He strode forward, out the far door.
Romeo followed him, and halted two steps over the threshold. Outside the door was a hallway, and lining the hallway were men and women. He thought, for a moment, that they were statues—they were so still—but then their heads turned in unison to watch Makari walk down the hallway.
On every face was the same quiet, mindless obedience that filled Paris.
They were all living dead.
Horror seized Romeo and he couldn’t move. He was standing in a hallway filled with the living dead, and Makari—
Makari was at the other end. Casually, he looked back and said, “Paris, bring him.”
The next moment, Paris had seized Romeo in a grip like iron, and was dragging him down the hallway.
Romeo felt sick. None of this made sense. Makari was living dead himself; he couldn’t possibly think that it was good to keep those like him as slaves—perhaps he didn’t have a choice—
Perhaps he does. Perhaps he chose.
Romeo wanted to silence the thought, wanted to unthink it, but he had learned too many horrible truths in the past two months, had watched Paris learn too many as well. He couldn’t stop himself thinking, maybe, and though he wanted to flee and forget everything, he let Paris drag him after Makari because he needed to know.
“I thought for quite a while about how I should introduce you to her,” Makari said conversationally, as they turned the corner. “I mean, for a long time, I didn’t plan to introduce you at all. I just meant for you to die along with everyone else. Or not die, however you want to define it.”
“Who?” Romeo asked, his throat dry and his heart beating fast.
“But you know what?” Makari stopped before a door and turned back. He smiled, just the same wry smile that Romeo remembered, and ruffled his hair. “I’m glad I met you. Come in.”
He opened the door.
Inside was a small sitting room, and seated on a chair with cushions was a short, pale girl with golden curls.
Romeo knew her instantly. He had never seen her so closely with his own eyes, but Paris had been so indignant that the image had passed clearly through the bond: the living dead girl, kept in a glass cage in Lord Catresou’s secret laboratory.
“Is she the Master Necromancer?” asked Romeo.
Makari laughed. “Of course not.”
“Then who is she?”
“When they kept her as a prisoner, the Catresou called her the Little Lady,” said Makari. He walked forward, then dropped to his knees before her. “In truth, she’s my lady and always was.” His fingers caressed the girl’s cheek. She leaned forward—her eyes still blank—and kissed him.
Despite all the terrifying, strange things that Romeo had seen in the last few minutes, this was what seemed most unsettling: the worshipful delight on Makari’s face as he looked at the girl. A thousand times over, Makari had rolled his eyes and muttered about those fools who think they love. Romeo had always believed it was part of who he was, to sneer at love and those who fell in love—and if that had always been a lie—
“Makari,” he said, “what is going on?”
Makari swung his head back to give him a patient look. “You really haven’t figured it out by now?” He stood. “I’m the Master Necromancer. This is my lady, for whom I am going to tear down the gates of death. And you are lucky enough to be my friend.”
It felt like there was ice spreading through Romeo’s stomach, through his lungs and his fingers and his whole body. He knew what Makari was saying. On some level, he’d known it since Paris called him master. But he just couldn’t believe—
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” said Makari. “Your friend Justiran’s a necromancer too. Or was. Paris, don’t let him leave the room. I’ve got a story to tell.”
Paris’s hand landed on Romeo’s shoulder again. Romeo shuddered at the steady, implacable grip.
He suddenly remembered how shattered Paris had been, when he learned that the old Lord Catresou was conspiring with necromancers. Romeo had pitied him, but not really understood that pain. Had even thought him foolish for being so desperate to deny it.
Now he understood.
“I was once a love-struck young idiot like you,” said Makari. “I was sixteen years old and I lost my heart to a Catresou girl. That clan hasn’t improved in a hundred years, I assure you.”
“A hundred years?” Romeo said blankly.
“Oh,” said Makari, his mouth slicing up into a grin, “didn’t I mention it? This was before the Ruining. But not before the Catresou became utterly insufferable. They forbade me from meeting her, of course. I didn’t intend to listen. I had an entire plan for us to flee together, to a place where neither of our clans could bother us. But then her own father—your dear friend Justiran—told her that I was dead. And she killed herself.”
Slowly, absently, the Little Lady raised her hand to rub at the base of her throat. Makari caught the hand and kissed it.
“From the way he carried on, you’d think no one in the world had been bereaved before,” Makari continued, his voice thick with disgust. “And because he was a Catresou, he thought he could master death. We made an alliance, the two of us, and for five years stole ancient books and crossed the world looking for answers. Then we raised her back to life. And the Ruining started.”
The words were too huge, too horrible to comprehend. Romeo stared at Makari, and he tried to think of a response—a question—he desperately tried to convince himself that Makari was lying under orders, just like Paris.
But Makari looked like himself, as Paris never had.
“How did you cause the Ruining?” Romeo finally asked.
“Well, if you see Justiran again before I kill him, he can explain the theory. I don’t care. Do you know what it’s like, to see the girl you love open her eyes after five years of death, and immediately beg to die again?” Makari’s smile was like an open wound. “The dead want to stay dead. It’s the only thing they wish. But that first necromancy, the one that split the world open? It was too strong. She couldn’t die again. Until at last she threw herself into a furnace, and we thought that was the end of her.”
Very gently, Makari laid a hand on the top of the Little Lady’s head and stroked her hair. She didn’t move.
“Justiran and I both ended up in Viyara, because though it’s hard for us to die now, the world outside is not a pleasant place. I killed myself sometimes, but I never could find my lady in the land of the dead, so I always came back. I thought it was enough to wait for the end, and watch the Catresou slowly die. But twenty years ago, do you know what I discovered? She didn’t die, not even in the furnace. The Catresou found her and brought her with them, and kept her as an interesting artifact.”
“And that’s why you tried to open the gates of death,” said Romeo, finally understanding.
“She can’t find peace in the living world,” said Makari. “And she can’t leave it. But if I open the gates of death and make this the land of the dead as well, then perhaps she’ll finally smile again. For Juliet, would you do anything less?”
Romeo thought of Juliet, of the look in her eyes when she talked about justice, about her ferocious courage and dedication.
“I would do even more,” he said. “But not this.”
“Then you’re not as in love as you fancy yourself. Don’t worry, I’ve enough love for the whole world.”
“Makari, this is wrong,” Romeo burst out. “All those people—how could you do that? And . . . wait, if you only decided to end the world twenty years ago, why were you running the Night Game before that?”