Page 192 of Fallen Nocturne

Death’s expression turns wary. “What is it?”

“Your list,” she says. “The names of those who are meant to die.”

The warmth gathering around us seems to dim.

“Why?”

“My uncle was poisoned with Nevrin. It usually kills within twenty-four hours.” Her fingers twist together. “I need to know whether Rainer dies tomorrow.”

Death studies her for a long moment. Then he lifts one hand, and a dark book appears within it. Its pages turn without being touched. Names flash across them too quickly for me to read.

Rhianelle holds her breath.

“Rainer Wiolant is not listed for tomorrow,” Death says.

Rhianelle’s shoulders sag with relief, but she does not look satisfied. “What about the day after?”

More pages turn. “No.”

“Next week?” she asks.

Death gives her a tired look, yet checks again. “He is not on my list for tomorrow or for any day in the coming week.”

A broken sound escapes her, half laugh, half sob. She presses one hand over her mouth as tears fill her eyes.

Rhianelle throws her arms around Death again. He makes an annoyed sound but does not push her away.

“Thank you,” Rhianelle says into his chest. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Go back and do your best to win the war,” Death says tiredly. “Save your people.”

She pulls back and smiles at him. “I’ll do my best.”

Rhianelle runs back to me, and I catch her hand.

Hand in hand, we walk slowly toward the dark passage. Golden light burns behind us, but the tunnel ahead is entirely black. Every instinct tells me we are walking in the wrong direction, yet warmth gathers around our joined hands with every step.

Rhianelle calls Death her friend. She certainly has some fucking strange acquaintances. A giant spider. A glowing creature from another world. And now this.

“Death is your friend?” I ask.

“Yes.” She nods, glancing back at the figure watching us leave. “That’s how he takes a person. Death doesn’t come as a stranger. He comes wearing someone they know. A friend, to make the crossing easier.”

Her gaze returns to me.

“That’s why he looks like you. A younger you.” She laughs softly and presses closer. “You’re my friend, and you’re the person I want holding me at the end.”

I tighten my arms around her. “Does he always take the form of someone dear to you?”

“Not always. When Death hates someone, he appears as the person they fear most.”

I fall quiet for a moment, turning that over in my mind.

“What about you?” she asks. “What did he look like to you?”

I look back one last time at Death. Dark hair frames a face sharpened by fury, his skin deathly pale. His eyes burn with a familiar, vengeful madness.

“Vlad,” I say quietly.