“How do people not hate you?” Cassandra asked, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone waiting.
Calypso shrugged.
“Some do,” she said. “Athena did.”
“Well, you hated her, too.”
Calypso stopped short inside the door, and Cassandra surveyed the interior: blues and blacks and silvers. Loud music and gyrating bodies. All very good-looking gyrating bodies.
“I didn’t hate her,” Calypso said. “I don’t hate anyone.”
“Not even Achilles?”
Calypso looked at her carefully. “I’m not made for vengeance. Not everyone is like you and Athena.”
Hearing their names grouped together made Cassandra’s hackles rise, but she swallowed and turned away. Calypso hadn’t meant anything by it, and besides, they had work to do. Thanatos, god of death, was there somewhere. According to Satyr David, he’d been at Haze Park every Saturday night for the last two months. Satyr David also said they’d know him when they saw him.
Cassandra squinted, barely able to see a thing around the obstruction of so many already tall girls stacked up by four-inch heels. The blue lighting didn’t help much, either.
“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.
“Wait,” Cassandra said, but when he slipped his arm around her waist she found herself walking calmly down the stairs.
It wouldn’t do to fight anyway. If I struggle, I might burn him to a crisp.
“It’s a short drive to my place. You don’t mind? Calypso will come, too, of course.”
Cassandra nodded. In the back of her mind her power to kill gods sat quietly, comforting as a gun under her pillow.
“You have nothing to fear from me.” He smiled.
“Of course I don’t,” she said.
He slid his hand into hers and led her from the club and down the street to his parked car, Calypso trailing behind at a safe distance. To the waiting line they would look like a pair of lovers, excited to be going home.
“Calypso,” Thanatos said, and opened the door for her to climb into the backseat.
“Thanatos,” she replied, and glanced at Cassandra. But this was why they’d come. Cassandra nodded, and she got in.
The drive was indeed short. Perhaps because the god of death had a sports car and no use for speed limits. The car hugged the turns, tires squealing. By the time they pulled into his secluded driveway, Cassandra’s stomach was wrapped trembling around her heart.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”
Cassandra surveyed the yard. The house was beautiful, with wide windows and a view of the hills. It was isolated, and softly lit. The kind of house you’d expect a very rich serial killer to have. She pried her fingers away from the door handle she’d been clutching.
“I think you’re lucky my power doesn’t work on cars. Else your oh-shit handle would be toast.”
He chuckled.
“You’re not surprised to see me,” she said.
“I’ve been around a long time. There isn’t much that can surprise me. Come inside.”
Inside, the house was clean and sparely decorated. A few interesting modern art sculptures adorned the corners, and the couches and chairs were either white fabric or smooth black leather. Calypso came with her, in through the entryway and toward the open kitchen. Their heels clicked loudly on stone tile. Cassandra took a deep sniff and couldn’t detect a single scent. She frowned.
“You thought it might smell of flowers?” Thanatos asked. “Like a funeral home? That’d be a lit
tle on the nose, don’t you think?” He took off his jacket and laid it across the couch, then walked to the bar and poured three glasses of what Cassandra figured was brandy. She shook her head when he offered it.
“No thank you, on the date-rape brandy.”
Thanatos shrugged, and handed it to Calypso. Calypso went to lounge on a chair, and Cassandra blinked. They needed to stay on guard in the house of death. In the mellow light, his black eyes looked amused, and more human. The curve of his lip was seductive and soft. She crossed her arms.
“It’s obscene,” she said. “That you look this way.”
“Does that mean you like it? I hope so. Because I like this.” He gestured up and down at her dress. “The print, like an animal’s skin. It makes you look like the huntress you are.”
“It was my idea,” Calypso said.
“I’m not a huntress,” Cassandra snapped.
