River of Shadows (Underworld Gods 1)

My soul feels violated though.

The floor is cold against my feet and I spy a pair of slippers near the bed. They’re black felt and the soles are lined with fluffy fur but I’m entirely untrusting of this place and refuse to put my bare feet in them. Death seems like the type to put black widow spiders in there for his own amusement.

I walk around the corner of the bed.

I’m not alone.

A shadow moves off the wall and glides toward me.

I scream but nothing comes out, my breath caught in my throat.

The shadow stops a couple of feet away. It’s about my height and dressed in a long black robe that trails to the floor, pooling around it like ink. The face is completely hidden by a black veil.

Do not be frightened, a voice says, slipping into my brain in the same manner that Sarvi’s did. It’s a female voice, young and light, and it doesn’t match up with the eerie figure in front of me.

“Who are you?” I say, my voice stilted as I try to catch my breath.

Raila, she says. I’m your personal Deadmaiden.

“My personal what?”

Deadmaiden, the faceless girl repeats, though her voice remains good-natured and sweet. I have been waiting for a long time to serve someone, so excuse me if I seem a little excited. My last master was Tuonen, the son of Death, but since he lives elsewhere most of the time, I’ve had no one to tend to. You will be my first mortal, so please pardon me if I ask too many questions. You don’t have to answer them.

“Okay,” I say warily. My heart is starting to slow again and I take in a deep breath. “What if I have questions? Will you answer them? Because I have a lot.”

Would you like some coffee before your questions? she asks.

I’m about to tell her no, but the thought of coffee makes my body flood with endorphins, as if a cup of Joe in the Land of the Dead is going to fix all my problems.

“What’s the coffee made of?” I ask suspiciously. “Snails and puppy dog tails?”

Good gods, no, Raila says, sounding aghast. The finest Ethiopian beans. Death has others bring it back from the Upper World, though our cook Pyry struggles to grow them here. It’s the lack of sun, they say. You know the master’s moods, though.

“He’s not my master.”

Death is everyone’s master, she says cheerfully. I’ll go bring you some coffee. It’s a rare treat, Death rarely shares his brew with anyone else.

She turns, her cloak sweeping the floor.

“Wait!” I call out.

She pauses, and then turns back around to face me.

“What happened to me last night? Or yesterday? I don’t remember.” I rub at my forehead as if that will jog my memory. “I remember my father being taken away and then Death brought me here…were you here?”

She nods. You were in a state of delirium brought on by stress.

“Did you bathe me?” Please don’t tell me Death saw me naked.

She nods again. I did. It is my job as your Deadmaiden. I made you a bath, put you in it, dressed you. You shall have another bath today. You were awfully dirty, and my touch was light.

She turns again and I watch as she goes to the wide wood door at the end of the room. When it closes shut behind her I hear her insert a key and lock it.

Figures. Maybe not all prisoners get their own servants and coffee, but the one thing we have in common is that we don’t have our freedom.

Freedom. The one thing I always took for granted. Now I’m stripped of it, shuttered in another world. Come to think of it, I took my father for granted too. Now I’ll never see him again.

“This has to be a bad dream,” I say to myself. “It just has to be. None of this can be real.”

But real or not, it is my reality now. I collapse to the floor in a fit of tears, crying for my father, for my old life, for my new one, for how quickly everything can change.

I don’t know how long I stay on the floor crying, but I don’t realize Raila has come back in until I see her black cloak obscuring my vision.

I brought your coffee, she says, as if I’m not curled up at her feet. And I managed to sneak a honeycake from Pyry. It’s made with Hallabee Honey, a Tuonela speciality.

“I’m not hungry,” I say like a petulant child. Truth is, I’m starving, but eating is the only thing I can control right now.

That’s fine, I’ll put it on the table. You can eat and drink it whenever you wish, though the coffee is better hot. So the master says.

I push myself up so that I’m staring up at the black veil in front of her face. It could be anything or anyone back there, but judging by her voice, I’m picturing a cherubic-faced blonde.