Whereafter (Afterlife #3)

Whereafter Description

How Far Would You Go To Get Your Life Back?

Stuck on an island encircled by fire and hunted by shadows bent on trapping them there forever, Irene and Andras struggle to hold onto the last vestiges of their physical selves, without which they can never return to the land of the living. But it’s not just external forces they’ll have to fight as the pair grow to realize they have different goals. Irene still clings to the hope that she can somehow return to her old life— the one she had before she died— while Andras would be only too glad to embrace oblivion.

Meanwhile, Jonah desperately searches for a way to cross over to the other side, even if doing so means his death. His crossing over, however, is the one thing that could destroy Irene’s chances of returning home.

Too many obstacles, too many people to save, and the thing Irene most desperately wants— to return to her old life— seems farther away than ever. Only one thing is clear: moving on will require making a terrible sacrifice.

––––––––

5 out of 5... I love this series, the characters feel real, and I enjoy watching them grow and develop. Terri Bruce is wonderfully imaginative in her description of what comes after death, and I can hardly wait for the next book! Amazon Review

5 out of 5... This book is awesome, I really loved it... HEREAFTER,THEREAFTER,AND WHEREAFTER. and more to come. I will buy them all. Amazon Review

Copyright Notice

Whereafter (Afterlife #3)

Copyright © 2016 Terri Bruce

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover artwork by Shelby Robinson

Cover models Chelsea Howard and Justin Kalin

E-Book Cover Artwork by Anile

Digital ISBN:978-0-9913036-5-6

Print ISBN: 978-0-9913036-4-9

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

Also by Terri Bruce

––––––––

The Afterlife Series

Hereafter (Afterlife #1)

Thereafter (Afterlife #2)

Whereafter (Afterlife #3)

Irene and the Witch (Afterlife #3.5)

Whenafter (Afterlife #4) (May 2018)

Neverafter (Afterlife #5) (forthcoming)

Ever After (Afterlife #6) (forthcoming)

––––––––

Short Stories

The Tower

The Wishing Well

Welcome to OASIS

Death and the Horse

My Lover Like Night

The Lady and the Unicorn

Please leave a review of this story on whichever retail site you got it from (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play, etc. Reviews left at Goodreads and/or Library Thing also greatly appreciated!), even if you didn’t enjoy it. (Honest) reviews help authors. For instance, did you know that when a book reaches 100 reviews, the author gets a unicorn.

No, really... a unicorn.

Dedication

To Christopher,

Who always hates my endings but reads my stories anyway.

Acknowledgements

As always, there are too many people to thank individually. A book is a team effort—from the friends and family who cheerlead and encourage the writer, to the spouse who brings a steady supply of hot beverages, food, and back rubs when things are going well (or, at least, steadily) and chocolate and hugs when they aren’t, to the coworkers who tolerantly and indulgently let the author ramble about each milestone, to the bloggers who read, review, support, and promote the author and his/her works, to the amazing strangers who sign up to be on the author’s street team. To all of you, thank you!

A great big thank you (as always) to cover artist Shelby Robinson for her amazing, amazing artwork and to models Chelsea Howard and Justin Kalin for bringing Irene and Jonah to life. Thank you also to cover layout artist Jennifer Stolzer for always finding the perfect symbol for the spine! That little touch is always my favorite part of the covers.

Any parts of this book that you like are probably the work of my fabulous critique partners T.W. Fendley, Beth Hayes, Jeremy Hughes, Aimee Hyndman, Sean Jenan, Anna Priemaza, and Leann Rko. Each and every one of them are not only fabulous critique partners—they always know just where a story has gone off the rails and how to get it back on track—but amazing writers in their own right. You should run right out and buy some of their books—right now. I’ll wait...

Any parts of this book that are readable due to proper grammar and punctuation are the work of my fabulous editor Morgen Rich. You should go buy her books, too.

Prologue

The tiny, brass bell over the magic shop’s door jingled as Jonah Johnson crossed the threshold. Without intending to, he held his breath. Perhaps the shop had changed, or maybe it wasn’t the way he remembered it. Maybe, despite the sign over the door declaring it to be Madame Majicka’s Shop of Mysteries, Madame Majicka was no longer here. God, he hoped not—he’d exhausted almost all his other avenues.

