Chapter 1

Chapter

One

"It can die."

Guilt fills me as one of my oldest memories pops into my head. I'm not sure what triggers the thought. Maybe it's seeing everyone in black. Or perhaps it's that funerals can't help but remind me of mortality. Memories have been flooding my consciousness a lot over the last few weeks, crawling out from some deep vault I'd buried them under. I hate bad memories. I much prefer denial.

Oddly, this funeral feels more familial than the birthday party where the tragedy happened. People are dressed for mourning. Their solemn and respectful postures display attentiveness and empathy as they try to make me feel like I belong for once.

That word. Belong.

Being a part of something. Being accepted as a member of a community, organization, or place, according to the AI app on my phone. Yes, I made the chatbot talk to me in a fit of self-pity and loneliness. At least it doesn't judge.

Hell, I would have settled for my family's acceptance, let alone the red carpet to some secret paranormal cabal that controls the world.

"It can die."

It. Not she. Not Tamara. Not even that dreaded nickname I hate, Tammy. It.

At five years old, I hadn't even grasped the concept of what death meant, and yet those words, the way they were said, had stuck with me. In many ways, those words defined my childhood. All my life, I've been treated like some delicate butterfly that the supernatural world wanted to squish because that's what monsters do when they're bored. They hurt delicate things. I need to be careful. I need protection.

I need to not draw attention to myself.

So how is it I'm alive and standing outside a mausoleum at the funeral of three of the most formidable supernaturals I know—knew—my immediate family?

Well, not all my family. Conrad survived. But he is like me. Mortal. Normal. Human. If any members of the Devine family should have died in a fire, it was us. However, Conrad would probably prefer that I compare him to a moth drawn to the supernatural flame. No, that's not right either. Conrad would rather be the flame. My brother can have a nasty streak sometimes. He will burn shit to the ground if pushed to it. Metaphorically, of course.

I'm unsure why my cycling brain thinks getting this comparison right is important. It hardly matters. I guess I just don't want to face what's happening right in front of me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I want to be anywhere but here.

I can't look at the three caskets being carried by pallbearers, none of whom I recognize. They must be from the "distinguished" side of the family. Those distant relatives that Conrad and I were never introduced to.

Where the fuck is Conrad? He promised me he'd be by my side during this ordeal.

"What?" Uncle Mortimer leans closer, and I realize I had muttered the thought out loud.

"Nothing." I feel his judging eyes on me as I glance up from where I stare at the lush grass surrounding my high heels and then back down again. I'm balancing on my toes so my heels don't sink. Walking in these shoes across the grass has been difficult, and I keep waiting for the ground to swallow me under, not that I expect to be so lucky.

Have you seen those older men who always look like they're about to explode from the need to state their opinion? The wrinkled brows, the permanent lines of disapproval etching the creased valleys of their faces? That's Uncle Morty on a good day. Considering he tried to get me to pick out my gravestone for my birthday present—"since at twenty-eight and mortal, you don't have much time left, Tamara"—the confused look he's now giving me makes sense. I can see it in his eyes. He thinks it should be my body getting shoved into the stone wall. Everyone does. Even me.

The flutter of a damp handkerchief catches my eye. Someone waits in the wings to give it to me, should I need to snatch it from the beefy, sweaty paw of a hand. Not an actual paw, but I can imagine it would shift nicely into one in the right moonlight.

"It's up to you now, Tamara," Mortimer says, more to himself than to me. I can hear the frustration in his tone. "The bloodline must be preserved and protected above all else. You're too innocent to know it, but rival factions within our world will try to use you as a pawn because of who you are and the position you now control. Everyone is watching. Your mortality makes you vulnerable. There are those who would take advantage. But I don't want you to worry. I'll take care of everything. You might be the last of my brother's line, but we can fix that. You will be expected to carry on the legacy by marrying a person of great magic. I'll have to find the right spells, of course, but I'm sure we can have you pregnant with an heir within a year."

I furrow my brow and glance up at him, trying to hide my repulsion. Now is not the time for this conversation.

Actually, never is the time for this conversation.

"We must decide on a husband quickly. You don't have much time left," Mortimer continues. "Don't worry. I'll see to it."

"…since at twenty-eight and mortal, you don't have much time left, Tamara…"

Happy fucking birthday.

