“Magic, obviously,” he said, and when I glared at him, he shrugged. “Hey, you asked the question. Don’t hate me for answering.”
“Okay, fine. I didn’t feel any trace of magic on the bodies. How were the ghosts staying inside? And how were they moving the bodies? I’ve seen souls inside bodies after the body has died. They’re stuck. They can’t make the body walk around.”
Death was silent so long, I didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally he said, “Most of the magic was on the souls, not the shells. I could see it. As to the rest . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve never encountered it before. Souls and bodies usually work in harmony, but these . . . The souls fueled the bodies without the bodies returning the favor. It was an unsustainable condition.”
I blinked in surprise. That might have been one of the most straightforward and informative things he’d ever said. Typically he was as elusive and obscure as a cat. I considered what he’d said, fitting it in with what I’d seen.
“So they are both driver and a battery for the dead bodies,” I said, more thinking aloud than anything. It didn’t explain how it was done, but it gave me more than I had. It also eased a knot that had been tightening inside me. Despite knowing the bodies were dead, there was a nagging question of whether I’d killed something alive in a way I couldn’t comprehend. But if piloting the bodies depleted the ghosts, it would destroy the soul over time. “Do you know who is making them? Where the ghosts are coming from?”
Death shook his head, a frown pulling on his full lips.
I tried something different. “One of the corpses, Remy, he would have died less than a day before the robbery. Do you know where? Was his soul collected, or is it still out there?”
“I didn’t collect him. The others? We don’t make a habit of discussing our souls, but . . .”
But this case was an oddity, and he suspected they hadn’t either.
“Today, in the bank, did you come for the ghosts or . . . ?” I knew this question bordered on a forbidden topic. Just because I knew about the lines of possibility that collectors could see didn’t mean Death was allowed to discuss them with me.
He studied my face for a long time, and I sighed.
“Not exactly the best pillow talk, huh? I can’t say I’ve had a lot of practice.” The words were a peace offering, a joke at my own expense as well as a pass for him.
He smiled and brushed a kiss across my nose. “You never cease to be fascinating.” Then the smile faded a notch and he said, “No, we weren’t there for the ghosts. Once dead, a person has no more possible paths for us to foresee. We were there because almost every other soul in that room had a probability of dying in one possible line of the future or another. The possibility that no one at all would die was almost negligible. But you are always the wild card.”
I swallowed. So my actions had saved people. I had read him right in those too-fast moments in the bank. But that also meant he had broken even more rules. Soul collectors couldn’t interfere with the living, but through me, he had. He’d helped make a negligible possibility come to pass. Because he’d wanted to save the people in the bank? Or because he couldn’t see my lines of possibility, so he didn’t know if I’d die too?
This was why relationships between collectors and mortals were forbidden. You try to save the person you love.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he murmured.
“What’s your name?” I hadn’t meant to ask the question. It just slipped out.
It was such a simple thing. A name. But I didn’t know it, and it was one of the unanswered questions eating away at me. Could I really know him if I didn’t even know his name?
“Alex . . .” He was frowning.
I frowned back. “That’s my name.”
He’d been so candid tonight, I thought it was possible that maybe . . .
But no.
I sighed, changing the subject to let the last pass. “Is there some way for me to contact you? It’s hard having no way to reach you, and I think your friend might eventually collect me out of spite if I show up to her favorite club too many times.”
He shook his head, the sadness tugging at his eyes deepening. He had a spell tied to my soul that let him find me as well as let him know if I was severely injured. He’d only admitted to it recently, but he’d attached it years ago. But there was no way for me to call him, to let him know I needed to see him. Or that I just wanted to. That sucked.
Death kissed me lightly on the forehead. “You should sleep. It’s late.”
He was right, and I was exhausted. But . . .
“I’ll try to stop in more,” he said, his hand stroking gently down my spine.
I should have told him no. I wanted to tell him I cared about him too much for him to take that risk. But all I said was, “That would be nice,” as I tucked tighter against his body. “Will you still be here when I wake?”
“Probably not, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”
Which was about as much as I could hope for. I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent, focused on enjoying the feel of his body against mine while he was still here. Comfortable and safe in his arms, it didn’t take long for sleep to find me.
? ? ?
I woke an unknown amount of time later, chill bumps prickling along my bare body. The pillow beside me was still faintly warm. Death must have recently left, the absence of his encircling warmth having woken me. I wished I could hope he’d be back soon, but I knew he wouldn’t. I was exhausted and doubted I’d been asleep more than an hour. I considered crawling under the blanket and going right back to sleep, but the bed felt too cold and empty and I really needed a shower.
Dragging myself out of bed, I took a quick but hot shower, not even bothering to brush out the snarls passing for my curls. Either Ms. B or the castle itself took the liberty of laying out pajamas for me each night—I wasn’t sure which, or which possibility was odder, but I’d gotten used to it at this point. I pulled on the silky shorts and thin top before sliding under the thick comforter on my bed. I was asleep again almost as soon as I closed my eyes.
Chapter 9
I woke to Jim Morrison proclaiming that people were strange when you’re a stranger, and it took me several disoriented moments—and two more lines of the song—to realize the sound was coming from my phone. Roy must have been playing with my ringtones again, which meant I had no idea who the song had been assigned to. I rolled to the edge of the mattress and fumbled blindly across my nightstand. My fingers landed on the hard plastic of my phone and I dragged it to me.
“Hello,” I said, my voice heavy with sleep and my eyes gritty as I flopped over onto my back. My hair was still damp from my shower. It was clearly too early for someone to be calling.
“Craft? Why aren’t you answering your door?”