39
DAY 355 A.F.
“Do the dance you performed yesterday,” Death commanded with the authority of a man who was never denied. He had an arm stretched over the back of the sofa, so at home with himself, with his world.
“You liked that one, huh?” It’d been one of my more daring pieces. Over the last few weeks, I’d pushed myself hard, reclaiming most of the skills I’d lost. And Death had been there almost every day, watching each trickle of sweat.
As I started to dance, I reflected on my new life. Compared to the outside world, Death’s lair was proving to be a paradise. Here, I could dance, read, and even paint.
Courtesy of this man, I now had the supplies for that pastime as well. I’d started painting the walls of my room—because I had a room, a place where I could rest my head every night.
Scenes of sugarcane fields and verdant forests had begun taking shape, much like my mural at Haven. There, in the sunny days pre-Flash, I’d depicted dark clouds over fields. Here, in this shadowy apocalypse, I painted sun-dappled landscapes.
Just as Lark had told me, I could pad down to the kitchen, and there was always delicious food. Apocalyptic delicacies like fresh bread and butter.
In the afternoons (hard to call them that, since they were still dark), she and I would watch movies with dozing wolves, a fire crackling, and steaming popcorn. Sometimes we went “shopping,” combing the attic, which was filled with vintage clothes.
I regularly found myself laughing at her humor. Today she’d given me a broad wink about all the time I’d been spending alone with Death, then said, “I feel like a teapot who’s about to sing ‘Tale as Old as Time.’??”
Maybe I was bonding with her because she reminded me of Mel, who’d been like a sister to me. Maybe it was because Lark was the only other girl here.
Or maybe I was learning that nothing was black and white.
Bad and good were getting blurred in my head. We were players in a game that would make killers of us all; and the man who’d been my standard of Ultimate Evil . . . had sourced ballet shoes for me.
Up was down. Down was up.
As the storms of the late summer raged, Death and I met each night. In his warm study, we would talk into the early hours or sit on his couch before the fire, quietly reading from his collection.
I’d started The Odyssey, had just gotten to the part where Odysseus and his men landed on the island of the lotus-eaters. Those who ate of the lotus didn’t mind their isolation, never wanting to continue their voyage.
Death had read the story in the original Greek. Naturally.
He and I were meshing more and more. There was no one else in the world that he could touch, and no one I knew who could discuss history and literature and art with me.
Being with him felt . . . inevitable. But in a good way.
He’d complimented me on how quickly I learned, seeming delighted to teach me more. If Jack had awakened my desire, Death was enlivening my mind, attracting me in a way I’d never experienced before.
I knew he enjoyed my company as well. Oftentimes I’d glance up from my page and find his gaze on me, eyes brimming with satisfaction.
Much as they were right at this minute, as he watched me dance.
My dreams of him continued, escalating into even more erotic territory. Last night, I’d dreamed he’d peeled off my workout clothes, lifting me atop the barre so he could lick my damp skin, wedging his hips between my thighs. . . .
Yet if I ever admitted to him how much fun I had with him, he’d grow distant. If he ever came close to laughing, he’d close himself off.
It was a constant push/pull with him.
Occasionally, he left the compound. I’d figured he must be out hunting, at least some of the time, but he hadn’t returned with a new icon, and I’d heard nothing on Arcana Radio. Plus, Lark’s laminated player list—the little twit actually did keep it on the fridge door—had had no updates since the Star.
Well, other than her scratching my title out and scribbling in “The Unclean One.” Har.
Whenever Death left, I was out of sorts. Missing him? I’d admitted to myself that I desired him, but could I be feeling something deeper for a man like him?
He was so often on my mind, I had little time to regret and pine for things that might have been. Though I’d reestablished contact with Matthew—sparingly—I still felt betrayed by him for looking away.
And by Jack.
Whenever Matthew popped into my head, he’d predicted more doom and gloom. At least, I thought he had. He was making less and less sense. Once it was —The lightning hides the monster.— And another time —You must slice yourself when the altar is empty.—
I’d asked him about my history with Death. His reply? —Better worry about your future. Devil is in details.— No explanation for that had been given.
Again, I’d instructed Matthew to get Jack somewhere safe, but the boy responded with gibberish. Though I’d tried to listen better, I’d grown increasingly exasperated, my head pounding. . . .
The days had been flying by. The summer-that-wasn’t waned, my seventeenth birthday nearing. The only drawback to this sanctuary was Ogen. I rarely saw him, and then only when he was tearing across the compound. I could have sworn one of his horns was even shorter.
Despite my continued uneasiness over the Devil’s fits, I felt this bleak manor was becoming—
“What are you musing about behind those pretty eyes?” Death asked in a low tone.
Without thinking, I said, “That your home is becoming mine.”
Looking like I’d slapped him, he rose, striding toward the door.
While I wondered why he was reacting like this, he grated over his shoulder, “You make me think dangerous thoughts, creature.”
Dangerous thoughts. In transition, or in turmoil? Would he now go train in the storm, burning off aggression in a frenzy?
I didn’t know how much longer we could continue like this before something gave.