Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
But we both know he’s anything but fine.
Something cold and wet splashes on my forehead, rousing me from my sleep.
I quickly sit up, my heart getting into gear. For a moment I don’t know where I am, I just know that I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be, someplace unnatural, and it’s so dark I can’t see a thing.
Then my eyes adjust. There is a faint pale-white glow coming from the corner of the cavern. The sunmoonstone sphere is still emitting light, except it’s changed from the light of the sun to the soft glow of the moon. In front of it is Rasmus, his long limbs stretched out on the patch of moss.
When mushy lady decided that question time was over, Rasmus made her provide a little more for us while we rode out Death’s storm. Her mycelium arms went to work, collecting moss from the forest floor and bringing them into the cavern to make us beds. Then she brought some tart apples the size of grapes, and chalices and bowls carved from agate and onyx, filled with filtered water that comes from a nearby aquifer. Lucky for us mortals, the aquifer is around a darkened corner at the end of the cavern and drips down into an underground stream—the privacy makes for a makeshift bathroom and place to get clean. I rinsed off in the cool water, using a bunch of dried moss as a sponge, while Rasmus lit a fire to dry out our clothes.
That same aquifer is now dripping onto my forehead. I stare up at the ceiling at the moisture gathered there and inch out of the way before the next drop falls. I let out a low groan. Every single muscle hurts. Makes me realize just how cloistered and pampered I was at Shadow’s End. The only exercise I got was from doing naked gymnastics with Death. Which, even though it got my heart rate up, was a far cry from the thrice weekly workouts I would do back home.
Home. Los Angeles. The idea that I’m so close to being back there feels unreal. In fact, so unreal that in my mind and memory, LA feels more like a fantasy land than Tuonela does. It’s like I’ve lost all connection to the life I once had, to the person I once was, and I’m not sure I can ever really go back. The heat and sun and grimy glitter of the city is going to feel horribly boring after my time down here.
Yeah, but boring is safe, my inner self reminds me. Boring keeps you alive.
But there’s a difference between being alive and feeling alive. In my boring, safe life back in LA, I was kept alive, I was safe and surviving. But I never felt alive. I never felt connected to the earth and the sun and the moon and all that is magical and possible. I never felt the power of being alive pumping through my veins, invigorating my cells.
Funny how it took a trip to the Land of the Dead to realize my capacity for living.
I sigh, stretching out my arms, looking down at my clothes. I only have my wedding dress to wear, and I ended up using a knife made of white, luminescent selenite to cut away the ripped parts. Now the dress is up to my knees in rags, and with my boots, I look like some kind of dirty steampunk heroine.
I reach over and grab the knife, feeling it between my hands. It’s cold to the touch and glows ever so slightly under my grasp. The carved ridges of the blade don’t seem sharp enough to make a dent in butter and yet they were able to slice through layers and layers of material no problem. The mycelia had brought me the knife when I asked, but I’m wondering if they’ll notice if I take it. Though I’m pretty sure we’ll make a run for Death’s Landing once the weather allows, it can’t hurt to have a weapon on hand. Not just against all the things in this land that want to kill you, but with Rasmus being Louhi’s child, it wouldn’t hurt to keep my guard up.
So, I take the knife and slide it into my boot which is nice and dry from the fire that Rasmus had made earlier. Then I lie back, out of the way of the dripping water, and attempt to get back asleep.
I’ve just entered that weird twilight land between waking and dreaming when I hear Rasmus say, “Hanna? Are you awake?”
“Mmmmphf,” I groan, rolling over to look at him. He’s backlit by the sphere and I can’t make out his face but for a moment he looks foreboding, ominous, as if it’s not him at all. That it’s someone else that is watching me. That if he turned his head toward the light, it would expose sharp jagged teeth in a leering grin, empty eyes that promise nothing but pain and horror.