Between the Moon and Her Night (Between Life and Death #3)

Chapter 23

Von

T he morning kitchen staff gawked at me. Busy, working hands stopped what they were doing. Instantly, stools screeched and utensils clattered as the staff began to drop onto bended knee—one by one.

I strode over to a crate of apples, plucked one and said, “By all means, continue what you are doing.”

A few heads swiveled, shooting each other confused, wide-eyed looks before they quickly dove back into their kitchen duties. Knives chopped, spoons stirred, and tongues were rendered immobile—not a peep being spoken amongst them. They worked determinedly, as if it were their first day on the job. Quite the opposite of what I had seen just yesterday, as they chatted with one another while working at a leisurely pace. Mortals were a funny breed like that, such diligent workers when under the eye of authority.

The woman whose skin was stamped with the lick of flame walked over to me, her movement slow—cautious. “A-a-apologies, my king, but might I help ye with somethin’?” she asked, her tongue tripping over itself like two left feet.

“You are the head chef of this kitchen, correct?” I peered down at the lush, red apple, deciding where to bite it first.

“Aye, I am.” She swallowed so harshly, it made my throat hurt.

Peeling my eyes from the apple, I looked at her and said, “You need not fear me, woman.”

She nodded, but the way her hands wrangled her apron was telling in itself—she didn’t believe a single word.

I sighed. “I have come to speak with a man by the name of Early.” When her eyes shot wide and her lips parted, I raised a hand, stopping her from sputtering out her pleas not to harm him. “I mean no harm to him either. I have been asked to reunite him with his wife, and so that is what I plan to do. I merely need to know where to find him.”

“Ye are truly goin’ to return him to his Amelia, my king?” she asked, her expression softening—full of wonder.

“I am.”

Her face lit up, eyes too—like my words had sparked a flame within her. “He is goin’ to be one happy man. One happy man indeed,” she exclaimed. “I dinna ken where he might be at this moment. When he isna workin’, he goes fishin’ sometimes. Other times, he likes to sit at the market, people watchin’, always searchin’ for his sweet Amelia’s face, but ne’er findin’ her.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “He has a house in the Ferva village, though. So I reckon ye’ll find him there later tonight.”

I nodded. “Thank you. ”

“Is that all, my king?” she asked, smoothing her apron.

“Not quite. There is one more thing.” I grinned. “I want you to teach me how to make those biscuits you made yesterday.”

Her mouth flopped open before she sputtered out, “Of course, my king. Anythin’ ye wish.”

“Wonderful.” I sank my teeth into the apple’s crisp flesh and tore off a chunk.

Aurelia was still asleep when I returned to our bedchamber, a covered silver tray in my hands. Underneath the lid, a spread of freshly prepared foods, a small pot of steaming tea, and a plate full of golden-brown biscuits. Freshly made by hers truly. On silent feet, I sauntered over to her side of the bed and gently placed the tray on the bed stand, my movement purposefully soundless, as I had no intentions of waking my slumbering mate.

Mate.

The word echoed through my thoughts, causing a grin to pluck at my mouth.

I rolled my wrist, conjuring a folded piece of paper with the words Little Goddess written on it and set it on top of the tray.

My gaze shifted to the white rose she had made, growing on the bed stand, its roots hooked around the ledge, helping keep it upright. It had done a great deal of growing since she created it just last night. At the base, slender vines had emerged. They stretched a few feet up the obsidian wall—the greenery contrasting with the black glass.

Out of all the things she could have created, she had decided to make a rose.

Were they of significance to her?

Palm up, I held my hand in front of my chest, conjuring a seed. The seed sprouted, blooming into a rose of my own. I modelled it after hers, but it ended up being a bit larger in size, its voluminous petals stained an inky black. Magic was a bit like a fingerprint, unique to its person, which is why mine didn’t completely match hers. I placed it on top of the tray, beside the piece of paper, my gaze shifting to her.

Her slender shoulders raised with a soft inhale, deflating peacefully on her exhale. Her white hair, like veins of a river, cascaded across the starkness of the pillowcase. My black sheets contrasted against her fair skin, highlighting her body like a moon nestled in the darkest of nights.

She was perfect.

She was mine.

And there was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her as such. To protect her.

Which meant there was something I needed to do—something I should have done a long time ago.

Inky swirls swam around me as I stepped into the hidden stone chamber in the underbelly of my castle. It was the place I went to bury things—things I never wanted to be found again. The crypt was full of precious items and materials, religious relics long lost to the world, things that both man and immortal kind didn’t even know existed.

It spanned thousands of square feet. When one had lived for as many years as I had, you tended to gather quite the collection. I strode forward, passing under one stone arch after another, listening to the ghosts of this place as they whispered to me in dark, eerie greetings—

“Hello, my king,” said a haunting female voice.

“Good day, sire,” stated a resonant male tone.

“Death has returned to us at last,” sighed another.

Their voices were enough to make one’s hair stand ramrod straight.

But I had gotten used to them over the great span of years. Some appeared as orbs, while others took on their earthly silhouettes, their forms spun of a translucent white mist.

When their flesh was still warm and filled with life, they had become so obsessed with material items, they could not give them up—not even in death. And so, their souls had bound themselves to the items in their possession, meaning my reapers could not extract their souls and place them in the Da’Nu. On rare occasions, a soul would come to me and ask to be released from their imprisoned state, however, more times than not, the souls remained attached to their earthly possessions. In truth, it was a shame, because so many of them could be reunited with loved ones, but instead, they chose an eternity of isolation.

Mortal greed at its finest.

I turned to my left, ducking under a tiny, arched doorway before I stepped into a small room, not much bigger than a pantry. My legs carried me a few paces before I stood in front of a pillar stand, about five feet tall. The obsidian column with a flat, square top was flanked by standing candelabras. On it—

The Crown of Thorns.

I picked it up, my regret building the more I looked it over. I had been a fool in forging it—the very thing that could take my mate’s life. My fist wrapped tightly around it, the tiny thorns pricking my fingers as I carried it out of the room.

“Thief,” decreed an eerie voice, mirrored by a dozen more. Hands swarmed around me, swirling and dissolving as I walked through them.

I continued down the center of the crypt until I came to my workshop. It was a grand chamber, filled with various tools I had crafted throughout the centuries, as well as furnaces and anvils. At the far end sat a cement altar and a wood stool. I made my way over to it, tossing the crown on top of my workstation as I sat down.

“Thief! Thief! Thief!” the voices continued, getting louder and louder.

“Enough,” I snarled at them all. The word echoed around the chamber, silencing them instantly. I exhaled a breath. “That’s better.”

I hovered my hand over top of the crown, purple flames emitting from my fingertips. They licked at the edges of it, tasting and lapping, before they began to wrap around it. The roots writhed and twisted, trying to escape their impending demise. My teeth clenched together as I poured more of my power into my flame. I didn’t know how long I did that for, but eventually, the white vine began to turn charcoal black before it disintegrated into ash.

A current of my air swept up the crown’s remains, scattering it into oblivion.

I took a deep breath. Now that I had completed that task, it was time for me to move on to another. Carefully, I untethered the white feather from my hair, laying it down in front of me.

Then I got to work.