One quick survey of the small store’s crowded and dimly-lit interior, however, instantly alleviated his fears. He smiled as he closed the door and the overpowering scent of sandalwood incense hit him. Though it had been nearly three years since he’d last been here, the shop looked exactly as he remembered it. Typical occult paraphernalia—crystals, tarot cards, incense, crystal balls, and the like—crowded every available surface: they were crammed on the dingy, white, laminated countertop that ran around the perimeter of the room, overflowing from the various knick-knack tables, wooden bookshelves, and display cases that fought for floor space, and dangled from curtain rods and light fixtures. Interspersed with the usual and expected items were stranger things, like dried roots, small, desiccated turtles—still in their shells—and tiny vials of glittering, jewel-toned liquids.

Surely, something in here could help him.

Whispers of memory tugged at him, and a wave of melancholy hit him. When he’d last been here, he’d been with Irene, the ghost woman he’d helped to cross over to the other side.

Irene.

Just as quickly as it arose, the nostalgia was replaced by the ever-present anxiety and dread that ate at him. It had been a month since Irene had inexplicably cut off contact. A month—and he was no closer to finding a way to contact or locate her.

A voluptuous woman of indeterminate age—neatly dressed in a tailored suit of dark emerald green and with a hint of the Mediterranean in her dark features and hair—bustled through the bead curtain hanging in the back of the shop. Jonah’s smile returned. Madame Majicka was still the same, too.

Sale today! Twenty-five percent off, the woman sang out as the swaying beads knocked together behind her. She stopped short, recognition lighting up her face. My dear! she cried with delight. How are you? So good to see you!

You remember me? Jonah asked.

Of course I remember! I never forget a face. The boy who can see dead people! It’s been such a long time. How have you been?

It had been a long time—two and a half years to be exact. He could account for every second of that time, too. A year and a half of gut-wrenching loneliness after Irene had crossed over, followed by eight months of letters once she had started writing to him from the other side, followed by one month of agonizing silence after she had inexplicably cut off contact.

I’m good. Unbidden, images flashed through his mind: a burning lake of fire, snarling, black-bristled beasts with long claws and even longer teeth, grotesque demons with too many eyes and mouths peeling the flesh from human victims, and in every scene, a red-haired woman sobbing in pain and terror, crying out to him for help. He tried to shake the images, but it was futile: they haunted him day and night, awake or asleep.

And your friend—the ghost woman? How is she? Madame Majicka clucked reproachfully as she ushered Jonah toward one of the stools flanking a pub-style table in the back of the shop. I’ve never seen such a difficult aura.

Despite himself, Jonah’s lips twisted into a wry grin—difficult was certainly one way to describe Irene. However, despite the humor in Madame Majicka’s word choice, a lump constricted his throat when he replied. She crossed over.

Oh? Interesting—I didn’t expect that. Well, it’s for the best, I’m sure.

Jonah’s grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl, and the ever-present guilt roiled in his belly. Best would be if she had stayed. Best would be if she were here—where it was safe. Best would be if she were around—where he could talk to her. Actually, that’s why I’m here... He reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled out the carefully folded flyer tucked there, unfolded it, and passed it to Madame Majicka across the table. On the flyer, a smiling Madame Majicka waved a hand over a crystal ball. Thick, black words proclaimed the peace of knowing your loved ones were safe and happy in the Great Beyond that could be gained from speaking to them through the services of a medium, such as herself.

I want to arrange for a séance.

A worried pucker creased Madame Majicka’s forehead as she looked at the ad. I think we better have some tea.

He didn’t want tea; he wanted Irene—a way to contact her, a way to look in on her, a way to know she wasn’t being tortured over and over by demons or hell hounds or harpies or...

Madame Majicka bustled away through the bead curtain.

His heart sank. Tea from Madame Majicka meant serious business—usually a soft let down. Was she going to refuse to help him? The psychic tended to have strict views on the land of the living and the land of the dead staying separate. Frankly, he was surprised she offered séance services at all. It seemed like the kind of thing she’d frown upon. He wouldn’t have come to her at all except he knew she was the real deal—she could actually see dead people. He knew she wouldn’t fake contact or try to cheat him.

