“It’s just how this place is.” Wil’s ears twitch. “I told you, the sign meant something else. We’re on the track that Fate deigned us to follow.”

  Angelica gives us an odd look, but she’s more interested in finding the goddess than she is asking after the sign in question. We venture on down the path, which somehow seems to stretch out forever and yet take no time to go down at all.

  At the end of it, we come across a great wall of hedges. They rapidly fluctuate between spring bloom, summer flowers, the deep green of autumn, and winter husks. The memory cannot seem to settle. There are several openings through the hedges, which are a good forty feet high and bend toward each other, like a dome.

  We pick the one closest to us and step inside of it. The wind is cut off, blocked by the hedges. The world within the hedge dome is split into four jagged sections, each one containing the memories of a different season.

  A woman of massive proportions sits in the spring memory, next to a small pond. She’s nearly ten feet tall, and clad in the white gown that Grecians popularized. Her red hair falls in long curls around her shoulders.

  “You took a long time to arrive,” says Mnemosyne.

  “You were expecting us?” I ask.

  Mnemosyne laughs. “I expect nothing. I only know what you have already done.”

  “So she knows you spoke with Baber.” Wil speaks quietly beside me. “And she’s being cryptic about it. See? This is a sphinx-talker. Not me.”

  “I think you should probably have more manners with a goddess.” Angelica reaches over and gives Wil’s ear a flick. She steps forward and gives a bow, no skirt on for curtsying. “Thank you for seeing us, Mnemosyne.”

  “Thank you for coming.” Mnemosyne responds in a voice not her own. The waters of the pond reflect the memory of a young woman opening the door and telling her guest the same thing. It’s as though she’s using the memory to speak.

  “We wanted to know,” Angelica starts.

  Mnemosyne says, “I know what you want. I have been waiting for you. And if you want it, you must first pledge. I have not had anyone to worship me in so long.”

  Angelica looks startled. “Worship you? What do you mean?”

  The goddess twists as though she’s languishing, lamenting, “All those who knew of me in earnest and love are gone. And that leaves me lonely and wanting. You gave of yourselves once to see me. Won’t you do it again for my help?”

  Angelica looks to me for guidance.

  I weigh the pros and the cons quickly enough. To pledge yourself to a goddess is no easy task, and one that can come back to bite you in the ass when you least expect it. But at the same time, this isn’t something that we will be able to come up with on our own.

  So I dip my head in respect and I say, “Mnemosyne, I pledge to you my soul, for whatever it is worth in the state that it’s in.”

  Her eyes glittering with amusement, Mnemosyne says, “I accept. And you, young miss?”

  The second half of the sentence is paired with the image of a man in the lake, asking someone the same question.

  Angelica pauses for a moment and then nods once, reassuring herself. She repeats my words to the goddess, “Mnemosyne, I pledge to you my soul, for whatever it is worth in the state that it’s in.”

  “I accept,” says the goddess again. And then she tilts her head to the side and she tells Wil, “I have no interest in your soul.”

  “I didn’t plan on giving it to you,” says Wil with a sniff. “I’m just here to be their key.”

  “A fine key,” says Mnemosyne. “A skeleton key. You would think that your jobs should be switched, hmm?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” says Angelica. “Or impatient. But… What do we do now? How do we figure out—”

  Mnemosyne interrupts, “You leave through that path, and you enter the cave. You must face your own trial to find your own memory.”

  “What sort of a trial?” I question, uneasy.

  Mnemosyne continues, “One that is of yourself, and of your thoughts. One that is unique, so I cannot share it. I won’t know about it until it has become your memory. A shame, don’t you think? All of these thoughts, and none of them come ahead of time.”

  “A real shame,” I grumble under my breath. “Come on, then. Let’s go.” I start toward the path in question, Angelica at my side. “Wil?”

  Wil shakes his head. “No, sorry. This is far as I go for now. I’m not looking to sign myself over, and I don’t need the memory either. I’ll be here waiting for you, though.”

