It had begun simply—the soul fire of Kathleen as a child had been golden bright, drawing the curiosity of many of the fae, even him, the darkest of them all. For how curious that her soul should burn so bright when her heart was so very compromised. A moment in the presence of her warmth, and Death was transfixed.
He’d watched her grow, fight and cry, watched her grit her teeth as she willed her heart’s rhythm into the beat of life.
And in spite of that ongoing labor, her dreams had been more vivid, more controlled, than most other humans’ sojourns into Twilight. In dreams, she’d directed him into elaborate schemes of great daring in her imagination. She was a master of the sword, and together they vanquished evil, she never stopping for breath or blood.
And if Shadow had sent nightmares to terrorize her sleep, he had commanded peace. Nothing would harm her while he was present.
At first she wished for a magic cure, of stars and fairy dust—though no fae, not even him, could ever heal the flesh of a human. Her hopes later fixed on a handsome doctor, who promised miracles he also could not deliver. And so time passed.
Then one dark, hopeless day, the woman Kathleen turned her gaze toward Shadow, the knowledge of her fate in her eyes. And her gaze fell on Death, her childhood Shadowman, still watching from across the veil. He’d been more transfixed than ever.
Death afraid of a mortal woman. Yet, for her, he had then and would now again dare anything. Shadowman focused on the timbre of her voice, the light humor, and heaved the hammer upward again. He concentrated himself into his grip on the shaft and jarred Shadow with another sharp, hot strike. The iron flattened, tapering just so.
I wish we could talk, she’d said as she worked at her painting. Art had been her solace, and what else would she have painted but Twilight, the faery world on the other side of the shadows. Her pale profile had gleamed in the wan light of her bedroom. Her tone was filled with warmth. A voice across time. An echo in the dark.
After all, what harm would it be to speak with her? She was so close to passing from the mortal world regardless. Why not cross that divide first himself? Let her see him, really see him, before all chances were lost? Shadow was so cold; Kathleen was radiant. What would it be like to feel that warmth, just once?
Shadowman rotated the hammer in his grip to use the tapered head to shape the end of the spear, the decorative tip of the vertical bar to the gate he forged. It needed to be razor sharp, all violence and cruelty, as was the nature of the haunt to which the gate would open.
Please touch me. I want to feel something real while I can, she’d said.
And so he’d crossed when he had no call to do so. He had broken a cardinal law of nature and trespassed where he did not belong. For Kathleen.
Mortals view Death as they conceive him: ghoul, priest, demon. Kathleen had made him her dark prince from her fairy tales, even knowing his true nature—the Grim Reaper. His duty for all eternity was to transport souls across Twilight to the Hereafter. Yet, even as she’d fought against that inevitable passage, she’d embraced him. Bid him come closer, her emotions coursing through Shadow and into him. Her intent was a revelation. Her touch changed him. Changed everything.
He grasped the wooden haft of the hammer tight, but he could feel her soft mortal skin under his hands again. The satin glide from the slope of her waist to the swell of her breast. He stroked his thumb in the hollow at the base of her throat, then followed with a brush of his mouth. Her back arched. Heat flared between them, a fire for the ages, far beyond the sear of his forge. His death-tuned senses had perceived the clamor of her heartbeat, and now he held the memory of the wild rhythm in his head and used its passion to strike the glowing piece of metal on the anvil.
Together they had created a child, Talia, now a woman with a family of her own and a strong protector by her side. Talia had fought a nightmare scourge of wraiths to come into her own fae power.
Now there remained only the second part of Kathleen’s last wish, to find a way back, a way to be with them both.
Death thumbed the edge of the metal with his other hand, found a slight thickening, and lifted the hammer again. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his intent, focused his mind on the object of his creation until he shook with power, then brought the tool down. . . .
The shadows stirred.
Sudden weakness diminished him.
The hammer slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor.
Shadowman panted, dismayed, as he regarded the hammer. It was hard enough to create and sustain the corporeal form of a human body. But to hold the hammer, that hammer, took all of the power, will, and memory within him. The tool had been created by angels and was near unbearable to a fae’s touch.
Kathleen!
The last time he’d dropped the thing, it had taken him hours to lift it again, and by then, the fire had died. He gulped the smoky air and roared at the heavenly object.