“Do you think your friend told him we were coming?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” Calypso replied, and Cassandra figured she was right. David hadn’t given the impression that he was on close terms with Thanatos, or that they even spoke. The Satyr was a pigeon. He watched and he ferried messages.
They threaded their way through the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever Death looked like. Was he a hunched-over man at the bar dragging an oxygen tank? Someone with clothing covering most of his skin to hide sores and rot? It was unlikely that either one would get into a club like Haze Park, no matter how much money he had.
Then again, maybe he paid to be kept in the back.
“Calypso. Check the doors and”—Cassandra gestured to the second level—“those funky beaded curtains. Find the VIPs.” She was tempted to let Calypso do everything. No one would try to stop her; all she’d have to do was bat an eyelash. She touched the nymph’s arm. “I’ll go up to the left.” Calypso nodded, and Cassandra watched her head toward the back of the club. She took a breath and glanced down. The dress still clung, and the skin of her chest and shoulder shimmered. Body glitter. She brushed at it irritably, but Calypso hadn’t snuck it on. It had rubbed off of someone else.
“Fine,” she muttered. She scanned the length of the bar, part searching, part considering whether to try her fake ID for some liquid courage. She had no idea what she’d order. She didn’t even feel like drinking. But having something in her clammy palms to stop her fidgeting seemed like a good idea. A few more feet and she’d reach the stairway that twisted up along the wall. It led to beaded curtains and a balcony overlooking the main level.
Maybe it’s just the bathroom. But there is the balcony …
It would give her a much better vantage point at least. Cassandra gripped the banister, careful to keep her ankles straight in the delicately heeled shoes.
The second she stood against the rail and looked down on the main level, she felt better. The whole place was too close for comfort. Even there, above it all, the sound was a constant cloak. She couldn’t hear anything except the music, the beat, and the closest shouts. Certainly not the rattling whisper of the beaded curtain when Death walked through it.
But she felt him, like the cool of a breeze without any wind. A still kind of cold, like a lake that didn’t ripple.
“You don’t—” she shouted, and stopped. You don’t want to touch me, is what she’d meant to say. You don’t want to touch me, because I don’t want you to crumble like a pillar of wet sugar before you tell me anything. She hadn’t needed to speak. Her arms and hands felt about as threatening as wet rags.
The being who stood before her was no eighty-year-old on oxygen. He was no cloaked monster covered in leprous sores. Instead, Death was beautiful, if a bit extreme. His hair was black. His eyes were black. His skin was pale white. Or maybe that was just a trick of the blue lights. If it wasn’t for the green tones of his shirt, he might’ve been made out of newsprint.
He didn’t say anything, just slid onto the rail beside her and looked down into the crowd. A few lovely faces turned up toward his like flowers tracking sunlight. Cassandra glanced back through the beaded curtain, still swaying from his exit. More beautiful faces were in there, watching his back. A tiny spark lit in Cassandra’s wrists.
“What are you doing with those girls?” she asked.
“Drinking. Talking. Dancing, when I can’t avoid it.” He smiled. She didn’t know whether to swoon or scream. “The rest is none of your business.”
“Thanatos.”
“At your service.”
She studied his face, and the way the girls, and some guys, seemed drawn to him like a magnet. Already there was movement toward the stairs. If they stayed much longer they’d be surrounded.
“They’re drawn to you,” she said quietly. So quietly she was surprised when he answered.
“Yes. Some of them are. Many of them. Even if they don’t know it.”
“And you let them find you.”
He shrugged. His eyes had a slight squint. She couldn’t decide whether it made him look dishonest, or just mischievous.
“Everyone finds me,” he said. “Eventually. Except the immortals.” He smiled again. “But then, I suppose, they find you. We can’t talk here,” he said before she could speak. “We’ve got to go.” He looked down into the crowd. Cassandra followed his eyes and saw Calypso, staring up at him as though she’d been there for days. When he tilted his head toward the exit, she nodded.