Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Then there’s the Cordelia problem. I saw her at the Dryad’s Dance—alive, breathing, sobbing into Blue’s chest. But her skull sits upstairs with a nameplate marking her as dead. What kind of game is Blue playing?
I feel like I’m losing my mind, and mourning Hans on top of everything isn’t helping. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I’m swirling in an abyss of death and secrets.
I need answers. But Hans died protecting me, and Blue’s grief is this raw thing that makes him untouchable. Every time I’ve considered asking about the women, about Cordelia, about what any of this means, I look at him and see someone barely holding himself together.
Besides, there are practical considerations. The Crow are still out there. Brutus and whoever else escaped the forest are probably planning their next move. And I’m not done with my own killing spree. I still have names on my list, men who need to pay for what they did to Dad.
But what if they get to me before I get to them?
So when do I leave? How? Do I sneak out in the middle of the night and hope I can survive whatever’s waiting beyond Grimlock’s borders? Do I confront Blue first and risk . . . what exactly?
The questions chase each other in circles while Blue continues accepting condolences from people who sort of know what he really is. But does anyone really know who Blue is? I sure as hell don’t.
But . . . but, and this is a very big but . . . I don’t want to leave. I should. I fucking should. But I . . . Jesus, I love the man. Skulls, unanswered questions, and all. And the man I love . . . the man I want to hold as he grieves, has been pushing me away. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t need me.
The pain of that is worse than anything else.
The church fills around me. Grimlock’s entire population, it seems, dressed in their funeral finest. Black wool and silk, expensive shoes on weathered stone. Everyone knew Hans. Everyone now mourns him. The man who called me Miss and smiled through every awkward situation.
Hans, who died because the Crow came hunting for me. Because of my kills.
Blue finally takes his seat beside me without acknowledgment. He smells of expensive soap and grief. His hands rest on his knees, perfectly still, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
Reverend Bridger approaches the pulpit, and the murmuring congregation falls silent. He’s elderly—maybe eighty, maybe a hundred—with wild white hair and eyes so pale they’re almost colorless. His voice, when he begins, carries an accent I can’t place.
“We are gathered in the shadow of loss,” he intones, raising his arms, “but death is not the end. It is transformation.”
A brass band emerges from somewhere behind the altar. Not church musicians—these are professionals, instruments gleaming, faces serious. They position themselves around Hans’s coffin in formation.
“Hans Müller lived with honor. He died with honor. And he shall be honored in the ancient way.”
The reverend strikes a ceremonial gong that hangs beside the pulpit. The sound rolls through the church, deep and resonant. Every person in the congregation stands as one, moving like they’ve done this before.
“Form the procession,” Reverend Bridger commands. “We march as one family, united in grief, united in love.”
The brass band begins a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Not quite military, not quite funeral dirge—something older, more primal. The bass drum sets a heartbeat pace that seems to sync with my body.
Blue stands, offers me his arm. Around us, the entire congregation files into formation behind Hans’s casket. Dame Gothel and Dr. Finch move to the front, followed by Elliott and Ash. Duffy falls in behind us, along with Luna and Arthur and faces I recognize from the party, from my walks through town.
We step in perfect unison.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
The rhythm is infectious, impossible to resist. My body finds the beat without conscious thought, matching the pace of everyone around me. We move as a single organism, a human river flowing behind Hans’s casket through the church doors and into the gray afternoon.
The brass band leads us down Grimlock’s winding streets, their music bouncing off the buildings and back in complex layers. Drums and trumpets and a deep tuba, all working together to create a symphony of grief that transforms the entire town into a concert hall.
Residents who aren’t part of the procession stand in doorways and windows, heads bowed as we pass. Some hold candles despite the daylight. Others scatter flower petals in our path. An old woman steps out from her house with fresh bread, breaking it and offering pieces to the marchers.
We accept the bread without breaking stride, chewing in rhythm with our steps.