Grimly, he ran a hand through his hair, impatiently pushing aside the pale, straw-colored strands, mentally steeling himself for a fight. If Madame Majicka was unwilling to help him, it would be hard to change her mind.

Since there was never any hurrying Madame Majicka, especially when it came to tea, he dropped his backpack on the floor and shrugged out of his light-weight jacket. Might as well get comfortable.

He surveyed the shop and then wandered to the nearest shelf, looking over the various occult paraphernalia. The empty sockets of a grinning skull watched him from the one side of the room, and he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if it was real. Knowing Madame Majicka, it probably was. He wasn’t really sure what would require the use of a skull, and he sidled away from it, not sure he really wanted to find out.

The shop was actually two separate shops—one that served the living and one that served the dead stuck on earth as ghosts—sandwiched back to back and connected only by the opening covered by the bead-curtain Madame Majicka had disappeared through. Irene had jokingly referred to it as the Oreo cookie of occult shops.

Jonah smiled faintly at the memory and then, just as quickly, grew somber again as the deep, dull, ever-present ache in his gut intensified.

When he’d last visited, he had been in the mystical trance that let him separate his spirit from his body—basically he’d been a ghost, which was how he’d been able to see Irene. Today, however, he was in his body, and it felt strange and uncomfortable to be standing here, thick and heavy with the encumbrance of a physical form. He suddenly realized how tired he was. God, he’d forgotten what it was like to be tired. In his ghost form, he didn’t need to sleep.

He ran his hand through his hair again. Pushing the chin-length strands back from his face, he let his gaze wander around the shop, comparing this side—the side for the living—with his memories of the dead side, mentally making note of anything that might help him in his quest. Though the shelves on this side were just as cluttered and crammed as those on the dead side, these mostly seemed to be full of stuff like incense, crystals, and Ouija boards—useless junk. The turtles, roots, and various herbal remedies seemed just as irrelevant.

Madame Majicka bustled back through the bead curtain with the tea tray. You strike me as an Earl Grey sort.

Uh, sure? He disliked all teas equally, so it didn’t really matter what she served him. He slid onto a stool. So, about a séance?

Madame Majicka talked as she poured out two cups of steaming hot liquid. Why on earth do you need a séance? You can already see the dead.

I can see the dead here. I want to contact someone on the other side. Or, at least, locate them.

Madame Majicka set the pot down so hard the lid rattled. She looked flummoxed for a moment. Then her eyes grew sad. Oh, my dear, I am sorry, but it doesn’t work like that.

What do you mean?

I mean a séance is only so the dead still here on earth can talk to the living and vice versa.

Jonah frowned. But your flyer says you help people contact spirits in the ‘Great Beyond.’

Madame Majicka gave him a faint smile as she picked up the teapot and resumed pouring. Well, my dear, it’s all one and the same to the living. Not everyone is like you and me, you know. We can see the dead, but the rest of the living... well, they’re blissfully unaware that there are spirits all around us and happy to remain unaware.

Jonah stared at her. So, you mean that during a séance the ghost just stands here, next to you, and you just repeat whatever they say? But that’s a... a... cheap trick! He flapped his hands for a second, trying to come up with the words to express his disappointment. It wasn’t exactly a trick, but it wasn’t really mystical, either. It was just parroting what someone said. It required no special skills, and, even worse, it barely involved the supernatural.

It’s hardly a trick, Madame Majicka said with some asperity. "For the living, it is the Great Beyond."

Jonah usually found Madame Majicka’s word games and prevarications amusing, but not today. He’d spent the year and a half after Irene left missing her terribly and wondering if she was okay, then he’d spent the eight months they had corresponded across the divide separating the land of the living from the land of the dead worried that something was wrong, and then he’d spent the month since he’d last heard from her certain that something terrible had happened. All told, he’d spent two years, three months, four days, and seventeen hours worrying and wondering. Even another minute seemed untenable. He needed to find a way to contact her—and fast. If she was in trouble, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

So what happens when someone wants you to contact someone who has crossed over? he asked.

Madame Majicka pursed her lips for a second as she added sugar to the two teacups and passed one to Jonah. Not every séance results in a successful connection, you know, she said, and he had the impression that she was giving him the rehearsed line she used on her customers. I’m only able to help a very small fraction of those who come to me. However, there are ways of passing messages to spirits on the other side...

