She decided that the first thing she should do was clean. Elaine didn’t deserve to do such an arduous task alone, and the chore would help get her mind off things. And so Signa stripped the bed of its sheets—they might have been white once, though she couldn’t tell through all the dust layered onto them. And that was as far as she got before all the dust made her think back to living with her aunt Magda, and how miserable she’d been before Thorn Grove. From there, it didn’t take long until the dam of swelling emotion she’d been repressing since leaving finally burst open, reminding her once again just how alone she was.
Her stomach tight and her chest trembling, Signa kicked the bedding so that the dirty side lay flat on the floor and sank onto it. After sneezing several times from the dust, Gundry padded to her side to lie beside her, resting his chin on her leg with a gentle lick. Signa curled her fingers in his fur, tears coming hot and fast.
“It’s just you and me, boy.” She sank low enough to rest her head against Gundry’s back and burrowed her face into his neck. He was one of the few slivers of normalcy left in her life, and he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing—the thought was so ridiculous that she almost laughed, clutching him tighter until there came a crash of thunder outside the window.
Gundry burst to all fours, hackles raised as his fangs bared. Signa followed his pointed ears to an old vanity near the window, tense and holding her breath. Its mirror was hazy from dirt, but not so hazy that Signa couldn’t see the billowing hem of a dress, there one moment and gone the next. Panic surged in her throat, but seconds later she saw the likely cause: not a spirit but a tiny gap in the windowsill that was causing the curtains to billow with the sharp wind. She hurried to shut the window before drawing back to Gundry’s side.
“It’s all right,” she whispered as she brought the other side of the blankets over them like a cocoon. She had to say it a few more times, scratching him behind the ears before he wound his body protectively around hers. “We’re going to be fine. This is our home now, and I won’t let anything hurt us.”
They fell into silence, and though Gundry’s breathing soon deepened with sleep, every creaking floorboard and gust of wind kept Signa wide awake. For a while she debated forgoing sleep entirely, but Foxglove was her home now, and she refused to let anyone or anything make her fearful of it.
And so she tucked into Gundry, shut her eyes, and forced sleep to claim her.
TWENTY-SIX
LATE THAT EVENING, AS RAIN THRASHED AGAINST THE WINDOWS and the thunder raged, Signa woke to hands squeezing her throat.
She’d been lost in nostalgia, dreaming of eating sweets with Percy and taking lessons in the drawing room with Marjorie until the corners of her vision tunneled inward with darkness. Suddenly it was Percy’s face she saw, eyes dark as a moonless night as he squeezed her throat. Blythe stood behind him, half turned and ignorant of what was happening. Signa reached toward her, trying to call out. Her scream rang silent in the night, vision fading. Yet even as Percy’s image disappeared, the grip on her throat did not cease. It was then—as Signa gasped for breaths she could not find—that she realized her breathlessness was no dream and jolted herself awake.
Gundry stood across from her, at least three times his normal size. His fangs were bared, shadows dripping from his maw. He was snarling, though it was impossible for Signa to hear anything over the rushing of her blood.
She tried to lurch upright only to find that she couldn’t move. Sitting on her chest was an older woman Signa had never seen, who beamed down at her with a watery smile that reminded Signa of her grandmother. The woman smoothed hair from Signa’s forehead with one hand as she pressed down on her throat with the other.
“It’s all right,” crooned the spirit. “Go back to sleep.”
Signa tried to reach into her pocket, panicking when she found it empty. She’d used the last of the belladonna while revealing her powers to Blythe. Her hands trembled as dread rolled over her. She bucked, desperate to free herself, but the spirit held tight, and the cold sank deeper into her.
It was like the time Thaddeus had possessed her all those months prior, back in Thorn Grove’s library. Though this was no possession—Signa still had control of her body, even if she was having trouble using it—the spirit was wholly consuming, and it was a horrifying realization that she could very well be murdered.
But all Signa could think was that she had no right to die. Not with Elijah’s fate hanging in the air, and certainly not before she was able to have a life with Death at her side. This wasn’t the time to test whether her ability to evade death extended to suffocation, and so, as her heartbeat slowed and Signa stood on the threshold between life and death, she seized the short opportunity she had and let her powers flood in before she lost consciousness.
Signa? Death’s voice was in her head at once, and if not for the spirit on top of her, she might have cried in relief. Signa, what’s happening?
There was no time to tell him. The familiar frost of her reaper abilities settled into her veins, steadying her. Every shadow in the room consumed her, and she felt invincible. She pushed aside her doubts and the memory of the terror in Blythe’s eyes as tendrils of darkness snaked around her fingertips. She drew it around her, letting it feel her desperation and need for escape. And then she pushed that darkness out like a weapon, and let the night do her bidding.
Signa couldn’t say what happened in those final moments. She didn’t know just how many shadows had gathered to her, and she had no awareness that all of Foxglove had stilled in awe of the power she’d commanded. She only knew that moments later she was rolled over on all fours and choking on the breaths her body demanded. Her throat was raw, aching, the skin around it bruised. Whether from the cold or the death that had nearly claimed her, Signa trembled so fiercely that it was impossible for her to move from the grimy sheets on which she’d fallen asleep.
Only then did Death arrive. He came in a gale that shook the windows, clashing against the manor as he pinned the spirit against the wall and shackled her with his shadows. Thunder crashed as he lifted his hand, the night pooling into a scythe in his palms.
Death did not speak nor give the cowering spirit so much as a moment before he struck. But the blade hovered against the woman’s throat, stalled by the shadows Signa used to halt it in the final second. There was fury in Death’s eyes as he whirled to face her.
“She was trying to kill you,” he spat, pressing down harder and testing Signa’s hold on him. “Do you realize how much energy it takes for a spirit to touch a living soul? For even daring to lift a finger against you, she should die.”
“Gundry would have taken her,” she argued, trying to keep her voice calm.
“You foolish girl. Gundry can’t reap spirits!”
Signa steadied her hold as the hound whined. “Don’t take her,” she said, staring Death firmly in the eyes until his shoulders eased, his rage ebbing just enough for Signa to drop her shadows and trust that he wouldn’t make any rash moves.
Her teeth were chattering as she forced herself onto shaky feet. While she would have loved to stand tall before the woman, she had to draw a blanket from the floor and wrap it around herself as she walked, desperate for the mere promise of warmth. She swayed, and while she wasn’t coughing up blood this time, a glance out of the corner of her eye revealed that the color was leaching from her hair, once again turning it silver. She’d have to worry about that later.
Having been focused solely on trying to save her own life, Signa hadn’t gotten the best look at the spirit. As she stood before her now, the woman wasn’t quite as old as she’d thought, perhaps in her sixties. She had an intense widow’s peak, and a permanent scowl that created deep crevices around her lips and forehead. Her shrewd lips were painted crimson, and the look in her eyes was nothing short of contempt as Signa approached and asked, “Who are you?”