But not yet.

He missed nothing, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “I’ll ask again, Lou . . . what are you doing here?”

I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You should know. It seems you’ve been following us since—since—” The words withered on my tongue, and I tried again. “Since—” Fuck. I dropped my gaze once more before quickly regretting the decision. His body still smoldered at our feet. Double fuck.

“Since I died?” he supplied helpfully.

My eyes snapped to his, and my expression flattened. “You’re an ass.”

He bumped me this time, grinning anew. “You can say the words, you know. They won’t make me any less dead.”

I swatted him away. “Stop saying it—”

“Saying what? The truth?” He splayed his hands wide. “Why are you so afraid of it?”

“I’m not afraid.”

He leveled me with a frank stare. “Don’t lie to me. You can lie to everyone else, but I know better. You’re my best friend. Even if I hadn’t been following you for the past few weeks, I’d know you’re one of the most frightened people I’ve ever met.”

“Everyone is frightened of death,” I muttered petulantly. “Those who say differently are drunk.” Unable to help it, my eyes drifted back to his body. Fresh gorge rose. I had a finite amount of time left with Ansel, yet here I stood, arguing with him atop his makeshift pyre. Perhaps these waters hadn’t healed me, after all. Perhaps whatever was broken inside me couldn’t be fixed.

Despite his harsh words, his insistence at our new reality, he lifted my chin with a gentle finger. His brows furrowed with concern. Still Ansel. “I’m sorry. Don’t look if it upsets you.” He continued in a milder tone. “No one wants to die, but death comes for us all.”

I scoffed. It was an angry, ugly sound. “Don’t feed me that shit. I don’t want platitudes.”

“They aren’t platitudes.” Dropping his hand, he stepped backward, and I couldn’t help it. I looked down again.

“Of course they are.” Hot tears brimmed over my eyes, burning tracks down my cheeks. I wiped them away furiously. “Death isn’t a happy ending, Ansel. It’s sickness and rot and betrayal. It’s fire and pain and”—my voice cracked—“and never getting to say goodbye.”

“Death isn’t an ending at all, Lou. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s the beginning.” Quieter still, he added, “You’ve lived in fear too long.”

“Fear has helped me survive,” I snapped.

“Fear has kept you from living.”

I backed away from his corpse, from the flames, from the knowing gleam in his gaze. “You don’t—”

He didn’t allow me to finish, however, waving his hand. The scene before us dissipated—as simple as brushing aside the smoke—and another formed instead: a crackling hearth, a smooth stone floor, and a gleaming wooden table. Copper pans hung above it, and flowerpots of eucalyptus cluttered the far windowsill. Snowflakes fell beyond its panes, illuminated by starlight.

At the oven, Reid pulled forth a baking stone, and the sticky buns atop it sizzled and smoked. He’d burned them slightly, their tops a shade too brown, but still he turned to me—exorbitantly pleased with himself—grinning and flushed from the heat. Coco and Beau sat around the table, mixing what looked like cream. Vanilla and spice perfumed the air.

I sank into the chair next to them, limbs trembling. Ansel took the last free seat.

Rapt, I watched as Beau plucked a bun from the stone, dipped it straight into the cream, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth without a word.

“’eez a’ burnt,” he protested, face convoluting in distaste. Or perhaps pain. Steam still rolled from the buns, and as such, from his open mouth. Coco waved his breath from her face, eyes rolling skyward.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you”—he swallowed hard and gripped the back of her chair, yanking her closer and leaning low with a smirk—“are beautiful.” She scoffed and pushed him away, plating two buns for herself.

Ansel watched with a surprisingly contented smile.

“Where are we?” I breathed, glancing around the room at large. A black cat curled by the hearth, and in the distance—perhaps in the next room, perhaps in the next house—a woman and her daughter sang a familiar ditty. A game of ninepin bowling echoed upward from the street below, as did the children’s shouts and laughter. “I’ve never been here before.”

Still, this place felt . . . familiar. Like a dream I could almost remember.

Reid drizzled cream over two more buns with expert precision, his focus intent, before handing them to me. He didn’t wear his Chasseur coat, nor a bandolier around his chest. His boots sat neatly by the front door, and there—on the third finger of his left hand—a simple gold band gleamed in the firelight. When I glanced down at the mother-of-pearl ring on my own finger, my heart nearly burst from my chest. “We’re in Paradise, of course,” he said with a slow, sultry grin. He even winked.

Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in Paradise.

I stared at him incredulously.

Coco snatched up the buns before I could touch them, dumping half the dish of cream over his masterpiece. Smirking at his sudden scowl, she pushed them toward me once more. Her eyes no longer glinted with pain. With heartache. “There. I fixed them.”

Ansel squeezed my hand under the table. “This is what you wanted, right? A home in East End, surrounded by family?”

My mouth might’ve fallen open. “How did you . . . ?”

“It’s a bit tame for you, isn’t it?” Beau narrowed his eyes at the room. “No naked men with strawberries and chocolate”—Reid shot him a murderous look—“no mountains of gold or fountains of champagne.”

“That’s your Paradise, Beau.” Coco smiled sweetly. “And a hideously clichéd one at that.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting something outrageous like dancing bears and fire-eaters.” Beau frowned when he spied the cat purring at the hearth. “Is that . . . ? Tell me that isn’t supposed to be Absalon.”

Bristling at his disparaging tone, I said, “What? I miss him.”

Reid groaned. “He was a restless spirit, Lou. Not a pet. You should be glad he’s gone.”

Coco rose to extricate a pack of cards from a nearby hutch. The familiarity of the movement, the intimacy of it—as if she’d done this precise thing a hundred times before—unnerved me. We’d never had a real home, the two of us, but here in this place, surrounded by loved ones, it felt dangerously close.

In a different world, I might’ve been Louise Clément, daughter of Florin and Morgane. Perhaps they would’ve loved each other, adored each other, filling our home in East End with sticky buns and potted eucalyptus—and children. Lots and lots of children. . . . We could’ve been happy. We could’ve been a family.

Family. It’d been an errant thought in the catacombs, surrounded by dust and death. It’d been a simple, foolish dream. Now, however, my chest ached as I glanced from Coco to Reid to Beau. To Ansel. Perhaps I hadn’t found parents or brothers or sisters, but I’d found a family regardless. Sitting with them at my table—in my home—that dream didn’t feel so foolish, after all.