River of Shadows (Underworld Gods 1)

“I taught her to respect me,” Death corrects him. “And you are a relic. You’re so old, you should be in the ground.”

“When you say relic, do you mean an Old God?” I ask. Everyone looks at me.

“Don’t tell me this wench is that clueless?” Surma says, teeth clanking, making my nerves shrivel.

“She’s not a wench,” Death snipes. “And while she certainly is clueless, give her some time. It’s not easy being thrown into a new world, especially one so cruel.”

I stare at Death, trying not to show any softness on my face. Did he actually stick up for me? In his own way, of course. He still managed to call me clueless.

“I don’t think it’s in good taste to insult the guest of honor,” Kalma says, and I shoot him a grateful smile.

“And speaking of taste,” Lovia says. “I’m starving. Bring out the food and drinks.” She claps her hands together and suddenly Deadhands appear at the doorway, filing toward us carrying jugs and iron platters of various dishes.

“Surma is a relic,” Death explains to me as the food is placed on the table. “A leftover from the times of the Old Gods. Like the Liekkiö, I cannot be rid of him. But he is no God. As you can see, he’s very much dead.”

“He’s also pretty useless at a dinner party,” Lovia says as a Deadhand pours what looks like wine into her iron chalice. “Considering he can’t eat or drink anything.”

“But I can watch,” Surma says. Clack, clack, clack goes his jawbone. “And I can listen. Pardon me if I don’t particularly trust the mortal daughter of the shaman that your father just let go, for no reason at all, I might add.”

He twists his head toward Death now, the movements jarring. “You should have kept him, Tuoni. Or I could have killed him for you, like I used to. It was my job. Now he’s back in the Upper World, and who knows what kind of magic he’s taken with him there. You know more than anyone that shamans can’t be trusted.”

“I know that our guest needs to eat before the food gets cold,” Death says just as the main course is placed in the middle of the table.

I gasp.

“It’s the swan,” Death says proudly. “One of them anyway. Thank Lovia for having the fortitude to pack it in the snow and bring it here.”

I stare at the massive roasted swan in front of me that nearly takes up the whole table. It’s done up like a turkey, surrounded by various fruits and vegetables, some strange, some familiar—like tiny apples and red cabbage. It’s glazed and crispy brown and cooked to perfection and my mouth automatically waters, despite the fact that this is the holy swan I killed.

“It’s the one you decapitated,” Lovia says to me brightly. “I was going to have Pyry cook the head too but decided that might be a bit much for you.”

“I appreciate that,” I tell her. A Deadhand leans over the table and starts to slice up the swan, while a Deadmaiden starts putting various dishes on my plate. She’s not Raila—I’m not sure where she went—but she’s dressed in bright red robes, including her veil. It’s a little unnerving that, like Raila, I can’t see her face, but it doesn’t kill my appetite in the slightest.

The food looks amazing. I know all I’ve had so far is the honeycake and coffee, but I still wasn’t certain what the rest of the food in Shadow’s End would be like. I’d been picturing the worst, like lots of gross raw meat and blood pudding and fish roe and that sort of thing.

This is nothing like that.

“That’s the stuffing for the swan, made of grilled chestnuts, rosemary, cabbage, and smoked mushrooms,” Kalma says, pointing out the things on my plate. “That’s our cook’s specialty, a bread made from mountain rye and birch nectar, covered in hydrangea syrup from the Hiisi Forest. Oh, and that’s a mash of cliff turnips and reindeer butter, with some snowbeans that have been sautéed in duck fat, sprinkled with moonstone salt and poppy flakes.”

“Don’t worry, the poppy adds heat and spice,” Lovia mentions. “You won’t get high.”

I nod my thanks to Lovia and give Kalma an impressed look. “You know your food.”

“And you’re in the house of a God,” he says. “No one eats better than they do.”

“Or drink,” Death speaks up as the red Deadmaiden comes over and fills my chalice with burgundy liquid. “That’s our famous sweetvine wine.”

I give the Deadmaiden an appreciative smile that I’m not sure she sees, then bring the glass to my nose. It smells like red wine, maybe a bit sweeter.

I take a sip and it’s like my mouth has come alive with pleasure, my taste buds buzzing.

“That is delightful,” I exclaim, and Death lets out one of his boisterous laughs again.