And she called this the Underworld. I remember when I was told Hell is not a thing. There’s the Underworld for souls and the Abyss for demons. At least I will not burn for eternity. Unless this resting place she’s taking me to is the mouth of a volcano. I like hot baths, but that would be too much.
We keep walking, for I have no idea how long. The sandyground takes the form of a beatenpath, trudged by many others before. It splits, then splits again, and I glance into the distance at the places I will not see. I wonder where the other roads lead. Ahead of us, the path climbs a hill. The reaper stops as soon as we reach the apex and turns to me.
“We should rest a bit,” she says. “Even if you don’t need that anymore, your soul is still used to the kinks of a mortal body. You won’t need to eat or sleep, but for a while, your soul will expect you to.”
That’s a crazy concept. I open my mouth to ask her more about it when my gaze trails toward the horizon. Up here, I see the silhouettes of buildings more defined against the pitch-black scenery, but there’s more. The first sign of color. All the way to the edge of the horizon, a cluster of tall buildings and what looks like a palace burst with red and blue lights. They’re so vibrant, it hurts my eyes after getting used to the black and white of our surroundings.
“What’s that?” I murmur, awed at the pump of lights in the distance. A city. It reminds me of Hiram, the vampire city I visited what feels like a lifetime ago.
The reaper follows my line of sight, then makes a sound deep in her throat. It sounds like disgust. “That’s the heart of the Underworld. The Devil’s Palace.”
The Devil? “As in Lucifer? Satan, with the horns and everything?”
A smile dances on the corners of her lips for a moment. “One and only, minus the horns.” And she starts the descent to the other side of the hill. Was that her take on a rest? We stopped for like two seconds. “I think he’s receiving some guests. There’s a lot of politics for the upper crust, but they’re going to spend the next days partying, I’m sure.” She doesn’t sound pleased. Maybe she thinks the Devil should work harder? Never thought someone could get caught badmouthing the freaking Devil in a place like this.
The moment I’m in the semi-darkness again, I miss the colors. “When are we getting out of this fifty-shades-of-gray shit?”
She chuckles. It’s the first time she sounds less professional and almost human. “We’re almost there. You’re going to like it, I promise.”
Color blooms in front of us as soon as we take a turn. It’s not a rainbow of color, but we finally leave the black and white behind. The village stretching in front of me is pale pink and green, vivid blue and burnt yellow. There’s grass, oh gods, there’s grass and tiny white flowers with their centers the color of blood. It’s so inherently human I can’t help but gasp.
“Here we are,” the reaper says, motioning for the village. “Your final resting place.” And she whirls around and starts back up the road. “Have a nice afterlife!”
Just like that, she’s gone. She doesn’t tell me why this is my resting placeorwhat I should do here. Can I pick any house? Which ones are empty? Or am I supposed to be homeless in the afterlife? This sucks. I need a welcome guide or something of the sort. Maybe a brochure.
“Cassandra?” a soft female voice calls, and I swear it’s familiar. It’s not familiar to my ears, but to my heart. I raise my head, looking for the source, and find a woman standing on the porch of the nearest house, her eyes on me, a hand going to her chest.
My entire soul recognizes her. “Mom?”
CHAPTER2
CASSANDRA
My head goes so light I’m sure it’s floating right out of my body. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe my freaking eyes. My mother gasps in return, then rushes down the front steps. My feet don’t move. My jaw drops. Is this a dream? Is this another painful dream, or a memory of happier days?
Arms fling around my neck, and she smells sweet as her warmth cradles me to her chest. I burst into tears before I can say anything. Emotions hit me hard, one after the other. Confusion, surprise, relief. I remember all the nights I asked myself why. Why did they abandon me? Why wasn’t I wanted? Then the pain of truth, my parents’ death, and how it was my fault. How I would never make it right.
With everything happening to me, I had to push this pain away, tuck it into a corner of my mind. It all comes bubbling to the surface now. I sob on my mother’s shoulder, almost so loud I smother her own tears. She laughs and cries, an arm tight around my waist, her other hand stroking my hair.
“I missed you so much,” she murmurs. “So, so much.”
“I missed you, too.” And unsaid words float between us. How I missed everything we never had. The guilt we both share—how she feels about leaving her child behind, how I feel about being the one to blame.
My mother pulls back, hands cradling my face. She takes a good look at me, analyzing, studying every inch of my face. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman, Cassie.”
“Thanks, Mom.” The word is so natural, so easy to say. My mother’s eyes veil with more tears when she hears it. I feel like saying it again, a thousand times more. “Mom... About that night...” She would never blame me, I know it. But there’s no way I wouldn’t ask for her forgiveness. I disobeyed. I was a fool. And my foolish, childish impulse changed our entire lives.
My mother must see right through me because her eyebrowspresstogether. Her smile disappears, an expression much graver taking her face. She parts her lips to say something, but a set of rushed steps cuts in. We turn around to see a man running in our direction, his eyes wide, his arms thrown open.
“Cassandra?” he cries out, and it’s that same voice from my memories, the voice that urged me, that taught me.
“Dad,” I reply, and it’s not a question. I recognize him. My heart recognizes him. He hugs Mom and me, his long arms tightening in an embrace. His sobs rock through me, and my eyes sting with newly formed tears. I laugh and I cry, and Mom mimics me, not knowing what we’re laughing about.
Dad pulls back, gripping me around the shoulders. He studies my face the way my mother did before, then the corners of his lips turn downward. “It’s too soon. You look too young. What happened?”
“Maybe an accident?” offers Mom, her hand brushing up and down my back.
“No accident,” Dad says, and in his haunted eyes, it’s clear he knows it. He knows I’m another Shadow Mage, killed off too young because of our powers. How am I going to tell him he’s right? That will just make him feel guilty. Guilty because he’s the one who passed me these genes, guilty because he made me who I am. I open my mouth to say it isn’t his fault when more steps thunder closer.