River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)

She nods. I am. Quite dead.

I swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what’s behind her veil. Perhaps it’s not a cherubic blonde after all. “How long have you been dead?” It sounds like an insane question, but I’m asking it.

She shrugs lightly. It is hard to say. Time is different over here. It’s slow at times and fast at others and doesn’t obey any laws. It has to be that way, otherwise this place would be overrun by the recently deceased. In our old world, the Upper World, I believe there were hundreds of people dying every minute. That’s too much for any God to handle. Here it slows down.

“I thought all the dead were in the City of Death?”

They are, she says. Well, not all of them. There are the Deadhands and the Deadmaidens, who serve the master and his family. Then there are the Stragglers.

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard the term Stragglers.

“So you died and you…have to work? For Death? Like, forever?”

She nods again. It is an honor.

“Is it, though?” I squint at her.

I was an Inmost Dweller before. I can assure you this life is quite the improvement.

My mouth drops for a moment. “Isn’t that Hell? Or something like that?”

Yes, it certainly is.

“Why did you go to Hell?”

I killed my whole family, she says simply, and I try not to flinch. Alas, I had to pay the price. But the master was having a contest and I won the chance at redemption by working for him here. It’s the same for all the Deadhands and Deadmaidens. We’ve all been given second-chances at a better afterlife.

I stare at her, dumbfounded, feeling the skin prickle at the back of my neck again. She’s a murderer? Who was in Hell? And now she’s my personal servant?

I know what you’re thinking, she says. I can assure you that my past is my past. I have changed and grown while I’ve been in the sanctity of Shadow’s End, my new life devoted to serving Death.

“What about the others in this castle? Are they as reformed as you?”

She hesitates and I both wish and don’t wish I could see her eyes. Not all. But they try. The ones in the house are mostly though. They know a good thing when they see it. Pyry is crass but she’s a good cook and gardener. Harma is head of the household, and you’re best to stay out of her way or she’ll hit you with her femur. And then there’s Avanta. She’s Loviatar’s Deadmaiden. She’s a nice girl but she’s been mute for decades. Death put a spell on her, as a warning of what happens when you don’t shut up.

At the mention of Lovia’s name my heart races. “Lovia lives here? Death’s daughter?”

She does. When she’s not working. Her brother and her trade off in ferrying in the dead. I believe she’s with Death right now, having a meeting.

“Oh fuck.” I look down at my hands and start wringing them together.

What?

“I’m pretty sure Lovia wants to kill me,” I say, glancing up at her and seeing nothing but the veil.

She cocks her head. Oh? Have you two met?

“We have. It didn’t go well…something about me being not dead.” And kicking her off the boat, stealing her sword and murdering the swan. But I feel like I need Raila on my good side, so I don’t mention that. Even though she is a murderer and would probably understand.

I see. Raila turns around and starts heading toward the door. Well, I shall leave you alone for now. I don’t know what the master has on the agenda today, but I’ll be back again later. Make sure you eat up.

I watch as she leaves, locking me back in the room again.

I sigh and flop back on the bed. What could possibly be on Death’s agenda? A little torture at eleven a.m.? A funeral at lunch? Spend the afternoon holding a job fair in Hell?

“This has to be a dream,” I say again, as if that will make it true. I’ve felt my share of pain here and my muscles are needing an Aleve something fierce, and yet I’m still holding hope that none of this is real, that I’m back in my bed in LA, in a deep, deep sleep. Hell, since we’re wishing, I’m wishing that I’m about to wake up to a Sunday, where Jenny and I will take the surfboards up to Malibu, catch a few sets, have a boozy brunch somewhere there, maybe find some guys. In the background of all this, my father will still be alive and in Finland, and I’ll have never set foot in this place.

My stomach growls as I get another whiff of the coffee. Despite how tired and hopeless I feel, I’m getting up and padding over to the table, surprised to find the coffee is served in a mini French press. Beside it is a mug that looks carved from some kind of glittering black stone, with a cinnamon bun-type of pastry with a thick honey glaze on a matching stone plate.

I pick up the French press, peering at it.

Ikea. It’s from Ikea.

“The fuck?” I mutter, but I guess it makes sense in a gonzo way. Whoever is doing Death’s errands back in the normal world must have needed a coffee maker to go along with the beans and thought a quick trip to Ikea would suffice.

I pour myself the coffee, wondering how that transaction would have gone, surely Ikea employees would be suspicious of people shopping in black robes and skeleton hands. I take a tepid sip.

Holy shit. It tastes heavenly. Or what do they really call heaven, Amaranthus? This is a beverage fit for the lucky ones in Amaranthus.

I eye the bun, or honeycake as Raila called it, from some kind of hullabaloo bee. It looks good. Really good. I reach for it but stop myself. I’ve barely had any food and I can feel myself slipping into old habits. Bad habits. Back when everything revolved around what I put in my body, first brought on by the insane need to be light and skinny in competitive ballet, then because controlling what I ate was the only time I had control in a world completely driven by my mother.

You deserve to eat, I tell myself. You need to eat. You don’t need to rebel, you need as much strength as possible to fight your way out of here.

I reach for it again, but hesitate.

“It’s not poisonous!” A girl’s voice rings out across the room.

“Shit!” I yelp, nearly spilling the coffee. I whip around, searching for the source. Just how many people are hiding in this room?

“At least, I don’t think it’s poisonous,” the girl adds. “You could give me some and I’ll try it out for you. I haven’t had honeycake in a long time.”

With shaking hands I put the coffee down and walk across the middle of the room, looking around. “Where are you? Who are you?”

“I’m in the tank,” the voice says.

“In the what?” The tank? Does she mean the bathtub? I start towards it.

“The fish tank,” the woman clarifies sullenly. A splash follows.

The fuck? How could anyone be in the fish tank?

I walk over to it behind the velvet chaise lounge chair. Like earlier, it doesn’t look like much since there’s not a lot of light. I can see there’s water in it now, some rocks, some aquatic plants that may or may not be real. It’s quite large, actually, but definitely not big enough for a person.

Then I see a flash of white and suddenly there’s a little mermaid pressed up against the glass, banging her tiny fists on it for a moment before popping her head out of the water.

“Here I am,” she says with big aqua eyes.

I bite back a scream.

Okay. Okay. I know I’ve already seen mermaids, and seen a lot weirder, more fantastical things than that, but this little mermaid in the fish tank might just take the cake.

Again, I have so many questions.

“Why are you in a fish tank?” I ask when I’ve composed myself.

“Death put me here.”

“Why are you…so small?”

“Death put a spell on me.”

“Why are you able to talk?”