  I’m annoyed with his response, but I understand. So we go on ahead, just the two of us. We move through the exit and out onto another path, which quickly leads us to the mouth of the Cave of Memories.

  As we walk, Angelica asks me, “Do you think he’s going to be okay, staying back there with Mnemosyne?”

  “He’ll be fine,” I state. “Wil has more tricks up his sleeve than even I know about. There won’t be any issues with him while we wait.”

  The mouth of the cave is jagged, made to look like the mouth of a great beast. There’s a strange light inside, as though it’s lit by fading dusk light despite the fact that the sun can’t reach this far inside. We haven’t ventured very deep into the Cave of Memories when a strange sound hits us.

  It’s like someone is walking toward us. When we stop, it stops. When we step, it steps. Except, no, that’s not right. The steps are synced up with my own, not with Angelica’s! It’s not long at all before we see the source of the sound; another Reaper, coming toward us.

  Angelica gasps. “It’s you!”

  “What? That’s impossible!” Except that when the shape gets closer, I can see that she’s right. It’s not just a random Reaper that’s coming toward us. It’s my Double.

  “What is this?” Angelica questions, stepping forward. “Hello?”

  The Double doesn’t seem to notice her at all, and in fact, has eyes for nothing but me. It opens its mouth and lets out a crackling sound, like static. There’s a change in the air. The very vibes around us turn rancid and harsh, as though the despair is curdling the world around us.

  “You,” says the Double. “You hold too much.”

  “I hold too much of what?” I question, stepping toward him. That proves to be a mistake, because with a twist of his hand, the Double pulls a scythe made of shadows into existence and strikes at me. I barely duck out of the way in time.

  Angelica screams, “Grim!”

  “So much of it,” shouts the Double, pushing toward me with wild swings of the scythe, the blade cutting and twirling through the air. “You’ve turned ugly with it! The regret and the despair. All of that violence!”

  A strange sound fills the air, like the distant rumbling of a dog snarling. I can hear it, not in the cave, but rattling around in my skulls. I’m so overwhelmed by the energy that the Double produces, I can barely keep out of the way of his scythe, let alone try and figure out a way to counter it.

  The world pulls down, narrowing into this singular point; into the Reaper and myself, into the Reaper and his words. The grief pushes at the inside of my ribs, stretching out the magic that’s holding my form together.

  I shove backward, ducking beneath one blow. My robes swirl around. The scythe cuts through the end of them, and though it’s made of shadow, it strips the fabric into ribbons.

  “You can’t remember it,” shouts the Double, “but you can feel it! You’ve always been able to feel it! That darkness, chasing you down! The hollow where it should have been! The hounds of Hell came for us once, and they’re coming for us again!”

  I want to scream at him that I have no clue what he’s talking about, but there’s no way for me to get the words out. The back of my boot catches on a stone and I go down backward, tripping over myself. My tailbone cracks painfully hard against the stone.

  The Double shouts out at me—a sound of wordless rage. He takes a swing with his scythe, and the blade comes down in a great arc, straight toward me. I dig one boot against the ground and push backward, legs spreading.

  The blade of the shadow scythe comes down between my thighs and lodges into the ground. I let out a wheeze, and the Double does the same. He tightens his grip on the handle of the weapon and pulls but the scythe is stuck fast.

  With a screech like an owl, he abandons the weapon and lunges straight for me, arms outstretched as though he’s going for the throat. I don’t know what this other worldly being wants; I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  But I do know this: every ounce of rage and despair I have ever felt, alive or dead, is wrapped up in the bones of my Double. Maybe it’s no wonder that he behaves this way.

  As it turns out, I’ve felt a lot of harsh emotions over the years.

  I kick out, slamming my boot into his chest, right on the sternum. It sends the double backward but only by a half step. Then the Double is on me again, and this time, he gets his hands around my neck. I have no throat to squeeze but his fingers wrap firm around my neck all the same and it feels as though they are digging into the flesh of a form that I haven’t had in—well, I don’t even know how long.

