Well into the night, I awoke, panting for breath, my glyphs illuminating the room. I’d had another sensual dream of Death, felt like I was aching for him.
I could all but feel his lips on mine, could all but feel my lips—on his body.
I didn’t understand it. He still wanted me dead, still hated me.
How could I dream of kissing him, when he dreamed of killing me?
36
DAY 314 A.F.
“I might be immortal, but I’m still a red-blooded male,” Death had told me out on the road. Every day for the last week, he’d proved it.
The first couple of days, he’d made sure he passed the gym whenever I was down there, poking his head in for a look. The third day, he’d entered, taken a seat on a bench, then pretended to read from a fading newspaper. Now he came every day—while Lark remained as scarce as promised.
He always acted so reluctant, so grudging, as if he’d been dragged by his spurs into the same space as me. But his lustful looks followed my every move, tension emanating from him.
Lark was right. The attraction between us sparked like electricity.
While my emotions had been leveling out, his seemed to be approaching some kind of troubling fever-pitch. In the training yard, his practice had intensified to a brutal degree. No longer was I seeing precise movements and harnessed aggression. No longer did that weird feeling of satisfaction slip up on me.
Watching him now was like watching a berserker.
I played with fire. I was tempting Death, possibly getting closer to a cuff removal, but at what cost?
Today when he strode through the door, I knew something was different. As I warmed up, he abandoned any pretense of reading, sinking back on a couch that I didn’t remember seeing yesterday. His expression seemed to say, “To hell with it, done fighting.”
“No paper today, Death?”
“Here solely as a spectator.” An avid one. When I stretched, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’ve been a spectator for you too,” I said. “Your workouts have gotten really . . . energetic?”
“I often train harder when my thoughts are . . .”
“In turmoil?” I supplied, stretching my hamstrings.
“In transition,” he said, tilting his head to keep his gaze on my ass.
Whenever his eyes raked over me like that, I had to admit I experienced a toe-curling rush. Still, I cleared my throat; he gave me an unapologetic look.
“So, Death, is today the day you’re going to kill me?”
For the first time, his answer was different: “There’s all the time in the world for that, is there not? For now, I’ll watch you dance.”
Deeming this a good moment to strike, I crossed over to him. “You can take this cuff off me, you know.” Standing before him, I gazed down at his perfect face. “I won’t ever hurt you.”
“I could never give you free run of my home without it.”
This close, his sandalwood scent swept me up. “I’m not like I used to be. You have to sense that.” I eased my legs between his knees.
At once, his eyes flared brighter. “I trust no one fully in the game. Keep your distance.” There was enough steel in his tone for me to back away.
I simply didn’t know him well enough not to find him intimidating at times. I managed an indifferent shrug, then began to dance, soon losing myself in my thoughts.
Which turned straight toward last night’s dream, the one that had starred the man before me. He was my Arcana enemy. So why could I still taste him on my tongue?
As I bent and swayed, working up a sweat, I replayed each second of that dream. I’d run my lips over all the runes on his chest, tracing them with my tongue before descending—
At that moment, I caught him staring at my chest, gaze focused on the peaks of my br**sts beneath my sweat-dampened bra. My glyphs stirred, and there was nothing I could do to disguise them.
“What are you thinking about, creature?” His words were husky.
Licking your runes? Thank God he couldn’t read my thoughts anymore. Face flushing, I grasped for something to say. “I bet you were expecting a taller Empress this time around.” Lame.
“I would change nothing about your appearance.”
When we locked eyes in the mirror, his burning gaze made even more heat cascade through my body.
Death rose with that lethal grace and strode toward me. I swallowed. Would he try to kiss me? And what would I do if he did?
He stopped short a slight distance away. “Come to my study this evening.”
“Wow, actual permission to enter?”
“There is a game from long ago. Join me in a hand. If you win, I’ll give you a boon. Lose, and you’ll give me one.”