Yeah, I know about those. He’d been communicating with Irene through letters left on her grave—right up until the moment when she’d abruptly cut off contact, curtly and incomprehensibly ordering him to stop writing to her. I don’t need to send someone a message; I need to locate them—to know exactly where in the afterlife they are.

The afterlife, it turned out, was rather vast. Jonah had learned early on that all the myths and stories of the afterlife were true—including the innumerable lands detailed in every culture’s beliefs and mythology. Valhalla, Heaven, T’ian, the Elysian Fields, the Happy Hunting Grounds, Hades—they all existed. Irene could be in any one of a hundred planes of the afterlife.

Oh no, my dear! I’m afraid that’s not possible. She gave him another sad look as if she wanted to say something additional. Instead, she took a sip of tea, watching him over the rim of her cup.

There’s got to be some way. What about scrying or... or... He desperately searched his memory for the few magical practices he’d ever heard of but came up blank. In these, he was out of his depth—afterlife mythology had turned out to be true, but the same couldn’t be said for magic. He knew because he’d tried. Casting spells, summoning demons—none of it had worked to find Irene.

Well, you could always just ask them where they are.

A burning, acrid lump rose in his throat at the bitter memory of Irene’s last letter to him, of his hands shaking so badly he could barely read the cold, remorseless words and of the ringing in his ears that deafened him to everything but the sound of his thudding heart.

This will be my last letter...

His fists clenched beneath the table. That’s not an option.

Madame Majicka just looked at him with sympathetic eyes and sipped her tea.

He breathed in hard through his nose, pushing from his mind the searing image of the carefully flowing script of Irene’s letter superimposed over a lake of fire. Okay, fine. If there’s no way to locate someone from this side, then is there a way to visit the other side? Like astral projection or dream walking or contacting a spirit guide or something like that?

Madame Majicka shook her head. Really, my dear, I am sorry.

But there are stories, from dozens of cultures throughout history, of people visiting the land of the dead to reclaim lost souls and bring them back to the land of the living. Orpheus. Gilgamesh. Hercules, King Mu and Zaofu, Aeneas, Pwyll, Indra, Gesar, Izanagi and Izanami, Hermodr—what about them? How’d they do it? Irene had crossed over to the afterlife via a tunnel of light—one that he, because he was living, couldn’t see, even in his ghost form. So while the meditation he’d learned allowed him to see the dead stuck on earth as ghosts, it did not allow him to travel to the Great Beyond or any of the realms of the dead. Whatever else the meditation did, it did not actually simulate death. He was, unfortunately, still very much alive.

But somehow, in the handful of stories he had found, the living did manage to find their way to the other side. In rare instances, they even managed to bring someone back to the land of the living—and to life—with them. Unfortunately, the stories contained maddeningly few details on how it was done. All the stories started with the hero at the gates of the Underworld and being able to magically walk right in. He knew how to find the tunnel of light that would let him cross over—the problem was that he couldn’t see it. Or cross it. That was the rather key detail he was missing.

Madame Majicka shook her head. I’m afraid you’re outside my area of expertise.

Well then, what about near death experiences? Is there a way to simulate one of those?

Madame Majicka set her tea down hard and blinked at him in horror. Good heavens!

He realized he’d gone too far, had revealed too much, and was venturing into territory where Madame Majicka would outright refuse to help him. He forced himself to relax. He couldn’t risk alienating her by coming on too strong. She was his one solid lead at the moment. He took a deep breath and sat back. To soothe Madame Majicka, he took a sip of his tea and then had to hide his grimace of distaste. He quickly set the cup back down.

He tried to keep his thoughts focused squarely on the cup of tea and in looking placid so he didn’t give away what he was thinking, his mind working furiously to come up with another line of attack, another question he could ask that Madame Majicka might be willing to answer. She never gave out information freely, but sometimes she could be coaxed into dropping hints.

The psychic gave him another pitying look, then brightened, though her smile seemed a little brittle, as if her gaiety was forced. But come, let us talk of more pleasant things. So, how are you?

I’m fine, he said, desperately wishing he had Irene’s knack for steamrolling over people’s objections to get what she wanted. Look, what about—

Really? You look a little tired. Are you sleeping well? I have the loveliest lavender powder to help with insomnia. Really, you should try it. She began to rise from the table.