  Thumbs press hard to bone. I can feel my throat constrict. I don’t need to breathe, and yet it feels as though he’s strangling me. The Double’s eye lights are blown up so big that they take up the entire inside of his sockets. They are big, gray orbs. And then suddenly, they are bright, brilliant blue.

  In the same flash of realization that they are colored, my Double’s body jerks on top of me. It makes a pained sound, and the grip on my throat goes slack. It takes a long second of gasping and panting for me to realize that the blade of the shadow scythe has been shoved through my Double’s back and straight out his chest.

  It cracked bone. It split magic. And whatever this being of hatred was made from, it culled it.

  Panting, Angelica stands behind the Double, gripping the handle of the scythe. She lets go of it and staggers backwards, eyes wide, as I shove the Double off of me.

  It hits the ground on its side with a clatter of bones. There are no lights left burning in its sockets. Skeletons don’t bleed, and yet a thick, dark liquid spills from all of those gaping hollows. It's not blood. It’s more like clotted magic.

  “Grim?” Angelica asks, her voice trembling. She takes a small step toward me.

  “You killed me,” I say, a note of awe in my voice. My eye lights slide from my double to Angelica, burning bright.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” says Angelica. “I didn’t know what else to do! I thought that it was—it was hurting you.”

  “You killed me,” I repeat, this time saying it as I get to my feet. I step over to her, catching hold of her hand with one of my own. Her skin is warm and soft. Her expression, one of worry and fear.

  “Your bones are bruised.” She reaches out and runs the tips of her fingers over the curve of neck bones. “Does it hurt?”

  When Wil first met Angelica, he bit her hand, hard. In the drops of blood that spilled from her wounds, the Omen had seen a warning: it would be Angelica who killed me.

  We couldn’t figure it out, because as a Reaper, I’m already dead. And you can’t kill something that’s already dead. But now, I see that the Omen was talking about me only in the loosest sense. It was talking about this double of mine, this dark version of myself.

  Wil was right.

  She was my death. But that death is also what saved me.

  I surge forward, unable to help myself, and I kiss her. It’s the flat of my teeth against the soft of her lips, and then my human guise flaring to life so that I can kiss her in earnest, the way living people do. Lips to lips, tongue to tongue, wet and hot and desperate.

  My arms loop around her, pulling her close to me, and for a moment, brief and fleeting, nothing else in the world matters but this.

  The two of us, here together.

  Angelica makes a surprised sound but then leans into the kiss, throwing her arms around my shoulders and opening her mouth to let me in. When we part, she’s red faced and panting. The Double has vanished from where he had been laying, nothing left but that thick sludge.

  The scythe is gone too.

  “You saved me,” I say breathlessly. “You killed me, but it saved me.”

  “That wasn’t you,” says Angelica firmly. “The things it was saying… Grim, I don’t know what they meant. But I know that you would never hurt anyone, not even—not even if the roles were switched.”

  “But I might have,” I tell her. “We don’t know what I did when I was a human. That could have been me.” Slowly, we step away from each other and I turn to fully face the dark ichor on the ground. It’s started to bubble up in spots, like a tar pit with too much heat in it. “I could have been exactly like that.”

  Angelica moves to stand at my side, tangling our hands together. “It doesn’t matter, because you aren’t like that now.”

  “No?”

  “No,” says Angelica. “And this is the version of you I’m in love with.”

  Her lips pull up into a smile, and it feels, for a moment at least, as if everything might be about to turn out well after all.

  Then the tar pit starts to glow, and all that happiness pops like a thin black bubble.

  Chapter Nine

  Angelica

  The tar pit that had formed where the Double of Grim was slain is emitting a faint light. It’s strange, because the light has no color, but it’s not white, either. It’s a sort of brightness that I have never seen before. It arcs up, first formless, and then curving to take the shape of a large oval above the tar. The bottom part of the light is attached to the ichor.