A boon? Maybe I could finally get him to tell me about our past interactions! “I’ll be there. What’s the game?”
“You’ll see. . . .”
Plagued with curiosity, I’d showered, then peered into the closet. What to wear? My gaze was immediately drawn to anything red, my favorite color.
I settled on jeans and a poppy-red cashmere shell with a matching sweater. On the scale from whoresome to wholesome, my twin set was definitely skewing toward the latter. At least I could remove the sweater, baring my arms.
He seemed to prefer my hair loose, so I left it down.
It was like getting ready for a date. In a way, this was a date. A date with Death? Cringe.
If my thoughts drifted toward another boy, I shut them down ruthlessly.
In fact, as I made my way downstairs, I felt excitement for the first time in ages. I knew I’d learn more from Death tonight, and I wouldn’t be spending hours alone up in my turret.
When I knocked at the Reaper’s study, Cyclops plunked down onto the floor in the hallway.
Instead of calling for me to enter, Death came to open the door. His eyes lightened when looking at me, and I felt myself smiling in response. A good start to the evening.
He ushered me to a seat, all polished manners. I guessed since he’d invited me here, he was going to act the gentleman. He’d certainly dressed up more, in an expensive-looking black button-down and slacks. His belt and shoes looked like they’d cost more than an entire sugarcane crop.
Outside, the rain came down in torrents. Inside this room, we were warm, the space lit only by a fire and candles. I removed my sweater as I sat.
Then I caught sight of a tome on his desk, recalling that my pet/guard had eaten one of Death’s kids. The Prince.
“What is it, Empress? You just went pale.”
So observant. “I, um, have to come clean with you about something. The book you loaned me . . . is totaled.”
He placed a glass of vodka in front of me. “Pardon?”
“It’s gone.” I ran my hand over my nape. It felt like all his other books were glaring at me accusingly.
“How did this come to pass?” he asked, returning to his seat. His expression was impassive. I couldn’t gauge his anger level.
“I’m so sorry, but it’s never going to be returned.”
He steepled his fingers. Before I’d seen that as an arrogant gesture, but now it struck me as a more thoughtful one. “Strange that you do not wish to implicate anyone else.”
“You already know what happened, don’t you?”
“You could have blamed the wolf—or Fauna, for that matter.”
“Both of them are kind of growing on me, okay?” I couldn’t believe I’d made this connection, but at times Lark’s attitude reminded me a little of . . . Mel’s. “If it makes you feel better, I was sick with guilt over this.”
“Why?”
I frowned. “Because I took responsibility for something that belongs to you, that you treasure, and it was destroyed in my care.” When I thought of all his efforts to safeguard these books, my face heated. “And it was”—I squirmed—“your favorite one of all.”
“I would gladly have forfeited the book to see this.”
Huh? “My discomfort?”
“The evidence of your empathy. And your honesty.” He tilted his head at me, like he was seeing something new.
“You’re not mad?”
“Fortunately for you, the Italian edition is my favorite.”
Was he teasing me? I found myself smiling again, relaxing. “So, what are we going to play?”
“Tarocchi.” From his drawer, he took out a deck of cards, old-fashioned looking ones that were longer than regular playing cards.
He handed the deck to me. They were . . . Tarot cards. “What’s this? Are you going to read my future? That wouldn’t be very fair, since it’s already in your hands.”
He arched his brows. “The cards have been used for fortune-telling—and for play. Tarocchi is a trick-taking game.”
“Like bridge?”
“A little more cutthroat.”
“Figures.”
As I familiarized myself with the deck, he explained the rules. The twenty-two Major Arcana were numbered trump cards that overruled all of the fifty-six Minor Arcana. Those cards were divided into four suits: wands, swords, pentacles, and cups.
“Do Minor Arcana exist in real life? Like we do?” Several of the images on the minor cards were as frightful as the major ones. The ten of swords depicted a bloody corpse stabbed through with ten blades.