I don't bother to answer him, and I'm grateful when he stops talking. The last thing I want is to be a broodmare for some magical old dude my uncle picks for me. Still, I can't keep the images out of my head. My eyes flit around the crowd, landing on the gnarled wizard waiting in his long ceremonial cloak to seal the rest of our family inside their new home. I try not to gag.

Where is Conrad? He should be here with me. Though I am grateful he's dealing with security, so I don't have to. Detectives have been following us all morning. They're trying to figure out who did this, but they're worse than the reporters. I'm sure they recorded all five thousand guests entering and leaving the church. Fine, not five thousand. I seem to remember the church seating about half that, but it was standing room only, which would have made our mother happy. Only about fifty of those were allowed to come to the graveside.

I can tell everyone expects me to cry, not too embarrassingly hard, but a dignified amount. They keep staring at me. I feel their judgments, their concerns, their critiques. I want to tell them that my mind is numb, that I cried for two days straight after the accident. I remember someone reciting the stages of grief to me like a to-do list I needed to get through, but I couldn't seem to complete them in the correct order.

I make myself lift my head. The second coffin disappears into the mausoleum door. She is the only mother I've known, but there is a part of me that can't help thinking, I guess I'm not the only one who can die, huh, Lady Astrid?

The angsty cynicism only makes me feel guiltier, and I instantly wish I could take the thought back. My mind is jumping all over the place.

Someone pats my back and gives it a little rub. The physical contact takes me by surprise. I want to lean into it, to cling to the rare moment of compassion. But I know the attention won't last.

Woodlawn Groves is the most prestigious cemetery in New York City, and the funeral is a veritable who's who of the supernatural world—not that most humans know that. I suppose it's always like this when the influential and wealthy die. Thankfully, security keeps the reporters away. The same can't be said for their overhead drones.

I adjust my wide-brim hat and resist the urge to look up as I hear another buzz pass. The funeral getup hides my face from it, but that doesn't stop the middle finger from extending from the clenched fist at my side. It's brief, but I hope the vultures catch it.

The sleek black dress, hat, and heels make me feel like a 1930s movie star, which in turn makes me feel like a fraud. I'm not glamorous. I'm not special.

Is it getting hotter? I need to get out of this graveyard.

Seriously, where the hell is Conrad? He promised to stay beside me.

My emotions are all over the place. Grief. Anger. Confusion.

Loneliness is the worst, but it's not new. I'd feel lonely in a crowded room or, in this case, outside a mausoleum.

My parents were assholes, for the most part. I had always explained away their elitist natures because they came from ancient magical lineages. It made them distinctive in the supernatural circles, and they knew it. They also had money, which made them respectable in human circles. Or if not respectable, untouchable.

Is it wrong to be thinking of this now? Outside their mausoleum?

What else am I supposed to be thinking about?

Where the fuck is Conrad?

Uncle Mortimer puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it an awkward pat as Mr. Beefy Fingers lifts the sweaty handkerchief for me to take. It's only now that I realize I've started crying again. A gentle breeze cools the warm tears on my cheeks.

Fuck.

Fine.

Poor, fragile little human.

This emotional breakdown is what they all expect to see anyway.

I snatch the slightly damp handkerchief and blot it under my eyes to catch the tears, trying not to think about the hand that held it.

"Conrad should be here," I manage, hoping one of those with magic will make it happen for me.

"He's just there," Mortimer answers.

I follow his nod to see Conrad crossing the great lawn, dodging tombstones as he cuts a direct path toward us. Relief floods me to know I'm not alone in this. His reddish-blond hair is slicked back, and his long coat jacket reminds me of the style favored by vampires. It's his latest thing. I think he secretly wants one of them to bite him and make him immortal. He's always so desperate to fit in with the paranormal. I forgive him for that.

It's difficult straddling two worlds and not fitting in either.

Conrad is adopted. I'm not. For most of my life, I thought I was born a freak mystery of nature—the human daughter of supernatural parents. But it turned out that even though my dad is my dad, my birth mom is the second half of an extramarital affair. Until a few months ago, I didn't know Astrid Devine wasn't my biological mother.

However, it did explain a lot, like why she would have looked at child me with that air of disgust while muttering, "What do you want me to do with it, Davis? It can die."

I'd been holding a puppy I had found at the time, but she'd looked at me while she said it, and somehow, I just knew she'd meant me. They'd been fighting in front of the servants, one of the rare times they let anyone see their displeasure.

I watch pallbearers carry the third coffin toward the mausoleum door and shiver as the gothic entryway swallows it like some great evil beast consuming a meal. How can it keep eating my family? Hasn't it taken enough? Someone will surely pull me out of this nightmare. Any second now…

Any second.