  Darkness slides up the light in thin tendrils, almost like veins through a body. I reach out, grabbing onto the sleeve of Grim’s robe. “What’s going on?”

  “I have no idea,” he admits, with a shake of his head.

  The black lines push up, until they have filled up the bottom third of the oval. I realize they aren’t veins, they’re roots. They flatten out, forming a distinct line, almost like the ground. In spots, the tendrils push up through the ‘ground’ and take the shape of figures.

  It’s a bit like looking at a set of paper dolls, or a shadow-puppet play. The darkness takes on the form of a tall man with a long coat, and a thin mustache. I don’t really know how so many details can take shape, when it’s just colorless bright and darkest black, but I can see every detail of the man’s shirt, from the buttons to the pattern, and I can see the crows' feet in the corners of his eyes.

  “That’s…” Grim’s brow bones pinch down. He looks pained for a moment, his free hand coming up to press against the side of his skull. Phalanges curl hard against smooth bone.

  “You recognize him?” I ask, surprised.

  Grim seems to be just as baffled at his own ability to do so, stating, almost breathless and a little pained, “That’s Alistair. That’s—I think that might have been my father.”

  “It’s your memories,” I gasp, looking back at the oval. A second shape has taken form—two of them really. The first is a large oak tree, at the edge of a forest, and the second, an old woman with gnarled hands and a hooded cloak. Her nose is crooked and her eyes are bright.

  The man is walking toward her, marching almost.

  I ask, “Do you know who that woman is?”

  There’s a very long pause before Grim responds, “I think that might be Fate.”

  Mnemosyne’s voice fills the cave quite suddenly, echoing in from all directions.

  Alistair thought that he could be,

  Better than the rest.

  Able to see Fate was he,

  So he put that vision to the test.

  He set a trap,

  He set a snare.

  And with a snap,

  Fate was there.

  The man walks over to Fate. The blackness twists, and the old woman is hauled up into the low-hanging branches of the old oak tree by one foot, as though in a hunter’s snare. She shakes a hand at Alistair, almost comically, but there is no humor built inside of the action. Fate turns and looks, not at Alistair’s shadow form, but straight at us.

  Straight at Grim.

  I clutch at his robes even more tightly than before, as though that might stop this, whatever it is, from happening. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, my throat tight with unease.

  I want to speak, but there’s no voice. It’s as though Mnemosyne has taken all of it, so hers can be heard.

  Alistair’s figure throws his arms up in triumph. Fate looks back at him. She lifts up one hand, bright and dark, and points a single finger at him.

  But Fate cannot be caught for gain, A lesson that would soon be taught. By nightfall Alistair was no longer sane, And it was his boy who had been caught.

  Mnemosyne’s voice takes on a grim and almost haunting tone. The blackness seems to burst, and then reshape. All of the shadowy tendrils retreat into the ‘ground,’ only to reform and shape a different scene. This time, there’s an old house, simple and small, and there is a forest, thin and wane. They stand on opposite sides of the oval.

  In the middle is a young man, who appears to be my age. He looks exactly like the human guise that Grim is so fond of taking on.

  “That’s me,” says Grim. “I always thought… That form comes to me so naturally, I always thought it must have been mine. But I didn’t know for certain.”

  “Now you do,” I tell him fondly. “It’s always been you. I guess… that’s something that you know, even when you don’t really know it.”

  “I suppose so,” he agrees.

  Mnemosyne’s voice continues,

  Fate is bitter and sometimes cruel,

  And her anger hot as Hellfire.

  A dog with teeth and lots of drool, Was sent to punish young Grim’s sire.

  From the trees, another form appeared. Dark and languid—that of a dog. A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t help but think about the dog that I heard snarling in the bathroom that night, when the movie came on at 3:33 in the morning.