âA deliciously sinful experience centered around a show of life and death at the hands of the Maiden.â
Fans of Kerri Maniscalcoâs Kingdom of the Wicked and Stephanie Garberâs Caraval will love this story of the Death Maidenâs one chance to defy Death himself, combined with a searing romance that adds an irresistible layer of passion.
Till Death, an all-new romantic fantasy from bestselling author Miranda Lyn is now available!
Her only hope to give something back to the world is to find the missing Life Maiden.
Beyond the realm of gods, two cities stand at the brink of despair, and a dark destiny awaits Death’s newest Maiden.
Long ago, Requiem was plagued by war and abandoned by the gods but Death saved the suffering people, giving each soul a hundred years of immortality. With that grace, he also sent two Maidens. One of Life, for healing and comfort, and one of Death, the only person in the world with the ability to kill.
Generations later, the Life Maiden is missing and Princess Deyanira is nothing more than a trained weapon. A hunter. A murderer wrenched into Death’s dark court to have the name of her next victim seared onto her palm.
She is the enemy of this land. But, when she’s given the chance to bring peace through marriage and finally show her father’s kingdom her worth, she is viciously tricked into marrying the wrong man, ruining the future of the damaged realm. Her only hope to give something back to the world is to find the missing Life Maiden.
Now, eternally bound to her enemy and dragged into the dark burlesque show her new husband is enslaved to, she must fight to keep herself free. And her heart. Especially when she becomes the hunted.
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Iâd sliced a blade across so many throats, if not for my diligent tracking, I couldnât give a number.
Three hundred and seventy-four.
I knew two facts. One: a gasp, no matter the state of the victim, would always follow the slice. They may sputter or gag on the blood filling their esophagus, but still, they gasp. And two: they wonât die unless Iâm the one holding the blade.
I didnât know a person could smell worse than the sodden alleyway behind Lady Vishaâs brothel. Something putrid wafting off Deathâs appointed target had proven me wrong. It was either him or the blonde prostitute hanging off his good arm. Based on his stumble and the perfect cadence of her gloriously high heels, he was a good bet for the lack of hygiene. Her patron must have paid very well, even though he didnât have a pot to piss in. That, or sheâd found herself in severe debt to Lady Visha.
I didnât need to lean over the wrought-iron railing circling the rooftop to see where they were going, nor rely on Deathâs magic to guide me. Thomas Vanhutes had been the object of my obsession for days. Since the night Death delivered his name, I knew where he lived and where he found pleasure. He slept on a stained mattress older than he was, with no linens, and his crumbling apartment boasted a leaky faucet. Not surprising for someone living on Beggarâs Row. At least he had shelter, which was more than most in that district. Including the giant black crows that hounded the vagrants. They were always watching. Perthâs most notorious plague.
I leaped from the rooftop, avoiding the puddles that inundated the narrow alleyway like an incurable illness, clinging to the shadows along the close brick buildings. Crossing the uneven brick road to stay close to Thomas, I quickly scaled the next building, digging into the dilapidated edifice Iâd grown so familiar with. Most dwellers of the twin kingdoms could navigate these roads in pitch black. The water reflected enough of the streetlampâs cool glow to guide the way.
The birds pecking at the gaps between the bricks scattered when Thomas stumbled by. And, though he wobbled, and his company clacked, I was as silent as the deaths I delivered. A weapon. Honed and sheathed for as long as I could resist the magic.
A womanâs faint pants echoed through the next alleyway until she grew to a fake climax, satisfying her third patron of the night. The red-haired woman had perfected those moans, and Lady Visha had likely become even more wealthy because of it. As I passed, she held her breath. As if sheâd felt me from above, Deathâs Maiden, like a promise of deliverance from her plight. There was hope in that breath. A wish, though sheâd never know I was there, having honed my skills by the age of thirteen. Some miserable souls were just more desperate than others.
I crept away, eyes focused once more. Sheâd wipe the remnants of that man from between her legs with a dirty rag and move on to the next within the hour. There was no saving her. Though that was not my job. The twin kingdoms were full of dark merchants, crime lords, thieves, and brothels. Every person needed to be rescued from something, even the Perth kingâs daughter. Iâd sooner fall under the thumb of a crime lord than endeavor to save the world.
I stalked Thomas from the apartment rooftops, crouching and watching my victim carry on, his silhouette elongating as he neared his favorite alehouse. Every third night, he stopped at the Badger Hole for one final nightcap, and I preferred to avoid the street rats that swarmed outside.
He hesitated for only a second before letting the prostitute tug on his good arm, probably eager to end her suffering. Like most dwellers of Beggarâs Row, she didnât flinch at the rodents outside his home. They were more welcomed in this city than the failing king.
Heel to toe, I paced along the adjacent rooftop, placating the magic with my movements; not to grant Thomas a final tupping before his ultimate demise, but to give the woman time to pay her debt. A mercy for him, perhaps.
The door would squeak if I opened it. Lifting or pressing down on the handle wouldnât stop the squeal, so I opted for the window when Deathâs magic became too strong to resist. The bars had rusted away long ago, and I fit easily. Aside from the snoring, the space was eerily quiet. The prostitute had never left, but I wasnât expecting to find her naked, and on her back, tied to the kitchen table, a look of boredom on her face.
The leaky faucet dripped into a puddle on the piss-stained floor, and the woman lay spread open with Thomas passed out in the corner. Based on the scene, heâd had far bigger plans than his drunken stupor would allow. As I neared him, the visions began. Deathâs magic showed me all the ways I could kill this man. Breaking every bone in his body until his tortured screams were no longer audible. Slicing him from nose to navel, letting his innards slink to the floor, leaving him to drown in his own blood.
Hand gripping the knife strapped to my waist, I fought the power that would eventually win long enough to free the whimpering woman. She rolled away with a groan before scrambling until her back hit the wall as realization sank in. My presence in the dead of night meant only one thing.
âDeyanira.â The chokehold of shock rippled over her trembling features.
I didnât begrudge her for neglecting to use my title. Folding my arms across my chest, I let the blade of my curved knife show. âIs the debt paid?â
She held an arm up to count the red bands before nodding.
âYou can stay and watch, but heâll be here in five minutes.â
Dull brown eyes rimmed in smeared mascara widened, followed by the first authentic gasp of the night. She didnât say another word, only grabbed her clothes and hurried out of the apartment, naked, the squeal of the door, the final goodbye.
âI donât blame you,â I managed, unable to fight the magic any longer.
A silent slice and the second gasp, the one Iâd anticipated, satisfied the power throbbing through my body. A name given; a body delivered. That was my true role. That of a harbinger. A lone assassin in a world of none. Deathâs Maiden.
The gargle was hardly audible over the sound of the shrill ringing in my ears, the eerie retraction of magic leaving traces behind, reminding me I was still human, though every kill carried me one step closer to Deathâs court.
Three hundred and seventy-five.
For more information about Miranda Lyn and her books, visit her website:
https://www.authormirandalyn.com
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