I can't turn away from the last coffin transporting my brother, their real son. Anthony doesn't deserve this ending. He'd always been kind to me. He might not be human, but he has his own secret demons.

Half-brother, I remind myself. And he had demons. Those secrets hardly matter to anyone now. They never mattered to me.

"Fire," I hear someone whisper. "Do they know how it started?"

"They are a family of magics," a woman says. "My guess is witch hunters. That lot likes burning things."

I'm too tired to pick apart who is talking, even though I recognize the voices, so I pretend I don't hear them.

"It's sloppy. They killed more than witches. Hunters are usually cleaner," comes yet another voice. "They'll be sorry once the vampires or trolls get ahold of them."

A woman chuckles softly and whispers, "I'd rather vampires over trolls."

"Not me. I'm not into torture like you," her friend answers.

The laughter is inappropriately loud, though I hear them muffling it with their hands. Mortimer pulls in a long, audible breath and lets it out slowly. The laughter instantly stops at the warning, and he doesn't even have to turn around to look at them.

"Excuse me." I step away from the gathering and move toward Conrad as he approaches. I won't listen to their speculation. I have been hearing it all week. No one knows who started the fire, thus the constant police presence.

I need distance. I need my bed.

I need them to stop looking at me, but I'm afraid of being alone.

Why can't this day be over?

Conrad sees my face and instantly lifts his arms to hug me. His chest bumps my hat, knocking it off my head. He is tall and slender, so it's more like hugging a dressed skeleton than a man. Still, human contact is comfort, and he's the only person I have left in the world who understands me.

My hand bumps a backpack hanging over one of his shoulders. I hadn't noticed it before. I release him and pull away.

"Are we going camping in Central Park after this?" I try to joke, but my voice comes out gritty and raw.

"I'll explain later. They're ready for us now," he says.

I turn and shade my eyes to watch the hunched-over wizard. His long hair and beard blow in the breeze as he leans heavily on his wooden staff. I wonder why no one points out to him how tacky it looks to have the worn yellow stars sewn into the navy material like patches around his shoulders. Still, I'm glad he's here. It sounds extreme, but we want a magical sealing. Otherwise, who knows what kind of mischief the necromancers would get into? The only thing worse than burying a family member is having them show up for dinner as a zombie.

Conrad swipes my hat from the ground and pulls at my arm as if he's in a hurry. I can't say I blame him. I want this to be over, too.

The drones buzz past again. He hands me the hat while we walk. As we near the mausoleum stairs, I try to get the hat to sit at the perfect angle. I trip on my heel, and Conrad slows his steps for me. He releases my arm and holds out his elbow for me to take. I thread my arm through his.

The gathering quiets, and all the attention is on us. I glance side-eyed at his chin and wait. It juts a little higher with an air of importance, and I know he imagines we're some grand family leading a procession. Conrad cares too much about what these people think. The familiar knowledge humors me in a dark and twisted way, but I hold back the small smile that wants to form. The impulse is short-lived as I feel the flickering shadows calling from inside the mausoleum. Someone had lit torches, and I suppose it's fitting there's no electricity as the dead don't need light switches. Still, after the accident, the fire seems a cruel taunt for the living.

My legs stop moving as I hesitate outside the mausoleum door. I do not want to be swallowed up by the great and evil beast that's been feasting on my family's coffins. I don't know if it's my imagination or a real scientific thing, but the air from inside feels heavy like gravity has different rules when it comes to the afterlife. It wants to suck us all into the dark void.

I think of what it means to have eternal rest. I wonder if my family dreams, even now, locked in a fiery eternal nightmare. Or is it nothingness? Everything ends and goes away? Or is it a version of heaven? Only lovely memories playing out for eternity?

Not knowing the answer causes me some distress. I hope it's lovely but fear it's not.

Conrad's muscles tense under my hand, and he pulls me with him. I want to resist, but I'm aware of the crowd behind us. They won't enter the vestibule, but they'll wait, watch, and calculate the correct amount of time we're to be stuck in the tomb.

Intricate gothic carvings adorn the stone walls, ornate and purposefully terrifying. The twisted figures are supposed to represent souls ascending toward stoic angels. At one time, the carvings were probably considered mystical things of beauty. In the modern age, the eerie scenes are creepy as fuck.