“Oh? You didn’t come here to find out what I knew of the other gods, so you can kill them? If you don’t think that constitutes hunting then you’d better get a dictionary.” He walked casually to the fireplace and lit it with a button. “It’s strange having you here. You’re like a big, bright, blinking light in my living room. To think I first heard of you such a long time ago.”
“Where? From who?”
He shrugged, and pushed black hair back from his eyes. “But I sensed you first in the club.” He sat beside Calypso.
“Me?” she asked in her soft, musical voice. “Why me?”
“Because you want me more than anyone else. More than anything.” He leaned in close. “Your longing is like a song.”
“Get away from her.” Cassandra stepped forward, but neither Thanatos nor Calypso moved. Calypso didn’t even look up. “Calypso. Don’t. You promised.”
Calypso blinked slowly. She looked so suddenly miserable that Cassandra’s throat tightened with guilt.
“You’re right,” she said. “I promised.”
“She promised she would stay,” Thanatos said to Cassandra. “What did you promise her? Because you better have promised her something.”
Under the intensity of his stare, Cassandra’s cheeks reddened.
“I promised I would kill her.”
Thanatos turned to Calypso and laughed.
“But I could do it for her now. She’s no god; she’s always been able to be killed. Always. Even when she wasn’t so delicately aging.” He reached out and drew his fingers along her face and down her neck. “I could lay her back and kiss her, and there she could remain.”
Calypso brushed his hand aside.
“I made a promise to Cassandra.”
“Are you sure? My way is cleaner.”
Cleaner. What did that even mean? Dead was dead. Cassandra rubbed her bare arms. Being inside the house felt wrong. Death clung to every surface. Shades of murdered girls were probably strung up in every corner.
But that’s sexist. There must be shades of boys. People of all ages. And puppies and geraniums, too.
And despite Thanatos’ handsome appearance, she doubted they had all died by way of a gentle kiss. Her feet twisted painfully in her heels, imagining downstairs rooms lined with plastic and blood spatter, a walk-in freezer with dead clubbers hung on meat hooks. Maybe an entire pantry full of peeled eyeballs.
Stop it. This is California. There probably is no downstairs.
“I want to know,” she said, “what you know about the other gods.”
Thanatos swirled the brandy in his glass and looked at Calypso from under his brow.
“Would you excuse us? Don’t worry about the girl,” he said before either could object. “If I start to scare her, she’ll just kill me.”
Calypso regarded Cassandra with caution, but slid off the chair.
“Go take a swim in the pool. It’s heated.” Thanatos gestured down the dark hall behind them. “You’ll find it lit.” After the clicking of Calypso’s heels had grown faint, he turned back to Cassandra. “She never could resist a swim. Nymphs.” He leaned forward. “I want you to do some tricks for me. I want to see your gifts in action. What do you need?”
She curled her fists.
“What do you mean, ‘my gifts in action’?”
“Not the power in those deadly hands,” he said. “Your other gift. Now, what do you need?”
She answered reluctantly. “A coin. I can call it in the air.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled one out, fat and gold. No regular quarters or silver dollars here. It was probably a freaking doubloon.
“Why did you want us to be alone?” she asked.
He smiled. “I didn’t think you were the kind of girl who would enjoy being on display.”
“I don’t mind it at all, actually,” she said softly. “Depending on who’s watching.”
“Very well,” he said. “Then let’s play a game. For every correct prediction, I’ll tell you something. Do we have a deal?”
She didn’t like that phrasing. A deal. Like if he welched, she’d get a shiny fiddle made of gold. She looked into his dark eyes, always with their hint of a smile, and felt dizzy. But he was the god of death. Not the devil.
“Deal.”
He tossed the coin; it flashed in the firelight.
“Tails.”
He caught it and slapped it down on the back of his hand.
“Tails indeed.” He studied the coin with amusement, rather stupidly, she thought, because it was his damn coin. “An interesting little gift. You received it from Lachesis. I think you would know her as the Moirae on the right. With long, silver-blond hair.”
“I got it from Apollo.”
