“Then why don’t you do that?” I ask.
The horseman’s expression grows solemn—and perhaps a touch fervent. “I want to see the expression your face makes when it’s happy. I don’t know why, but I do. I have seen you angry and hateful and disappointed and sad—so sad—Lazarus. I want to see what stokes the fire in that soul of yours and lights you up from within.”
I have to look away from him. There’s so much blame I place at his feet, it’s hard to see him when his humanity seeps in—and it’s especially so when that kindness is directed at me.
I move away from the horseman, trying to put distance between us. His pretty words are going to take my walls down faster than I can bear to part with them.
As I head up the driveway towards the massive front door, I hear Death behind me and I can feel those ancient eyes taking me in. But he seems content to just watch me do my thing. It’s only as I reach for the doorknob that I wonder about the house’s occupants.
And now I’m not feeling all that eager to barrel inside.
Under my hand, the doorknob turns, but I’m not the one turning it. It slips entirely from my grasp as the door is pulled open.
At first, my mind can’t process what I’m seeing. I mean, I notice the gleaming white bones that seem to be held together by nothing but magic alone, all two-hundred-and-something of them defying the laws of gravity. It takes several more seconds for it to sink in that I’m staring at a skeleton. A moving skeleton.
A yelp escapes from my throat, and before I can think better of it, I’m kicking out at the thing, a primal part of me wanting to see those bones on the ground where they belong.
The skeleton falls—not in pieces, but like how a human would. It’s only once it hits the ground that many of the bones chip apart.
Death makes a tsk-ing noise behind me. “Was that really necessary?” he asks, stepping up to my side.
I turn to him, and for a moment, I feel like a gaping fish, unable to find my voice. “Was having a dead man open the door necessary?” I finally manage to get out.
“It was a woman.” Thanatos says it so reasonably.
A shudder works its way through my whole body when I realize this is it. Everything I was running from I now have to face.
I’m going to be living with a guy who can make skeletons come to life—among other things.
Not just living with him, Lazarus, but fucking him too.
My heart speeds up at the thought, and I feel myself flush, just thinking about it.
Sex with the embodiment of death itself.
I glance over at Thanatos, and that’s a mistake. He’s beautiful, something I can never forget, but holy fuck, I am going to have to bang the hell out of this dude. I should be mad about that. I have every reason to be mad. But I’m not, and that’s somehow even more loathsome.
I move to step inside and put a little space between us.
“Ah ah,” Thanatos says, erasing that space. His hand falls to my hip and a jolt moves through me at the contact.
“What are you doing?” I demand, glancing down between us where his offending hand is placed. It’s not like he hasn’t touched me before, but now I’m thinking about sex and those hands just feel different against my skin—better and more unwelcome.
The hand in question moves to the hilt of one of my daggers.
“Removing your claws,” he replies calmly, pulling the blade out and tossing it aside.
“Is this really necessary?” I object.
I have to grit my teeth together when I hear the scrape of that skeleton pulling itself back together, and then reaching for the weapon. It picks up the blade, then retreats deeper into the house.
“You came to me willingly,” he reminds me.
I can’t argue with that either.
“Where are the owners?” I ask, looking around at the pale marble floors and the vaulted ceilings.
“Freshly dead.”
I blanche.
Death leans in so close that I can see the strange flecks of silver glittering in his eyes. They are unnatural, inhuman irises.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says. “You have seen me end entire cities. This is nothing.”
“But you’ve never demanded that I eat their food or sleep in their beds,” I bite back.
“No, I never have,” he agrees. “And yet in the last year you have still taken from the dead, haven’t you?” he says softly. “You have picked from their pockets and stolen their food and yes, slept in their beds.”
“That’s different,” I say, trying defend myself. But he’s struck a nerve.
I take a deep breath. “Where are their bodies?” I ask.
“They’re taken care of.”
I frown. “They’re not going to show up like …” I jerk my chin towards where I last saw that skeleton. It’s now nowhere in sight. Somehow, that’s even more disconcerting.
“No,” he says solemnly.
I guess I should at least be thankful that Death didn’t decide to raise the former owners. I think that might’ve been one unpleasant surprise too many.
Thanatos places a hand on my back—that touch is still doing weird things to me—and steers me farther into the home.
I want to weep as I take in the velvet furniture and the pristine white curtains. The floors beyond the entryway are a rich chestnut wood that looks the color of burnt sugar, and they have been polished to a gleam. There’s hand-painted wallpaper that shimmers when the light catches it just right and a curio cabinet full of porcelain dinnerware. It’s another world entirely, one that seems to belong to a time before apocalypses.
“How did you know that skeleton was a woman?” I ask as we move down the hall.
“Hmm?” Death says distractedly.
“The skeleton outside—the one I said was a man. You corrected me on its gender. How did you know it was once a woman?”
He glances down at me. “Kismet, there are many things that I know.”
And I have the uncomfortable urge to learn them all.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” I say.
Thanatos gives me one of his long, drawn-out stares. I’m getting used to them. I mean, I’m never going to be one hundred percent comfortable with the way the horseman takes his time gazing at me, but this is the one part of our relationship that has been consistent—him looking at me for far longer than is socially normal.
“You see bones and nothing more,” he finally says. “I see the afterimage of the soul who wore them.”
Death steers us into one of the rooms, though my focus is still on him.
“So you can see out of the eyes of the dying—and the dead—and you can see the person whose corpse you control?” I say.
These abilities … they’re an intimate, discomfiting aspect of his power.
“You make them sound like two separate things,” Death says, “but it’s all interwoven.”
“If what you say is true, then why do you not understand humans better?” I ask.
I mean, the first time he captured me, he was utterly perplexed at the thought of me needing food and water and a bed.
Thanatos gives me a perplexed look. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that. I guess seeing something is not the same as understanding it or living it.”
I glance away, just for a moment, but my attention snags on our surroundings. While I’ve been fully invested in this conversation, Death has led me to … it seems wrong to call this a bedroom. It’s far too grand. Almost uncomfortably so. The chandelier above us is cut from crystal, and the floor beneath us is covered with a massive rug that looks imported from some far off place. Several gilded vases rest in alcoves, the windows are framed by heavy drapery and the bed has a matching comforter. The whole room is done up in wine-reds and golds and it’s just as impressive as it is impersonal.
I really have never been in a house this luxurious.
“This is your bedroom,” Death says. He peers around at it before his gaze returns to mine.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Does it matter?”
Yes, his eyes seem to say.
It’s shocking to think this powerful, almost omnipotent being might actually feel vulnerable around me.
“I’ve never slept in a room like this,” I say.