“Some games I see evidence of them everywhere; others I see nothing.”
Interesting. “Wait, my card has less trump value than yours does?”
“In this, the game makers were wise.” He continued recounting the rules—describing bids, kitties, discards—concluding with, “If you are my wild card in real life, il Matto, the Fool, is the one for this game.”
Matto. Matthew. Wouldn’t think about him.
“Until you get the hang of this, I’ll assist you with your bids.”
Though there were a lot of rules to remember, I tried to boil it down. “Lead low, follow suit, and play trump cards only when necessary.” I handed him back the deck.
“That’ll do for now.” Death expertly shuffled the cards with those refined and deadly hands. He dealt, then motioned for me to lead.
I played a two of cups, he a four. We went on from there. I won the first trick, stacking the cards into my new pile. “Beginner’s luck?”
“Indeed.”
When I grew more comfortable with the rules, enough to play and talk at the same time, I asked, “So what do you do in your off seasons? The centuries between these contests?”
He cast me a suspicious look. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I’m curious. You act like no one has ever asked you about yourself.”
He downed his vodka, motioning me to join him. And always with the refills. “Of course they’ve asked. When probing for weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses? I’d be happy just to know your name. Or even where you were originally from. Let me guess: Russia?”
“Are you finished?”
“How could me knowing these things hurt your game?” I asked, though I couldn’t blame him for his evasiveness. From what I’d heard—and seen in visions of the past—the Empress hadn’t been one to trust.
Was she now?
“We’ll speak of something else,” he said shortly, “or nothing at all.”
“Fine. Let’s talk about your place. How long have you lived here? And what made you choose such an isolated spot in . . . Virginia?” Okay, maybe I was probing a bit.
“Are we in Virginia? Regardless, I’ve lived here for thirty years. I chose the property because it met all my strategic requirements: altitude above sea level, stone exterior, remote, defensible.” With a pointed look at me, he added, “Little vegetation.” The polar opposite of Haven.
How sad that he’d spent decades preparing for some mysterious future catastrophe. What kind of life was that, just thinking about what could possibly go wrong?
Determined to stay off hot-button subjects—the game, his past, his nationality, my former crew—I said, “Do you know how to drive a car?” Or was he like those anachronistic knights in movies, afraid of all technology?
That corner of his lips curled. A Death grin. “Yes, creature. I own several.”
I relaxed, already halfway buzzed from the vodka. “That’s right—you were crazy rich before the Flash. How’d you make so much money?”
“I started my career early.” At my raised brows, he said, “Assassin. My deadly gift made me well suited for the job. A single handshake could bring down a monarchy. The money grew over the centuries.”
His tone was blank; I couldn’t tell how he felt about his past deeds.
“So that’s where you got those crowns.” Trying to keep things light, I said, “Admit it—you wear them when no one’s around. Play air tennis with the scepters?”
“No, Empress. I do not.”
“Can I, can I?”
On the verge of grinning, he said, “No, Empress, you may not.”
After that we talked more freely, the ice broken. I asked him which of the languages he spoke were hardest to learn (“Arabic, or possibly Hungarian”) and whether he watched TV (“Not if I can help it”).
He too steered clear of sensitive subjects when he asked me how old I was when I’d started dancing (“Three—and even you would’ve gone awww if you’d seen me in a tutu”) and what was my favorite medium for art (“Oil paint, for wall murals”).
The game was brisk. I’d win a trick, then Death would. All the while, our conversation was lively. As we repeatedly one-upped each other’s cards, we bandied back and forth, an ebb and flow as natural as tides. It felt so familiar.
Which confused me. I could swear I was attuned to this man in a way that I hadn’t been with Jack.
The Cajun and I had never conversed like this. Was that because we’d never had the opportunity? Or because we’d never been on the same page? Jack had even said, “We do best when we doan talk.” Stop thinking about him!