I was right about the air. It is heavier in the flickering darkness and smells smokey from the poor ventilation. I try not to think of what other smells the fire might be masking. The black stone walls absorb the light into inky depths.

The wizard doesn't join us as we're given privacy. I can't let go of Conrad's arm. Life and death blur within the quiet grave.

"What if they shut us in?" I whisper.

"Like burning the queen and all the possessions when a Viking king dies?" Conrad muses. His response does not put me at ease. He drops the backpack by the wall. "Lady Astrid would approve."

We stand, staring at the three open slots in the crypt wall, now filled with coffins.

"I wouldn't worry about it. Our parents were too vain to want us with them," Conrad says. "They didn't bother to reserve rooms for us here in the luxury suite."

"Don't say that," I protest, though I can't say he's wrong. My eyes go to our grandfather's sealed resting place, and I instantly touch the necklace he gave me as a child. I wear the ruby amulet like a talisman to ward off danger, but really, it is just a piece of jewelry that gives me comfort. It reminds me that someone once loved me enough to create a magical story to make me feel safe.

"These three by fire. Grandfather by Covid." Conrad shakes his head. "I'm beginning to suspect supernaturals are not as all-powerful as they would have us believe. They want us to feel less than. Well, fuck their superiority. We're still here."

"Don't talk like that, Conrad," I scold him. "Any eavesdroppers won't get that you're joking."

"You're right, of course." He nods and sighs before turning his attention to the backpack. I'd forgotten about it. "Besides, we have more important things to discuss."

I don't like the tone of his voice as he says it.

"The police are coming for you." His blunt words are hushed.

I wait for the punchline that doesn't come.

He runs his hand through his hair in agitation. "They say they have solid evidence that you started the fire. I convinced them to let us finish the funeral, but they're going to arrest you."

There has to be a punchline. This isn't funny.

"I'm not going to ask you why?—"

"I-I didn't!" I protest. "I wouldn't."

"Shh." He glances at the door and lifts his hands. "We have a small window. I think you should run."

He must be joking. None of this makes sense. I was in the fire. Why would I start it?

My heart is beating fast, and I feel sick.

I try breathing deeper, but it doesn't help.

"I don't understand," I manage. "How can they think…?"

"I grabbed some things from the car." He motions at the backpack. "If you come back to the house, they'll arrest you. You'll be put into the system, and who knows how long before we can get you out."

"But…?" I can't think. This can't be real. I look at the coffins and then at the sealed door hiding my grandfather. I look at my hands. They're trembling. "I can't go to prison."

I'm hardly a roughened criminal. What little I know about prison I learned by watching movies. Things never work out well for the prisoners. If the other prisoners don't get them, the guards will. What if someone wants to make me their bitch? I don't want to be someone's bitch. I've had enough bad relationships to last a lifetime.

My heart beats faster, and I find it hard to breathe. The world around me begins to blur, and my ears are ringing. I want to escape, but there are only two ways out of this mausoleum, and it doesn't look like Anthony is going to slide over to make room for me.

Conrad takes my hands in his and holds them as if he senses my rising panic. He grips them tight, shaking them as he forces me to look at him.

"I can't do this," I say.

"Listen to me. You're going to run." His eyes are steady and sure, and I'm desperate for answers. "Someplace where they won't think to look. I'm going to finish up with this, and then I'm going to call the lawyers. I'll come for you tonight. Don't contact anyone."

"But…" I look at the bag and try to shake my head in denial. "What about you? Will they arrest you?"

"They know it's not me. I'm not a suspect." Conrad's grip tightens.

"Let go. You're hurting me." I flinch in pain as I try to pry my hands from him.

He waits a few seconds before loosening his grip. His tone is stern as he states, "Tamara. You don't have a choice. Do you understand? This isn't like the time you got caught shoplifting. They're not going to stick you in a room and wait for the lawyers to sweep it under the rug."

"Where do I go?" I whisper. He's right. If it's between hiding out and waiting for the lawyers or going to jail, there isn't much of a choice. The Devine family employs some of the slickest and sleaziest lawyers in the city. They'll get me out of this. They always get us out of our mistakes. I didn't do anything this time. Innocence has to count for something.

Right?

"Good girl." Conrad takes a steadying breath and nods in approval. He goes to grab the backpack and hands it to me. "I put an address in the front pocket. Be there at six o'clock. No sooner, no later. It's a small apartment building. Trust me, it's the last place they'll look for you. Get there and wait for me. I'll talk to the lawyers, and we'll figure out what to do. Extra cash, your wallet, and some other things are in the bag. Try not to use your credit cards. If the police do get to you first, say nothing."

