54. Danica

Danica

54

I gasp for air, my eyes snapping open to a brilliance threatening to sear my retinas. I squint against the glare, the taste of iron still thick on my tongue. Panic claws at my chest, memories of the woods—the Shades—flashing like a nightmare's afterimage. Rhyland's arms, Lucian's grip, both desperately holding me, their faces a study in terror.

Then... nothing but the abyss.

I'm sprawled out like a jigsaw puzzle, missing half its pieces, noodling through the scattered snatches of time before the Big Blackout smacked me upside the head. My fingers start dancing all on their own, hunting for that searing hot souvenir—the tree limb that decided to play skewer with my chest.

But all my fingertips find is a blank canvas. Zilch in the way of scratches or scars. And this gown I've got on—so freaking white it's practically radioactive—doesn't have a single splatter of red. Which makes no sense in the state I last remember being in. I hoist myself upright, feeling about as confused as a cow on Astroturf.

The space can barely pass for a room, stretching out forever in a perfect whiteout of walls, ceiling, and everything else. The dome above arches higher the longer I look, adorned with fancy leafy patterns as though painted by an OCD artist. But the weirdest part is the light—no windows, no candles, just this glow seeping out of nowhere and everywhere at once.

It's like I woke up inside a giant freakin' lightbulb.

I slide my legs off what I can only describe as a bed fit for the gods themselves. The sheets are softer than a baby bunny's fur and so white I have to shield my eyes. My feet hit the floor, which is warm and smooth like glass but not slippery.

I take a few steps, wincing at each little sound that gets swallowed up quickly in this giant glowing room. It's so freaky quiet in here. I half expect some horror movie jump scare to come flying outta nowhere.

Columns rise like sentinels along a pathway that seems to beckon me forward. They're carved with figures that dance and battle amongst themselves—a silent war between what looks like angels and demons wrought in stone.

Where the hell am I?

Am I... am I dead?

Did I kick the bucket, hop the rainbow bridge, or whatever other euphemism they use to describe not being alive anymore?

No way. I absolutely refuse to accept that's how my story ends. My heart's pounding out straight in denial at the thought.

I stumble onto a mirror framed up all fancy in silver vines. It's like a vertical pool of still water, giving me a good glimpse of myself. My hair's doing that sexy windswept thing, not a tangle or matte of blood to be seen. But my eyes really grab me—they're brighter somehow, full of mysteries, and holding onto secrets I haven't lived long enough to learn yet.

I gotta say, mirror-me looks like she knows some secrets the old me didn't.

I hear a little swish behind me and spin around so fast I nearly drill a hole in the floor. But no one's there, just a fancy dress laid out on a stone bench by the bed. It's a serious gown, like something Athena would wear to the Greek God Met Gala. My heart's still pounding like it wants to tango, which is pretty silly considering this place's supernatural serenity. It will take more than a spa-like atmosphere to undo the "fighting for my life" response.

I give the dress a little touch, and it's like stroking distilled moonbeams, smoother than silk and probably with a price tag to match. Makes me wonder who left it here for me. Is it formal wear for meeting some gods over tea and ambrosia? Or maybe it's battle gear for some unseen big bad?

A soft breeze tickles my skin, smelling like rain kissing the sun-baked stone. It's weirdly comforting, but in an unfamiliar way, I can't put my finger on it. This whole place has my head spinning more than that merry-go-round ride from hell at last summer's carnival.

I take the gown carefully off the bench, holding it up to admire the intricate embroidery stitched into the bodice and sleeves. It looks like it was made for me, and the fabric drapes and flows perfectly to accentuate my curves. I slip it over my head, the material cool and silky against my skin. It's lighter than air, almost weightless. I smooth out the skirts that cascade to the floor, the color shifting from pearlescent white to a shimmering silver, depending on how the light hits it.

Twirling in front of the mirror, I can hardly recognize myself. The dress transforms me and makes me look powerful yet ethereal—like I could command armies or dance among the stars. Running my hands over the bodice, I notice delicate designs stitched in, constellations and planets in swirling patterns. It's like wearing a piece of the night sky.

I don't know who left this for me or why, but wearing it makes me feel brave, beautiful, and ready to face whatever awaits me in this strange, luminous place.

