SIGNA BARELY SENSED THE SHIFT AS DEATH DREW HER FROM ELIJAH’S cell,

through the shadows that leached any returning warmth from her skin and back to the safety of her suite at Thorn Grove. Her mind was a deluge of thoughts, all of them about Byron. She tried to steady herself against the edge of the vanity only to forget what form she was in, stumbling as her hand slipped through it.

Why might Byron be involved in this? Did he still want Grey’s? Was he capable of murdering for it? She’d believed that he’d finally come to terms with separating himself from the business, as he’d taken quite an interest in eligible women this season. It had seemed that he would find a wife and settle down.

Signa held her stomach, fighting the sickness that gripped her every time she pictured Elijah’s bloodied, beaten face. She could kill the man that did that to him and thought of the way she might do it. She could return to the prison. Follow him out into the dark of the night and wrap her hands around his throat. He’d be dead in an instant, and as for his soul… Oh, how she wished to destroy it. To form her shadows into a scythe and slice through the man until his very essence was wiped from the earth.

As if able to sense the bitter thoughts festering within her, Death drew Signa close, smoothing his hands down her arms. “I understand what you’re feeling and have acted on that impulse more times than I can count. Rarely is it worth it, Little Bird. Awful as that man may be, he has a family. One he does not treat so poorly, and who rely on him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we do not get to play God. We do not get to tamper with Fate, especially when he is breathing down our necks.”

Signa wished that Death had not spoken, and that those few words alone weren’t enough to plant the idea of that man’s family in her mind. It was for them that she shut her eyes and willed her mind to ease away from such vicious thoughts of death.

God, what was happening to her?

“Byron told us that he tried everything,” Signa whispered, forcing her mind elsewhere. Onto a new puzzle in need of solving.

“Then we’ll have to find out why he lied.” The more Signa let the fire within her fizzle out, the more Death’s grip eased. “In the meantime, I’ll ensure no one lays another finger on Elijah.”

Signa watched as Gundry padded toward her sitting room, shuffling in circles a few times before he settled beside her writing desk. “Elijah must believe himself mad for the things he saw today. Using Gundry was the only way I knew how to communicate with him.”

“Elijah is no fool,” Death told her. “He deserves more credit than you give him. He suspected the supernatural with his wife’s spirit, just as I believe he’s always suspected it of you.”

This made her still, a surge of fear tightening her throat. “You think Elijah knows about me?”

“He knows that you were able to communicate with Lillian. And I believe he’s always known that you are more than you appear.” His finger grazed the bare skin of her neck, and as it slid down, the coil of tension in her body eased. “Relax your mind, Little Bird. We will solve this.”

She tried to let those words hit her. Tried to wrap them around her soul and find comfort within them. This wouldn’t always be her life; they would save Elijah, and then the nightmare would be over.

One more time. One more mystery. And then she could finally—finally

—have the peaceful life she’d always wanted. No more murders. No more mysteries that kept her mind churning at all hours of the night. Just a peaceful life with the Hawthornes, and the man that she loved.

Signa rolled some of the tension from her shoulders as Death cupped the side of her face and bent to kiss her with lips that tasted sweet as nectar and felt as all-consuming as winter. She tipped her head back as he peppered kisses across her skin, and though she wanted to let him continue—wanted the distraction of his deft fingers undoing the silk laces of her dress and to feel his shadows along her thighs—she forced herself to peel away.

“We have things to discuss.” Signa cleared her throat, each word forced and awkward. She would love nothing more than to back onto the bed and pull him over her. To let his body become her greatest distraction and to let it ease her worries until she finally fell asleep for the first time in over twenty-four hours. But there was still the matter of Fate, and until she knew more about who they were up against, her mind would allow no distractions. “Primarily, your brother.”

Death’s jaw tightened. “I will deal with my brother. You don’t need to concern yourself with—” His eyes fell past her to the golden envelope on her nightstand. As if instinctively, Death dropped his hand from her to stalk toward it, and Signa shuddered at the immediate warmth that consumed her body in his absence. She clamped her eyes shut, fighting the wave of nausea that ripped through her.

