The Whispering Dark

I dragged myself out of Hell to you.

She wanted to be defined. Not by the silence between her ears or her fear of the dark, but by the sum of her achievements. Not by what she couldn't do, but by what she could.

The thing about men was that they always wanted to live forever, until they didn’t. They wanted to open Pandora’s box, peek in at what lay inside, and then close it back up, quick, once they beheld the ugly truth of what they sought. They wanted knowledge without travail, experience without suffering.

The question tore through him. Lane was his. She'd always been his. And he was hers. They were painted the same shades. Threaded with the same lines. He'd spent his whole life drawn to her, and she to him.

He couldn’t help it. He went where she led, like a paper kite on a string. He was hopelessly caught, twisted in her branches. His line tangled. His spine splintered. His sail all in tatters. There was no clean way to work himself free.

And what word do you have for me," she whispered. He regarded her for a long moment before bringing a hand to his chest. Before tapping it against his sternum. Once. Twice. The sign for mine. Her breath caught. Leaning in close, he pressed a kiss to the pulse beneath her ear. Her body arched instantly into his, like they were strung all together. Twin marionettes, their strings hopelessly twisted. A creature who walked with the dead and a woman who drew them close. He would never not be caught in her orbit. "Mine," he said aloud. The word came out serrated. "Mine." It felt so good to finally say it. His hands slid around her back, and then she was flush against him, her hands twisting in the curls at the nape of his neck, her mouth seeking his in the dark.

They’d gravitated closer while speaking, elbows kissing atop the banister. “Tell me something else,” she said. “Something embarrassing.” “That’s an easy one. I’ve been keeping your chewed-up pens in the glove compartment of my car.” A startled laugh burst out of her. “I can’t believe you just admitted to that. That is incredibly creepy.” His smile sharpened. “Bold words from a girl with a drawing of me shoved in her purse.

His name tasted acrid on her tongue. It twisted something up inside her. Colton Price, who she’d hated. Colton Price, who she’d loved. Colton Price, who had taken her hands and kissed her as the bowels of the afterlife thrashed all around them. Who had ferried her through Hell and back without batting an eye.

Come here,” she said. An order, soft. He would have crawled across the floor to her, if she’d commanded it. He would have dragged himself, the way he’d torn through fire and through ice. The way he’d thrown himself at her feet, halfway dead and ice thawing in his lungs. He surrendered a step into the room. In spite of her initial boldness, she drew back from his approach. Something primitive shot through him at the sight of her retreat.

What’s your favorite flower?” The sudden change in topic left her spinning out like a top. “What?” “Your favorite flower,” he repeated. “You said you don’t like roses, but there are over four hundred thousand types of flowering plants.” He spoke in a slur, his words running all together. “It’d be easier if you told me which you liked to save me from having to buy them all.

Malus navis," he said, without entirely meaning to. Her breath caught. "What?" "It's Latin." "Meaning?" "Beacon." The word fell out of him. "It means beacon." "It's a phrase the dead have," he explained, "for someone who draws them in like a moth to light." "Malus navus," she echoed. "And what word do you have for me," she whispered. He regarded her for a long moment before bringing a hand to his chest. For tapping it against his sternum. Once. Twice. The sign for mine. "Mine," he said aloud. The words came out serrated. "Mine.

They say she's a girl like a garden, it said. "All roses and lavender and spider mums. Too bright, too bright to be there. One foot among the dead, one foot among the living, like a little breathing bridge. Oh, how I'd love to see her. What a pretty, pretty sight she must be.

Wednesday?" Colton's voice was tacky with sleep. "I want to tell you everything." "I wish vou would." "I can't," he said. "It hurts too much." "Tell me what happened to you, at least." A beat of quiet passed. Then another. She thought, maybe, he'd fallen asleep. Instead, he spoke, low and drugged. "I dragged myself out of Hell to you.

I let myself in,” she said when he continued to hover in the doorway. “I hope that’s okay.” There was a smudge of gold under her left eye. A fleck of red on the bridge of her nose. He couldn’t think of anything he was more okay with.

Remind me what it was Thomas Edison said about failure." He knew Price would know. The boy was a walking encyclopedia. unforgivably smug in the understanding that he was, more often than not, the smartest person in the room. "I have not failed ten thousand times," he said, speaking over the muffled clash of swords, "Tve successfully found ten thousand ways that won't work.

You left me a message,” he said. “You didn’t need to.” His veins traced through him in deep skeins of black. The snow dripped and dripped and dripped in radiant dazzles. “I will never not find you, Delaney. I can’t help it. I follow where you lead.

He’d tell her everything, in time. About the Apostle. About the Priory. About Liam. About the pledge they all made, the thin lip of Hell they’d found in the outskirts of Chicago. About nine-year-old Colton, who’d thrashed his way through the frozen Cocytus itself to lay himself at her feet. Drawn to her, drawn to her, the way every other dead, shivering thing drew in close.

The question tore through him. Lane was his. She'd alwas been his. And he was hers. They were painted the same shades. Threaded with the same lines. He'd spent his whole life drawn to her, and she to him.

He woke each dawn at 5:30, without need for an alarm, though he set one anyway just to be sure. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he lifted. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he jogged. Down along the Charles. Beneath the sagging boughs of honey locusts fat with fruit. Following his workout, he prepared a shake. After, he showered beneath the rainwater showerhead in the third-story bath-room, water beating down his back, the radio blaring classical music from its place on the marble vanity. Classical, not rock or country or top forty, because he'd been raised on Handel and Tchaikovsky and because sometimes, when he was very tightly wound, the instrumentals were the only things that eased the tension in his chest. When that was done, he dressed, made his bed--tucking his corners in with the militaristic precision his nanny had demanded of him when he was still small and belligerent and went downstairs to make eggs. Over easy, paired with whole-grain toast and a glass of orange juice. He had his routine down to a science, and he did the same thing every morning.

What will he do to Lane?" The question tore through him. Lane was his. She'd always been his. And he was hers. They were painted the same shades. Threaded with the same lines. He'd spent his whole life drawn to her, and she to him.

Colton turned out to be as formidable a tutor as he was a teaching assistant. His notes were a study in diligence. Every subject was meticulously labeled, the pages pristinely bulleted, each notebook alphabetized and color-coded to the point of obsession. Each night they staked out a workplace and studied deep into the night, combing through his stenographer-worthy binders until she'd managed to flood the sizable gaps in her notebooks with everything in his.

If the average person stepped inside one of these units, they’d feel a chill. The faint whisper of an impossible breeze. The hairs would rise along the back of their neck, and they’d take their leave without ever understanding that they stood on the very precipice of another world. But you? You are no average person.

Time, runs much like a river. Every so often, shifts in the timeline causes that river to undergo a bifurcation. A single stream of events splits into a series of smaller distributaries — fragments into innumerable realities. Something as small as a pebble can fracture a river in two. So, too, can the most seemingly insignificant of variables change the entire trajectory of human history.

Howe University looked like everything Septembers were meant to embody—like bricks and books and new beginnings. It smelled like it, too. Fresh-cut grass and petrichor, coffee grounds and vanillin and the faint, autumnal smack of sour apples.

He regarded her for a long moment before bringing a hand to his chest. Before tapping it against his sternum. Once. Twice. The sign for mine. Her breath caught. Leaning in close, he pressed a kiss to the pulse beneath her ear. Her body arched instantly into his, like they were strung all together. Twin marionettes, their strings hopelessly twisted. A creature who walked with the dead and a woman who drew them close. He would never not be caught in her orbit. “Mine,” he said aloud. The word came out serrated.