I continue. “I’m going to learn all your little habits—”
“I don’t have habits,” he cuts in.
“Oh, you have habits. I have a map marked up with those habits,” I say.
He frowns. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Thanatos doesn’t like the idea that he has human tendencies. Poor fool. He’s got some unpleasant revelations coming his way once he realizes this whole taking-me-captive thing is one giant human experience.
“And,” I continue, “you’re going to learn about all the annoying little things that I do. And we’re going to drive each other mad.”
He steeples his fingers. “Do you really think I have searched for you this long to be scared off by a few ‘annoying little things’? I was driven mad looking for you. I doubt I’ll be driven mad savoring you.”
How badly I want to make him regret those words, and yet at the same time, they make me feel breathless, off-balance.
“All the same,” I say, “we’ve been awful to each other … and now we’re supposed to live together. So,” I take a breath, “I think we should air all our grievances.”
“Grievances?” He raises his eyebrows.
“You tell me all the things you hate about me,” I say, “and I’ll tell you all the things I hate about you.”
He frowns. “This is ridiculous, Lazarus. I don’t hate anything about you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really.” Call me a skeptic, but I’m not buying it.
Death watches me closely. “This is your game, Lazarus. So play it and get this over with.”
I stare him down. “I hate your very existence.”
Those words have been sitting there, at the back of my throat, ever since I first met him.
Thanatos’s eyes flash. “You don’t even realize what you’re saying. There is no life without death,” he says hotly. “So unless you’d prefer to be a rock, or some other inanimate thing, I think my existence suits you just fine.”
After he finishes speaking, silence stretches on between us.
“It’s your turn,” I say.
He glares at me. “I don’t hate you.”
“Sure you don’t.”
“Unlike you, kismet, I really don’t,” he says, and now he sounds weary.
I search his face. After a moment I say, “It’s still your turn.”
He gives a long-winded sigh. “Fine, Lazarus. I dislike it when you hurt me.”
I pick up my glass of wine, and I take a long drink of it. I can’t say whether his words are immensely satisfying or painful. Both, I guess.
I set my glass in front of me. “I’m sorry,” I say.
Death doesn’t say anything, though I can feel his confusion.
“For hurting you,” I clarify.
His gaze searches mine, and he takes a deep breath.
“What else do you hate about me?” he asks after a moment.
“I hate that you’ve taken my family from me. I hate that you’ve taken my son from me—”
“He still lives,” Death interrupts.
Perhaps, but the fact remains that he’s no longer with me.
“I hate that you’ve killed so many people—that I had to see it all. I hate that I felt compelled to stop you. I hate that in order to stop you, I’ve had to rob corpses, convince skeptics, and force myself to endure being injured and killed over and over again. I hate that my life has become one long list of sacrifices.”
“What else?” he asks.
I pick up my wine glass, settling into my long-running list. “I hate that you’re oddly kind,” I admit, “and I hate that you get no joy from your task. It makes you seem so noble and it makes hating you that much harder.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his face has softened with my admission.
“Is there anything else?” he asks.
I bring the glass to my lips, taking another swallow of the expensive wine. “I hate that you’re beautiful.” More to myself than him, I add, “I can barely think around it.”
I exhale, feeling oddly unburdened.
The heat is back in the horseman’s eyes.
Seduce Death.
“I hate that I am drawn to you,” he admits.
Now I lower my glass.
When he sees my shock, Thanatos says, “Surely that can’t come as any surprise to you?”
It’s always going to surprise me that this … this … this monstrous angel is interested in me, the girl who never outgrew her hometown and never made much of a mark.
“I was better off before I met you,” he says. “There were few thoughts in my head then besides traveling and vanquishing. I spent no time musing on your eye color, or the savage expression you wear when you’re determined. I never replayed the way your body moved when you fought.”
I swallow, and I know I have a look in my eyes, the same one wild animals wear when they know they’re trapped.
I force myself to tear my gaze from him, turning my attention to my plate. Only this man could make me forget that I’m a starving woman sitting before a feast.
Setting down my wine, I lift my fork and take a bite of the pasta. There’s a moment where the sauce and the noodles gross me out—where all I can think about is that a dead body made this—but then the flavor hits and it tastes upsettingly good. I have another bite, and another, and pretty soon I don’t much care who made this because I’m ravenous.
I can feel Death’s eyes on me. I’m sure I look like a savage. I’m beyond caring.
Eventually, I do come up for air.
Next to me, Thanatos looks mildly horrified—which I take a gleeful amount of pride in—as well as very curious.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him.
“Food of the living?” he says, his gaze fixed to my mouth.
My mouth quirks at his words. “That’s a weird way of putting it,” I say. “Do you eat food of the dead, then?”
“I’m a death deity. I don’t need sustenance at all.”
I look him over—from his dark, wavy hair to his chiseled features, to the black wings and shirt that seem to devour the light.
“Have you ever tried food?” I ask.
“What would be the point?”
He hasn’t. He’s never bitten into a ripe apple or twirled pasta around his fork, or had a bite of bread with melted butter.
I’ve known for a while now that Death doesn’t have human needs, but to have never—not once—tasted food?
I set my fork down.
He’s still watching me with burning curiosity when I push myself out of my chair and approach him. Ignoring Thanatos for a moment, I pick up a slice of bread. I grab the bottle of olive oil that rests nearby and I pour a little of it onto a small plate that seems to have been set out for such purpose.
I dip the bread into the oil and then I turn to the horseman. Bread and oil is one of the most basic foods; it seems like a good place to start.
I take a steadying breath. Here we go.
Before he can do anything at all, I sit down in his lap. I hear Thanatos’s sharp inhale, but then his hands fall on my hips.
“If you try to stab me—”
“With what, the butter knife?” I say teasingly. More serious, I add, “I’ve left that behind, Thanatos.”
His fingers press into my skin at the sound of his name.
I hold up the bread, a line of oil sliding down its flaky crust. “I want you to try this.”
Death grimaces. “Perhaps I would prefer a good stabbing.”
I bite back a laugh. Only this man would say such a ridiculous thing.
“This is bread and olive oil. Humans have been eating it for thousands of years. It’s good. And I want you to try it.”
His chest rises and falls. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you care at all?”
“For a year now, you have forced me to experience what death is like. Maybe it’s time you experienced a little life for a change.”
He hesitates, looking half convinced.
“It won’t kill you,” I say.
“An unfortunate truth,” he murmurs. “Death, I am comfortable with. This … I am not.”
I’m trying really, really hard not to snicker at the fact that this man—who has been shot repeatedly by me—is afraid of a little bread.
“This is your victory dinner,” I remind him. “And dinners are meant to be eaten.”
He frowns.
“And,” I add, “if you try it—” I hesitate, my gaze dropping to his lips, “I will kiss you.”