River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)(44)

I slowly push myself up on my elbows, my fight or flight instincts assuming the position. I’m in a very large, long room that looks like a Gothic combination of Victorian and Medieval. There are tall, arched windows beside the bed which look out onto…well, maybe there’s usually a view but there’s nothing but mist at the moment, providing just enough morning light to illuminate the space. It would be dark even with direct sunlight streaming in, since the walls are charcoal gray in color with subtle gold designs, and though there are melted candles affixed every few feet, none of them are currently lit.

The floor is a dark wood, a change from all the black marble I’d seen so far, with lush Turkish-style carpets strewn about. In one corner of the room is an iron partition, hinting at a large claw-foot tub behind it. At the corner closest to me is a wardrobe made of gleaming burgundy that matches the canopy and drapes, with a vanity desk and large silver mirror above it, the kind of mirror I’d be afraid to look into. And at another corner is a black velvet chaise lounge with a pile of old books bound in cracked leather, what looks like an iPad placed on top of them, and a very large, long aquarium. In the dim light I can’t tell if it has water or anything in it, but my attention immediately goes back to the iPad. Surely it just looks like one, right?

I lift the heavy covers to get out of bed and investigate but pause in horror when I look down at myself. I’m not in my jeans and sweater, as gross and uncomfortable as they were. Instead, I’m in a black, gauzy nightgown with buttons down the middle and ruffles at the sleeves.

“Oh my god,” I say out loud, my voice sounding hollow in the cavernous room. Someone dressed me? Was it Death? Was it me? My memories from last night are blank. I remember my father—oh god, Papa—and then I remember Death leading me to this room but everything else just blurs after that. Did that white centipede go up my nose too?

I press my fingers along the side of my nose, as if to find it there, then carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body is sore as hell from my aching muscles but when I examine my legs and arms there are no bruises, and though my bra and underwear have been removed, I don’t particularly feel like my body has been violated.

My soul feels violated though.

The floor is cold against my feet and I spy a pair of slippers near the bed. They’re black felt and the soles are lined with fluffy fur but I’m entirely untrusting of this place and refuse to put my bare feet in them. Death seems like the type to put black widow spiders in there for his own amusement.

I walk around the corner of the bed.

I’m not alone.

A shadow moves off the wall and glides toward me.

I scream but nothing comes out, my breath caught in my throat.

The shadow stops a couple of feet away. It’s about my height and dressed in a long black robe that trails to the floor, pooling around it like ink. The face is completely hidden by a black veil.

Do not be frightened, a voice says, slipping into my brain in the same manner that Sarvi’s did. It’s a female voice, young and light, and it doesn’t match up with the eerie figure in front of me.

“Who are you?” I say, my voice stilted as I try to catch my breath.

Raila, she says. I’m your personal Deadmaiden.

“My personal what?”

Deadmaiden, the faceless girl repeats, though her voice remains good-natured and sweet. I have been waiting for a long time to serve someone, so excuse me if I seem a little excited. My last master was Tuonen, the son of Death, but since he lives elsewhere most of the time, I’ve had no one to tend to. You will be my first mortal, so please pardon me if I ask too many questions. You don’t have to answer them.

“Okay,” I say warily. My heart is starting to slow again and I take in a deep breath. “What if I have questions? Will you answer them? Because I have a lot.”

Would you like some coffee before your questions? she asks.

I’m about to tell her no, but the thought of coffee makes my body flood with endorphins, as if a cup of Joe in the Land of the Dead is going to fix all my problems.

“What’s the coffee made of?” I ask suspiciously. “Snails and puppy dog tails?”

Good gods, no, Raila says, sounding aghast. The finest Ethiopian beans. Death has others bring it back from the Upper World, though our cook Pyry struggles to grow them here. It’s the lack of sun, they say. You know the master’s moods, though.

“He’s not my master.”

Death is everyone’s master, she says cheerfully. I’ll go bring you some coffee. It’s a rare treat, Death rarely shares his brew with anyone else.

She turns, her cloak sweeping the floor.

“Wait!” I call out.

She pauses, and then turns back around to face me.

“What happened to me last night? Or yesterday? I don’t remember.” I rub at my forehead as if that will jog my memory. “I remember my father being taken away and then Death brought me here…were you here?”

She nods. You were in a state of delirium brought on by stress.

“Did you bathe me?” Please don’t tell me Death saw me naked.

She nods again. I did. It is my job as your Deadmaiden. I made you a bath, put you in it, dressed you. You shall have another bath today. You were awfully dirty, and my touch was light.

She turns again and I watch as she goes to the wide wood door at the end of the room. When it closes shut behind her I hear her insert a key and lock it.