available. That if they put out the fire now, everything needn’t be lost. It was that hesitation—that tiny inkling stirring within him—that Signa clung to. It was the only hope, and so she tried to push on that thought. Tried to bring it to the forefront of their shared mind and unravel it ever so slowly, drawing him in.

She pushed and pushed, feeling like she was being sucked deeper into his rage by the moment.

She couldn’t tell her thoughts from his when the library doors burst open and the world around them plummeted into a more familiar cold.

Signa had never been so happy to feel Death’s arrival. To see his shadows slinking from the wall, pooling into a form that stood before her. Only faintly did she register that he was holding his hand out for her.

No. Not for her but for Thaddeus.

“Let the girl go.” There was not a single note of gentleness in his voice. When Thaddeus didn’t automatically respond, Death spoke again, low and vicious and seething. “Let. Her. Go.”

And finally, he did.

Signa fell to her knees, trembling and so unnaturally chilled that she had half a mind to step into the fire.

Thaddeus paced before Death, a hint of light returning to his eyes. “They came so fast. So fast, I couldn’t do anything to stop them.”

It was Death who asked, for Signa’s lips could not form the words: “Who couldn’t you stop?”

Thaddeus flinched. He picked a book up from the table and then dropped it again, over and over. “I was reading. I was reading, and I did not see. They came so fast. I was reading. I was reading, and I did not see.”

The fire was spreading. There was no time for Signa to let herself tremble. No time to succumb to the numbness of her body. She took a shaky step, the shadows helping steady her. Then another, and another, until they retreated to Death’s side and she was starting toward the door as quickly as her body could manage.

“What will you do with him?” she whispered through quivering lips as she reached the hall, peering back over her shoulder to watch Death. His shadows spread like a blanket across the floor, as though he might somehow staunch the flames.

“I’ve told you already, I don’t take spirits against their will.” The room plummeted into darkness. Death’s voice rang in her head. Now hurry, Signa. Find help!

And she did, stumbling down the stairs and screaming for whoever was there.

Elijah found her. He emerged from Blythe’s room, a panic in his eyes when she told him of the fire. He and Warwick hurried to it, marshaling the staff to extinguish the flames.

Signa couldn’t be certain whether he’d been sent or had rushed to her himself, but as one of the staff that had been enlisted to help, Sylas stood before her moments later. “What happened?” he asked as he took her by the shoulders and shepherded her away from the commotion, steering Signa back toward her suite.

At first, she couldn’t answer. While the majority of the library was still intact, Signa’s thoughts were lost to how Thaddeus had watched his favorite thing in the world burn away. So many books gone, just like that. Still, it was better to lose books than to lose their lives. What might have happened if she hadn’t gone up there and noticed the fire when she did? Would whoever was behind the fire have been content to let all of Thorn Grove burn? She couldn’t bear to think of it.

“I think,” she said between chattering teeth, “someone is trying to send us a warning.”

Sylas’s grip on her tightened. “You look on the verge of fainting,” he told her when they’d reached her door. “I’ll find someone to come tend to you, but I need to go and help with the fire. In the meantime, promise me you’ll try to rest.”

“I promise,” she answered meekly. It wasn’t as though she was well enough to do anything but rest. Sylas held her for a moment longer before prying himself away. Signa watched his feet disappear back in the direction of the fire before she opened the door to her suite and dragged herself inside. Each step across the threshold was arduous.

It was most fortunate that Elaine soon appeared with a pot of tea and a tray full of scones. She pulled a plush chair close to the hearth and helped Signa into it, though it took Elaine some time to light the fire. The tinderbox in the kitchen had gone missing, and she’d had to scour the servants’ quarters for another. Though fire was the last thing Signa wanted to see, it alone was able to soothe the pervading chill deep within her bones.

She sat in a chair by the hearth until sundown, trying not to think about how she’d let a spirit seize control of her body. It was a relief that Death had arrived when he did, though she hated that she’d had to rely on him to save her.

Elaine returned later to help her into a bath, and by the time she was clean, Signa was starting to feel like herself once more. The fog in her mind had cleared, and she had a new plan: She would learn to fend for herself, no matter how many nights it took of training with Death or how much she had to practice her powers. It would be worth it to learn everything, if only to avoid ever being possessed again.

And so later that evening, she sat in her bed with her hair wet and nightgown on, eyes shut. She had her window open, letting crisp air into her suite. It billowed the canopy above her bed, its chill sinking into the sheets as she bundled beneath the covers. A good chill, this time. Biting and stormy and real.

Her grandmother had always warned her not to leave the window open when her hair was wet, but it was a warning Signa preferred never to heed. She enjoyed the way the last tendrils of autumn felt against her skin, and she sought comfort within its cool grasp and the scent of dampened earth. It made her feel closer to the world around her. Like she was human.

It also, she realized, made her think of Death. She hadn’t felt his presence since the library, and hour by hour her curiosity was mounting. Death had given Signa a challenge to communicate with him mentally. Now, she would finally try.

I’m glad you were there earlier. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived.

