I tried to push out of the pile, but my feet dislodged an avalanche of bones that tumbled down the side, onto the floor. Rawhead kicked them out of his way, never stopping. I grabbed a skull, cupping the forehead with my palm, my fingers in the eye sockets, and then hurled it at Rawhead. He batted it aside with his club, but it slowed him, marginally.
I threw another bone, followed by a third, a fourth. I wasn’t doing any damage, just annoying him and buying time, but I kept hurling skulls, arm bones, a whole foot—whatever my hand landed on. Then he was right on top of me, and I was out of time.
He lifted his arm to swing and I pitched myself forward. It was a desperate, almost blind, move, but I had no other options.
The dagger slammed into his chest, sliding through clothing and flesh with no resistance. Rawhead went rigid. Then the rest of my body weight hit him, knocking him off his feet, and I rode him down. My hands were wet, slick with blood, but I didn’t let go of the dagger. By the time Rawhead’s back hit the floor, he’d stopped moving.
I sat there, straddling his body, panting from exertion. Dizziness swam through my head, leaving black dots across my vision in its wake. When I could see again, I looked down. The dagger was hilt deep in Rawhead’s chest, just left of his sternum. I’d hit his heart.
I pulled the blade free, and it slid out with a sickening slurping sound I knew I’d be hearing in my nightmares for months to come—if I lived that long. Rawhead was dead—again—but I was still full of the drug. I tried not to think as I wiped the blade clean on the dead hallucination’s shirt. Then I clambered to my feet.
I didn’t put the dagger away.
Think happy thoughts, Alex, I told myself. Rainbows. Bunnies. Unicorns.
Ever notice how when you try to make yourself think one thing, your brain rebels and circles back to something else?
The image of Rawhead standing back up, coming at me again, kept trying to claw its way to the front of my mind. I kept banishing it, but my gaze moved to the prone figure, half expecting it to jump to its feet and start swinging at me again. I had to get farther away from the body.
I crossed to the other side of the room. The door hadn’t reappeared. Damn. I sank into the corner, burying my head in my arms and trying to think happy things. Puppies. Fast cars. Ice cream.
“Alex.”
I knew that voice. I knew that deep, masculine voice very, very well.
My head snapped up and I found myself staring into the brilliant hazel eyes of Death.
“Hey,” he said, flashing his perfect teeth in a smile.
I returned the smile. “Hey back at you,” I said, and then stopped. “Wait. I’m in Faerie. You can’t be here. Your plane doesn’t exist here.”
“Are you sure?” He reached out, cupping my face with his hand.
His palm was warm against my skin, gentle. I wanted to sink into the comfort he offered. I was so cold. My clothes were soaked and the sleet kept falling. It was so tempting to embrace the warmth he offered. To let him keep the darkness threatening to spill out of my mind away. To trust he’d guard me from the effects of the drug.
But I wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be here. As real as my eyes told me he was, as my skin swore he was, he wasn’t real. He was another hallucination. A glamour pulled from my Glitter-addled mind.
Which made him dangerous.
I squeezed my eyes closed. Tried to ignore him.
He made it difficult.
He leaned in, and I could feel his presence along my skin. His breath moved my damp curls. I could even smell the clean fresh-turned earth and dew scent that always clung to him.
“You’re not real.” I told him.
His lips pressed against my forehead. “I love you.”
“No, you don’t. The real Death does. You’re an illusion.”
“I’ll break every natural law to be with you. It will put us both in danger, and I don’t care.”
“You’re a bit of glamour.”
“I love you. And you don’t even know my name.”
My head snapped up. The fake Death was inches from me, those hazel eyes so close. But while the real Death’s eyes typically held a secret smile that couldn’t seem to help but shine through, this one had mocking eyes. Eyes that bore into me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I know Death. I don’t need to know his name.”
“Do you?” He asked, scooting back slightly so I could see that the haughty, mocking expression covered his whole face, not just his eyes. “Do you know my favorite color? How about the names of my friends? Or how old I am?”
“None of that matters.”
“Why have I hung around all these years? Are you anything more than a novelty to me? A reminder of what I lost when I ceased being mortal?”
“Shut up. You aren’t real.”