She was obviously trying to change the subject, to derail him. He grabbed her arm to prevent her from getting up. Are you sure there’s nothing you can think of that might help?

Madame Majicka’s eyes became a little less warm, and her tone was steely as she replied, Now really, I’ve told you everything I can.

So she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help. He unwrapped his fingers from her sleeve, defeated. Okay, fine, he said absently, already rising to his feet and reaching for his jacket as his mind jumped three steps ahead to his next move. Look, I should get going. He grabbed his backpack from the floor. Thanks for the tea.

Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Madame Majicka said, her eyes, dark and inscrutable, watching him closely. But listen, how about—

Jonah gave her a thin smile. It’s okay. Thanks anyway. He shouldered his backpack and headed for the door. The bell tinkled as he left.

Once outside, he stood on the sidewalk, blankly watching the throng of people on the street. The shop—or, at least, this side of it—opened out onto a main street in downtown Boston, and the living bustled by on their way to work or to catch a train. Many talked on cell phones, gesturing wildly with their hands. He watched them absently, feeling numb and far removed from it all. These people got up, went to work, came home, watched television, ate dinner, did the dishes, then went to bed and did it all again the next day. It all seemed so boring, so pointless, and with every passing day, it all seemed even more pointless and dreamlike, as if everything in the ghost world was real and these people the ghosts.

He slumped against the building and slid into a sitting position, not sure what to do next. A month since Irene had cut off all contact and he was still at square one.

Initially, after Irene had first crossed more than two years ago, he’d done as he’d promised; he had given up spending time with the dead, though it had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He had never forgotten about her, though, never stopped thinking about her. The moment she had entered the tunnel of light, he’d known they’d both made a terrible mistake—she in going and he in letting her go—or, at least, letting her go alone. That knowledge ate at him, day and night, always in the back of his mind, surfacing at night in his dreams. Soon, it was easier to just stay in ghost form, where he didn’t have to sleep, to avoid the nightmares altogether.

Being awake wasn’t always better though; whenever he saw the flash of a red dress or mahogany hair or a silver BMW, his heart would jump. She’d returned! She’d realized what a mistake it was to leave, and she’d come back. He’d get a job and an apartment, and they could live there, just the two of them. No parents to tell him what to do and no responsibilities for her. He’d keep her company, keep her from being sad that she was dead, and they’d go out exploring the ghost world every day, and everything would be okay for both of them.

Whenever the urge to try and find her became almost overwhelming, he’d write her a letter and leave it on her grave. A year and a half had gone by. Then, suddenly, one day, a letter had arrived from Irene—she needed his help. It was almost as if she had never left. She was still the one person he could talk to, who didn’t treat him like a kid, and she still needed him, needed his help. In fact, in her letters, she talked as if no time at all had passed since she had crossed over. She acted as if she’d only just arrived on the other side, and strangely, there was never any mention of what had happened to her in the year and a half she’d been gone. He’d wondered—hoped, even—that maybe time worked differently on the other side.

Almost immediately upon receiving her first letter, he’d suspected something was seriously wrong. Her letters were so careful, so guarded. She was hiding something, holding something back—and she was desperately trying to get out of wherever she was. Before she left, Irene had worried that she might be going to Hell or, at least, somewhere unpleasant, and Jonah was afraid she’d been right. What else would she hide from him? When she abruptly cut off contact—after eight months of correspondence—with no explanation, no reason other than to say she didn’t want him to end up like her, he knew she was in serious trouble, and there was no way he was just going to leave her there—wherever there was.

Irene.

His stomach clenched again. She was out there, somewhere. Alone. Unprotected.

Don’t send me any more letters. I won’t read them.

What could have happened to make her say such a thing?

A shiver of fear went through him. There were things—terrible things—in the land of the dead. Hell hounds and lakes of fire were just the tip of the iceberg. Irene was smart and gutsy, but she was also head-strong and impetuous—and had no people skills whatsoever. And like most people these days, she had made no preparations for afterlife journey. Hell, she hadn’t even packed a coin for the ferryman and had had to write to him, asking for one. Without proper preparation, a dead person’s chances of making it through the Underworld were slim to none. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been alone. According to her letters, she’d been traveling with two guys—a nineteenth-century American cowboy and a twelfth-century Spanish knight.