When the only response was silence, Signa scooted to the middle of the bed, folding her legs beneath her. What’s happened to Thaddeus? She hadn’t a clue if this was working; there was no guidebook for how to be a reaper. She shut her eyes and used the chill of the night to help her envision Death before her. Imagined that the cold was his touch against her skin. Did you learn anything more from him?

A spark within her told her he was there, listening.

He loved those books. It’s my fault they’ve been destroyed.

Finally, his response came, and she couldn’t help the thrill that ran through her. She’d actually done it. Take a breath, Little Bird. You are no more at fault for the fire than I am at fault for the fact that people die. You did everything right—your cousin is still alive because of your efforts. Remember that.

She worried her lip. While she recognized that there very well may have been some small modicum of truth in those words, it felt impossible to believe them.

Thaddeus is himself again, though I don’t think he’ll be long for this world. His voice was a cool burn against her skin. What you experienced, Signa, is rare. It takes a lot out of a spirit to possess someone, and most decide to pass on not long after. Spirits don’t have the ability to filter their emotions as we do, and they act on impulse. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you sooner.

She didn’t want his apology; he was the last person she blamed. All along he’d warned her to practice her abilities. To test her limits as a reaper. She should have listened.

Thank you, she thought. For helping me, and for warning me about Blythe. I never would have known how dire a situation she was in had you not informed me.

His response came after a long moment. I would have taken her tonight had you not helped her. I fear our time to find the murderer is dwindling. She may be safe for now, but who is to say how long that will last?

It was shame Signa felt, then. Shame for not finding the killer, yet. Shame for continuing on with lessons and musings over men, all while Blythe was deathly ill.

As if sensing that within her, Death said, You are not responsible for her life. Nor will you be responsible when the time comes—and it will one day come—for me to take her. You must not allow yourself to be consumed so thoroughly by death. It’s not selfish to live.

She curled her toes in the sheets, combing fingers through her wet hair. How deep a nerve he’d struck, though it was one thing to be told that and another to believe it. You were right to tell me that this would be easier if I’d rely on my abilities more, she told him. I think… I need you. I need your help. But I’m afraid. It was easier to admit it from the safety of her bed, when he was not standing there before her. Even so, her cheeks heated all the same.

The silence between them grew, so loud it was grating. It will come easier with practice, he said at last, and I will do everything in my power to help. I’ve taught you this much, haven’t I? You have the power of the world within you, Signa Farrow. You need only to embrace it.

The unspoken truth hung heavy between them—she would be doing more than embracing her powers. She would be embracing him.

Her throat was too tight. She thought of their night together. Of how close she’d been to a decision there was no going back from. They’d stopped just in time, and that was a good thing.… Wasn’t it? Because of course she shouldn’t want that—shouldn’t want him. And yet…

Stop worrying about society and playing its game, hoping that you’ll be good enough, Death urged her. There is no such thing as true goodness, there is only perception. So why not try my way of living? I think it would suit you just fine.

It wasn’t long ago that she’d held a knife in her hands and tried to plunge it through him. She’d wanted for so long to be rid of Death, but she was no longer so sure of that as she’d once been. Even the sound of his voice in her head warmed her. She felt endless curiosity about him. She wanted to pry him apart. To know his deepest depths, his likes, his wants. No matter how much she learned, she doubted she’d ever be satisfied.

The more she thought about him, the harder her toes curled into the bedsheets. But the chill of the wind was fierce, and it reminded Signa of what it’d felt like to be in his arms. There was infinite power in those arms, and an infinite power that came from being held within them. Never had she felt such stirrings within herself, such atrocities that Aunt Magda would have had her burned alive for.

Because she was having thoughts about Death. About her and Death. And they weren’t the sort of thoughts that belonged in polite society.

I would come to you. His voice dropped lower, almost tender. Should you call me, I will come. There was something pressing about the way he said it—something fervent and searching.

Signa clutched a pillow tight to her chest.

She could do it. All it would take was a single word, and he’d be there before her.

But then what? Would she let him cure the ache of her lips? Tend to the heat of her belly? Would they continue where they’d left off the night before?

“Good” girls didn’t want the things Signa was considering. For so long she’d had her plans, her hopes, and now he was throwing a wrench into all of them. She let loose of the pillow. It took everything in her not to summon him to her room. Not to speak the words that threatened her tongue. Instead, she curled into the sheets and shut her eyes, willing away the desire.

She had no doubt she’d dream of him. And for once, she was looking forward to it. I’ll remember that, she told him, and left it at that.

He took it as a promise, his voice a rasp that made Signa believe he was having the same thoughts that she was. It was a sound she wouldn’t soon stop thinking about. Good night, Little Bird. You’ve done well.

She wasn’t certain he’d left her when Signa trailed a finger down her nightgown and smoothed her thumb over her inner thigh, imagining that the touch was his. She welcomed the night’s chill into her bones, tilted her head back, absorbing it into her as though it was his embrace.

It would be another night, Signa was certain, when she wouldn’t be getting much sleep at all.