The taste of pennies fades as I hoof it through this megamansion, eyeballing every detail like clues on an episode of CSI. Each step feels surreal, as if I expect a trapdoor to open up any second or some juiced-up angel guy to pop in and pass judgment.

But the further I go, the more this place starts giving me major sanctuary vibes—all hushed and peaceful, with an undercurrent of ancient mojo power thrumming through the walls.

I catch sight of something dead ahead—a fountain carved from the kind of marble that screams, "I'm too rich for Home Depot." Crystal clear water burbles from who knows where into a basin, with these perfect floaty lilies on top looking fresher than Bath and Body Works models. I dip a finger in, watching the ripples warp my reflection into something other than human. The water is cool against my skin, and this fountain radiates a magic fountain of youth energy.

Maybe I'll wake up looking ten years younger if I take a dunk; who knows?

I'm tiptoeing down this never-ending hallway like a church mouse, trying not to wake the pastor. My dress makes little swishy sounds that echo off the walls, and my footsteps feel weirdly choreographed like I'm following dance steps mapped out just for me.

My heart's thumping out a syncopated rhythm like it's jamming to its own beat—probably Morse code for "WTF is happening?"

I have to give props to my ticker, though—its incessant drum solo is proof that I'm still kicking—or at least I'm pretty sure I am. The jury's still out on the alive vs. dead question until I find some kind of cosmic receptionist to check me in.

This place is quieter than a library right before closing time. I keep padding through—maybe the next hall over will have a directory or a freakin' help desk—an angelic barista ready to offer cappuccinos and directions!

A macchiato would really hit the spot right about now.

The corridor stretches on, flanked by imposing columns and walls adorned with an eternal struggle carved into the stone. Angels and demons locked in combat are so visceral and detailed that I can almost hear the clash of swords and the anguished cries of battle. It's beautiful in its ferocity, haunting in its desperation.

You have to admire the artistry, but it's also haunting, you know? There is so much violence frozen in time.

I stop to admire one carving of an angel wrestling it out with a big bad demon dude. Tracing my finger along those stone wings gives me the chills—the marble's freezing, but it lights a fire in my veins, too.

Weirdly, it feels like déjà vu, like I've run my hands over these figures before. But it's stronger than just a feeling—more like muscle memory or something like my body remembers even if my mind doesn't.

The fog of familiarity is so thick I feel like I'm swimming through the cream of mushroom soup. If I can push a little further through the haze, maybe I'll break through into some answers. So I keep moving forward through this celestial maze, trailing my hands along the carvings as I go. Hoping the angels and demons etched into this place will guide me where I need to be.

What's waiting for me at the end?

A gift shop with novelty halo keychains?

A cosmic DMV to renew my soul license?

I have to be fucking dead.

A laugh escapes me—a hollow sound that bounces off the marble and is lost among the angels' wings.

Heaven? If so, where's Saint Peter with his keys or his checklist?

Where's the heavenly choir or the loved ones gone before me?

At this point, I'm just following the fancy stone breadcrumbs and hoping they don't lead me off a cloudy cliff. With each step, more questions unravel inside me like threads pulled from a tapestry. The familiarity isn't just in what I see—it's in what I feel, an echo of something profound and unexplainable.

The hallway seems infinite as if each stride takes me both closer and farther from some unseen destination. Angels and demons blur past me now as I pick up pace, their silent war becoming a background to my own inner turmoil.

"Hello!" I shout into the void. There's only silence—an all-encompassing silence that fills every crevice and corner of this corridor.

I round a curve, and the hall opens into a vast rotunda, ringed by soaring columns that seem to stretch into infinity. Their marble surfaces gleam in the soft light that filters down from above. Filtered sunlight falls across the mosaic floor in dappled patterns, a kaleidoscope of color and texture that dances beneath my feet like a living thing.

I'm zoning out on the pretty decor when a voice resonates behind me, shattering the silence like a brick through a window—

"Dani..."

It stops me dead in my tracks, every muscle locking up tight, every nerve ending singing with a sudden, electric awareness. I know that voice.

I spin around so fast that my hair whips me in the face. My dress swirls dramatically around me, the fabric rustling like the whisper of a thousand secrets.

Now, without a shadow of a doubt, I know I'm dead.