"They'll know you warned me," I say. "Come with me."

I don't want to be alone.

"Let me worry about that. I can do more back at the house than I can by hiding with you." He glances toward the mausoleum door. I hear shuffling but don't turn to see who it is. "We're all that's left, Tamara. Just do what I say and let me handle this for you. Ego sum avis stultus."

It's his way of saying it's us against the world.

I nod, relieved that someone else seems to have a plan because I can't think. Conrad is right. He's family. I can trust him. It's the one thing I'm sure about.

"It's just like when we were kids. Hide and seek. Easy." He helps to lift the bag over my shoulder. The weight of it presses into me, and the dizziness becomes worse. "You hide. I'll come to find you. Don't forget. Six o'clock on the dot."

"Shall we begin?" The old wizard hobbles into the vestibule to join us. He smells of cherry vanilla pipe smoke. My grandfather favored the same kind.

A tear rolls down my cheek as I look at my grandfather's tomb. I touch my necklace.

"Yes," Conrad answers for the both of us.

The wizard turns toward the three openings and lifts his hands. He mutters in some ancient language, but I ignore the muffled words as my heart hammers louder in my ears. Blue light illuminates the mausoleum wall as the metal doors appear to seal the coffins inside their crypts.

I try to whisper goodbye, but no sound comes out. It's not like they can hear me anyway.

Conrad's lips are pressed tight as if to control his expression. He sees me watching him and nods that I should leave.

I feel unsteady on my heels as I go toward the sunlight. I try to ignore that flashing blue behind me and what it means.

Time feels clumped together as if the past weeks are jumbled and squished into nonsensical order. Much like the ball in the pit of my stomach. Death. Grief. Fear. Fire. Police. Alone. Run.

I try to breathe as I meet fresh air, but the heaviness of the tomb stays with me. I grip the bag on my shoulder and hold it like a lifeline until my knuckles turn white.

"Is it done?" Uncle Mortimer asks.

I start to nod, but the gesture is weak. I glance around for the police but only see the eyes of the funeral guests on me. "Excuse me."

I hurry past him, torn between running and not drawing more attention to myself. I walk in the opposite direction from where the cars are waiting for us. My heels sink into the grassy earth, forcing me to pull them off. My naked feet offer no protection, but at least I'm steady. I carry the heels like weapons clenched in my fists, trying not to think of all the people buried beneath me as I pass by old tombstones.

The cemetery grounds are vast. I pick a marble building jutting from the manicured landscape in the distance and rush toward it. My skirt keeps my stride shortened. Strangely, the movement makes me feel better. My heart still pounds, but I'm away from the mausoleum and the watchful eyes, and there is relief in that.

The sound of water on concrete welcomes me to the building. I walk onto a stepping stone pathway and slow my pace as I move from grass to hardscape. Everything is clean and polished and sculpted, as if enough decoration can hide the truth of what happens here. The dead are clearly a lucrative commodity.

A large sundial catches my attention. Even though the sunlight is diffused, I can tell that it is not facing the right direction, and thus, the shadow cast from the gnomon onto the flat surface is not keeping the correct time. I only know this because one of our tutors made us build one as a project. In a way, that's a proper metaphor for the afterlife. In death, time loses meaning.

A woman reads a paperback on one of the benches in the shade near a fountain. Her leashed lapdog naps beneath her. It reminds me of the puppy I had for those brief moments when I was five. I turn my head away even though she doesn't look at me.

I find a somewhat secluded spot in the shade on a stone bench. It's chilly near the fountain, but I like the privacy and the sound of water against the stone. Nothing about my life right now makes sense. I should not be at this funeral. I should be this funeral.

The grief tries to rise but is confronted by the terror of my life in freefall. I feel as if my heart might explode.

The dog peeks around the corner at me. If not for the leash, it might actually come over.

"It can die. It can die."

I hear the words in my head like a mantra in the cold clip of Astrid's annoyed voice. The dog needs to stay away from me and whatever curse I carry. The seamed edges of the backpack press into my chest as I hug it. I feel the lumps of what's inside. I should be thinking about the police, but I can't get that memory out of my head.

"It can die. It can die."

A monarch butterfly catches my attention, and I turn my head to watch it land on the gnomon. Is it trying to warn me that my time is up?

"Does your mom live in a vase now, too?"