“Death,” Signa called, reaching out for him.

“What is this?” He picked up the envelope and tore the note free, scoffing as he read the gilded words. “Who does he think he is, waltzing in here like damned royalty—”

“Death!” Signa called again, but it was too late. She doubled over as breath crashed back into her lungs. Her stomach lurched, and Signa fell to her knees beside a wastebasket seconds before she threw up once, twice, and then a third time. Finally, she was able to sit back, the neck of her gown dampened with sweat. Her vision was a haze, Death’s shadows swaying in and out of it as he crouched beside her.

“I’m fine,” she whispered through chattering teeth, straining not to lose sight of him. It was a futile effort; it’d be only moments before the belladonna was entirely out of her system.

You most certainly are not fine. Death’s voice once again filled the space of her mind, and Signa couldn’t help her resentful scowl. She wanted him to stay with her. To hear his voice spoken aloud. To hold him. The reek of death clings to your skin, Signa. What’s going on?

She lowered her face to stare at the floor. “It’s nothing. Merely a fever.” The chattering of her teeth was lessening with each word, and slowly she was beginning to feel more herself.

This is no fever. His shadows twisted behind her, drawing from the bed a blanket that he carefully wrapped over her shoulders. It did little to calm the shivers racking through her. Why are you not surprised by this?

Signa gripped a corner of the blanket with one hand. Though she had a theory about what was happening, she had no desire to speak the truth into existence. Unfortunately, Death was nothing if not a patient man. It wasn’t as though she could be rid of him, either, considering he could speak quite literally into her mind. She had little choice but to tell him the truth.

“Now isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

There was a long beat in which Death did not respond, and in that moment, Signa’s heart raced. Would he leave? Had he already left? She was about to call for him but then heard his voice once more, clipped and firm as he asked, When?

“Last night,” she whispered, feeling herself shatter with each word. She knew already what he would think, just as she also knew that there could be no more secrets between them. “After you left with Lord Wakefield, I began coughing up blood.”

There was a shift in the room, and Signa could sense that Death had moved farther from her. After you crossed the veil back into life, he said. I knew those berries were a bad idea. If stepping in and out of the veil is what’s causing you to be sick, then you must stop taking them.

She clenched her free hand against the floor, nails grating against the wood planks. She couldn’t just stop. Couldn’t just not see him. But saying that would do her no good, so instead she asked, “How else am I to defend myself against your brother?”

I told you already that Fate is my responsibility. His voice sounded even more distant, and she knew from the trail of it that he was backing toward the window. Should he even dream of touching you, I will be there. If you must use the berries, do so in emergencies only. Promise me, this time. Swear it. This sickness is surely Fate’s doing.

Signa glanced to where Fate’s note lay on the table, golden and gleaming. Perhaps their animosity had started as a feud between two brothers, but the moment that Fate involved the Hawthornes, it became Signa’s war. And so, she did not answer him, knowing that she had every intention of going to that party and confronting Fate face-to-face. Instead, she asked, “Why is he doing this? What happened between you two?”

As much as I wish I could tell you it was all a misunderstanding, I’m afraid my brother has every right to hate me. The response was quiet at first, as though she were listening to him through water-clogged ears. Signa

had to strain her focus to hear him when he said, I have not seen him since the year 1346, when I killed the only woman that Fate has ever loved.

Signa clung to the end of that sentence, waiting for more. And yet the silence dragged on, first for a minute, then for two.

“Death?” Signa hauled herself to her feet, clutching the blanket. There was a stillness in her mind that she’d not had in a long while, one so heavy that she at once understood something was wrong.

“Death!” she called again, dread burning her throat. She could still feel his presence in the air that had gone frigid with his nearness, and knew he was still there from the goose bumps that spiked along her skin.

But she could not see him. Could not touch him. And now, with a growing panic rising in her chest, Signa realized that she could no longer hear him.