River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)

Raila and Lovia lead me down the hall, the candles flickering on the walls, oozing black wax that drips to the floor in sculptural mounds. Each wax sculpture seems to move the more I stare at it, the shape continuously shifting, and I don’t know if it’s a trick of the eyes or that everything in this creepy world is sentient.

The hall twists around and comes to an open area with a grand staircase that curves from level to level like a giant granite snake. I peer over the edge, counting two levels below us and two above us. A gargantuan chandelier of bones hangs just below us, lighting up the lower levels, making the shadows on the walls come alive with the flickering candlelight. I see both human and animal skulls in the macabre structure. Now that he definitely didn’t get at Ikea.

Lovia and Raila gently guide me down the steps, and with the way that my gown trails after me, I feel like a historical romance heroine. That is, until two Deadhands pass us on the way up, their empty skeleton faces glimpsed under their shadowy hoods. Creepy as fuck.

I try to suppress the shudder running through me, wanting to appear brave but Lovia gives me a sympathetic look. I guess my disgust is hard to hide.

“I’m sure you’ll get used to them,” she whispers to me as we reach the next level. “I felt the same way when I first went to the Upper World, seeing all those babies and children everywhere.”

I gasp. “My god. You saw dead babies and children in my world?”

She laughs, throwing her head back. “No, silly. If they were dead that would be no problem. I meant babies and children. In general. Your world is just full of them. They give me the creeps.” She shakes her arms out in an exaggerated manner, her bracelets jangling.

“Remind me to never ask you to babysit,” I say under my breath.

We head down another candlelit hall, voices and the clinking of cutlery floating toward us, then come to a large room with two skeleton guards posted on either side of the entrance holding swords. They let us pass but I can feel their eyes trained to me.

The great room has dark parquet floors and plum-colored rugs that complement the smoky purple walls, and narrow stained glass windows in various shades of gray that stretch to the ceiling as if we’re in some forsaken church. Candles flicker from the wall sconces, and at one end is a huge roaring fireplace, at least ten feet long, with a tower of skulls framing it instead of stone. The fire gives off enough light for the whole room and the heat is delicious. I hadn’t realized how cold I had been until now and I briefly wonder if I’m getting used to this climate already.

In the middle of the room is a long iron table and chairs with backs made of blackened bones. Two men sit on opposite sides of the middle of the table and I recognize them from the other day, both of them in robes.

One is a terrifying skeleton whose eye sockets seem to stare into my soul, even from under the shadows of his hood. The other looked like a skeleton when I saw him the other day, but now up close he appears to be more alive than I thought. He’s just incredibly gaunt with pale skin, hooded black eyes, a thinning white beard and wispy white hair that comes over his forehead. He’s watching me too, but it doesn’t feel unkind.

And at the head of the table is Death. He’s wearing a different skull for dinner—perhaps this is his formal attire. It’s polished black and of the canine variety, so if he’s going for a wolfish appearance, he absolutely nailed it. His clothes look the same, dark with some leather, except he’s not wearing a robe for once so I can get a better look at his body, his broad shoulders, the width of his arms, the way his torso tapers down. He’s sitting back in his chair, looking relaxed, gloved hands folded over his knee.

Watching me. Always watching me.

Smiling too. A cunning smile—I can feel it even if I can’t see it.

“The guest of honor has arrived,” Death says, straightening up and getting to his feet, towering over the table. “The fairy girl, the little bird, the mortal daughter of Shaman Torben. Hanna Heikkinen.”

When neither of his companions rise, he clears his throat impatiently and they both get to their feet.

“Welcome, Hanna,” the old man says to me as Lovia leads me to the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to properly introduce ourselves. I’m Kalma, God of Graves.”

Kalma extends his hand as I pass and I quickly shake it. His skin is ice cold and when I look down I notice his fingers are silver. His ears are silver too and when he gives me a kind smile, his teeth are the same.

“And that’s Surma,” Death says, gesturing to the creepy skeleton on the other side of the table. “Don’t bother with him. He’s not very nice.”

I smile nervously as Lovia sits me down right next to Death, between him and Kalma. Surma makes a low hissing sound in response and then sits down.

“Surma is also a God of Death,” Death explains. “He’s just not the God.”

“He’s a relic,” Lovia whispers to me before she goes to the opposite end of the table.

“Relic,” Surma sneers in a raspy voice and to my horror his teeth clack together as he talks. “Your disdain for relics never fails to amuse me, Loviatar. Didn’t your father tell you to respect your elders?”

“I taught her to respect me,” Death corrects him. “And you are a relic. You’re so old, you should be in the ground.”

“When you say relic, do you mean an Old God?” I ask. Everyone looks at me.

“Don’t tell me this wench is that clueless?” Surma says, teeth clanking, making my nerves shrivel.

“She’s not a wench,” Death snipes. “And while she certainly is clueless, give her some time. It’s not easy being thrown into a new world, especially one so cruel.”

I stare at Death, trying not to show any softness on my face. Did he actually stick up for me? In his own way, of course. He still managed to call me clueless.

“I don’t think it’s in good taste to insult the guest of honor,” Kalma says, and I shoot him a grateful smile.

“And speaking of taste,” Lovia says. “I’m starving. Bring out the food and drinks.” She claps her hands together and suddenly Deadhands appear at the doorway, filing toward us carrying jugs and iron platters of various dishes.

“Surma is a relic,” Death explains to me as the food is placed on the table. “A leftover from the times of the Old Gods. Like the Liekki?, I cannot be rid of him. But he is no God. As you can see, he’s very much dead.”

“He’s also pretty useless at a dinner party,” Lovia says as a Deadhand pours what looks like wine into her iron chalice. “Considering he can’t eat or drink anything.”

“But I can watch,” Surma says. Clack, clack, clack goes his jawbone. “And I can listen. Pardon me if I don’t particularly trust the mortal daughter of the shaman that your father just let go, for no reason at all, I might add.”

He twists his head toward Death now, the movements jarring. “You should have kept him, Tuoni. Or I could have killed him for you, like I used to. It was my job. Now he’s back in the Upper World, and who knows what kind of magic he’s taken with him there. You know more than anyone that shamans can’t be trusted.”

“I know that our guest needs to eat before the food gets cold,” Death says just as the main course is placed in the middle of the table.

I gasp.

“It’s the swan,” Death says proudly. “One of them anyway. Thank Lovia for having the fortitude to pack it in the snow and bring it here.”

I stare at the massive roasted swan in front of me that nearly takes up the whole table. It’s done up like a turkey, surrounded by various fruits and vegetables, some strange, some familiar—like tiny apples and red cabbage. It’s glazed and crispy brown and cooked to perfection and my mouth automatically waters, despite the fact that this is the holy swan I killed.