His eyes narrowed. She’d been exceedingly tight-lipped about both men. She’d been hiding something about them. Annoyance flashed through him. What was so great about those guys, anyway? Obviously not much if they had been stuck in the same place for hundreds of years. Leave it to Irene to find the two biggest losers in the entire afterlife.

His cell phone buzzed. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. His mother. He sent the call to voicemail. He was supposed to be dropping off a college application today; she was calling to check up on him.

The situation at home was becoming untenable; he’d need to find a new base of operations if the search for Irene continued to drag on like this. Having skipped two grades, he had been close to graduating when Irene’s letters had stopped. Since he’d been sixteen and legally able, he’d simply dropped out of school. He’d hardly been going anyway and looking for Irene was much more important. His parents had flipped when they found out, threatening to throw him out of the house if he didn’t go back and finish his senior year, which was not going to happen no matter how much they yelled about it. The compromise had been to get his GED, but then, predictably, they hadn’t been satisfied with that. Now they wanted him to go to college. Once again, they were threatening to throw him out of the house; this time they wanted him to either get a job or enroll in community college at the very least.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was his father. He ignored that call, too.

Unfortunately, he had to live somewhere while he searched for Irene, and it turned out that without a job, he couldn’t afford an apartment—not that anyone would rent one to a seventeen-year-old, anyway.

His phone vibrated—this time with a text message.

ANSWER YOUR DAMNED PHONE.

He deleted the message and turned off his phone. He leaned his head against the cool stone of the magic shop and contemplated his few remaining options.

Beside him, the bell jangled, startling him, as the door opened. Madame Majicka stuck her head out and looked at him, hardly pausing before she spoke. You wouldn’t, by any chance, be interested in a job, would you?

One

Irene Dunphy’s eyes flew open as the boat she was on came to rest against the shore with a bump. Around her, the world came muzzily into focus, as if she were just waking up from a dream. She blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself to her surroundings. The world underfoot bobbed gently, making it hard to keep her balance, while the world in front of her eyes refused to resolve itself into anything discernable. It took a moment for her to realize the problem wasn’t her eyes but the sun high overhead, blinding her.

She was dead—at only thirty-six, a victim of her own folly by driving drunk after a night bar-hopping—and traveling through the afterlife. Most recently, she’d boarded a ferry—a large, flat-bottomed skiff that seemed to navigate of its own accord, to cross the proverbial River Styx—and now she was... here—wherever here was.

The land she’d just left—what could only be described as purgatory—had had a sort of indeterminateness to it, the sky and the ground all melding together in a seamless, gun-metal gray, giving no indication of day or night. Here, as there, the sky and ground ran together, but this time, all was clothed in the brittle, blinding hues of burning gold so bright it hurt the eyes. Irene found she couldn’t look at anything directly or her eyes started to water.

She held up a hand to block the sunlight as she surveyed the landscape spread before her. Her traveling companion, a former twelfth-century Spanish knight named Andras, stood beside her and similarly shielded his eyes.

The landscape was flat and unending, spreading away to the horizon, its only feature some kind of tall grass.

Lots and lots and lots of gold-colored grass.

Swell.

A light breeze played about her, teasing her long, dark auburn hair and the gauzy skirt of her short dress while the river water sloshed against the sides of the boat. With the wind and sun and water, she could almost imagine she was enjoying a day at the beach—almost. Too bad she couldn’t forget she was dead.

Andras, a man of few words and with a knight’s taciturn personality, grunted—his usual response to most things. He made quite a picture, standing there, tall and broad-shouldered, tense and alert, his dark eyes looking to the horizon as he assessed the landscape for danger. In the bronze light, his dark features—typical of a southern Spaniard—appeared bronzed as well, and an aura of golden light framed him.

This is not Heaven, Andras said.

Irene bit her lip. No, it most definitely did not seem to be Heaven.

Heaven was what Andras had expected when he boarded the boat with her, despite the fact she’d told him she wasn’t trying to reach Heaven—she was trying to find her way back to the land of the living.

Andras was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to disembark, so she steeled herself and stepped warily off the long, low boat into the tall grass as gracefully as she could. The thin, golden stalks tickled her legs and thighs