“He bestowed it. But it traces back to the Moirae.”
“Whatever. What do you know about Ares and Aphrodite? Or Hades?”
Thanatos held up the coin. Too many questions. Fine. She rolled her eyes and motioned for him to flip, then called “tails” as soon as it left his fingers. Right again. Of course.
“The Moirae on the left is Clotho. Wild, red hair. Many witches share her blood, or at least those good at midwifery and past-life regression.”
Cassandra glared.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I never said I’d give you answers.” He shrugged. “I said I’d tell you something. But I will give you answers. Eventually.”
She did her best to hide her bubbling frustration.
“Should I just ask about the Moirae in the middle, so I’ll feel like I’m making progress?” She eyed the coin. “Heads. Heads. Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails.”
His smile was genuinely delighted, and he flipped the coin six times. Cassandra swallowed. She’d never been able to do that before. The call had always come into her head after the coin was tossed. She was getting better. Stronger.
“Atropos is the one I miss the most,” said Thanatos. “The raven-haired beauty in the middle.”
“Not so beautiful anymore.”
Thanatos chuckled. “She’ll always be beautiful. A god of death. Like me.” He looked at Cassandra. “There aren’t actually that many creatures who understand what it is to end life. Like we do.”
“This is a stupid game,” she said, and moved toward the fireplace to escape his gaze.
“It’s over, anyway.”
Irritated heat shot through her wrists, into her palms, and down each finger. She felt ridiculous, in this house, clacking around in heels that were too high and a dress that was too tight.
“Tell me what you know. If you know where Ares and Aphrodite are, tell me.”
“Or what?” he asked.
“Or I will kill you.”
He twisted on the sofa to keep her in view.
“Try.”
“What?”
He put his brandy down and stood.
“I want you to try. You would do it eventually anyway, wouldn’t you? Or were you planning on sparing the god of death, just because I turned state’s evidence?”
“I don’t know. It could be arranged that you wo
uld just wither and fade on your own. Not how I would do it.” Bargaining. It sounded like bargaining, when she’d come with every intention of threatening. If she was honest, she’d come with every intention of putting him down. But with each step closer he took, she had to fight to keep from running.
Fire licked up her arms to the elbows, but her heart pounded. She couldn’t deny that death was a draw. She wanted to kill him, and fall against him while she did it.
“You don’t want this,” she said. “Trust me. Or go see for yourself; Hera’s frozen stone face tells the story way better than I can.” She felt his cold again, and resented it, forced more heat into her hands. But he didn’t heed her warning.
“I’m not afraid. Touch me.” He smiled slightly. “Anywhere you want.”
She almost laughed, and almost slapped him across the face. He wouldn’t give in, and she wouldn’t be stalked through the house like a cornered rabbit.
“Just a little bit,” she whispered. “Just enough so you’ll know what your eventual death will feel like.”
“But not enough to turn me to dust?”
“Not while I still need you.” He was close enough that she could feel his breath. She could smell his cologne.
“A preview then,” he said, inches away. “Do I need to make you angry?”
“You’ve been doing that all night.” She studied his exposed skin. Her eyes moved over his angular face, down his neck, to his chest, or at least what was visible above his shirt buttons. “Roll up your sleeve.” Something passed across his features. Disappointment? But then it was gone, and he rolled his shirt up to the elbow. Cassandra flexed her fingers. It would feel good for the heat to have somewhere to go. She wondered what would happen to his flesh beneath her hand. He seemed so cold that perhaps he’d crack into layers of frozen meat and skin.
Look into his eyes when you do it. Don’t be a coward.
Her fingers curled around his wrist. She’d only hold him until he screamed. Waves pulsed out of her and into him; she thought of the feathers blossoming out of Athena like a bracelet. Maybe Thanatos would just decay. Maybe when she drew her hand away most of his wrist would come with it, oozing and stuck to her fingers. She looked into his eyes.
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