by Kresley Cole
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!
During a particularly point-rich round, Death said, “This game is close.” Both our piles of taken cards looked equal, but I had no idea how many points were in each.
He played the Empress card. “I’ve had this beauty in my keeping,” he said, voice raspy.
The double meaning made my toes curl. Not to be outdone, I played my own trump, one I’d been saving. Death. “I’ve been holding on to him for dear life,” I said, suggestively tracing my finger over the length of the card.
His lips parted in surprise. Score one for Evie.
When I collected the pile, I gazed down at his image. “You never use your scythe. Why do you carry it with you?”
In that dry tone, he answered, “I’m a traditionalist.”
I laughed. Was I really having this conversation with the Grim Reaper? My chuckles got worse and worse, until my eyes were watering.
Both corners of his lips curled, almost a real smile.
My laughter died. I was starstruck. “You should smile more often.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to before.
Of course, I’d acknowledged that Death was a gorgeous, educated, sophisticated knight who was rich in luxuries. Like me, he was an Arcana.
But on occasion, I spied hints of the man behind the knight. Such as right now, when he appeared uncomfortable under my scrutiny and a flush spread over his chiseled cheekbones. I smiled when he pulled at his collar.
I could finally admit that these hints were devastatingly attractive to me. With my feelings for Jack blunted by lies and betrayal, would this attraction grow? Especially since Death had stopped threatening to murder me all the time?
Matthew had told me to beware the Touch of Death. Since contact with the Reaper’s skin didn’t harm me, maybe Matthew had meant something deeper—like involvement with Death, as a man, would prove dangerous. What if Death’s power over me was my budding infatuation with him?
Clearing his throat, Death led another round. I found myself paying more attention to him, playing by rote. I put my elbow on his desk, propping my chin on the back of my hand as I noted new details about him.
The blond tips of his eyelashes. The way the end of a rune peeked from his open collar. The faint line in the center of his fuller bottom lip.
Maybe I was just buzzed, but I didn’t think he’d ever looked more handsome than right at that moment. My glyphs began to wind along my arms.
At the end of the round, he collected the remaining cards, sifting through his pile. “I’ve won the night then.” He gave my arms a quizzical look. “You can’t expect to defeat another Arcana if you allow yourself to get distracted, Empress.”
Yet another double meaning. “Maybe the Empress would rather get distracted than play at all.”
He inclined his head, as if to say, “Touché.”
But I’d spoken the truth. I still had no interest in this Arcana contest and continued to believe that securing allies was key. Why couldn’t Death be mine?
My mission to take down this knight was evolving. What if I could win him over as my ally, as a friend, as—
“Tell me your thoughts, creature.”
“Hmm? I was wondering what boon you’d want from me?”
His gaze fell to my lips, eyes alight. “There is one . . .”
I held my breath.
Yet then he stood abruptly, shutting himself down, that light dimming. “I believe I’ll save it for another time. The hour grows late.”
“Late? So?” This was A.F. Did time really matter? Today the sun had risen for scant minutes, merely hovering on the horizon. “Do you have to be on Ash Campus early tomorrow? At the University of Nothing Matters?”
He crossed to the study door, opening it for me. Booting me out?
I rose, tying my sweater around my waist, wondering what to say. Had a blast, Reap. We’ll do this at my place next time.
I’d just frowned to find Cyclops missing when Death joined me in the hallway. “I’ll escort you back.”
“I do know my way.”
“Indulge me.”
I teased, “Chivalry never died for you, huh?”
“I am a knight,” he replied, making me grin.
On the way up the stairs, I remained at his side. If he was bothered to be pressed together in the narrow stairwell, he didn’t show it. His shirtsleeve brushed my bare arm, and again—
My breath hitched when skin touched skin. Death had furtively shoved up his sleeve? Was that his cuff button pinging on a step?
With each contact, his lids seemed to grow heavier, his eyes gone starry once more.
Now that I was hyper-aware of the loneliness inside Death, I’d begun having this overriding urge to ease it. To be fair, what woman wouldn’t?
Yet at the door to my room, we stood in awkward silence. It was as if he were dropping me off at the porch of Haven after a date.
The spacious landing felt small to me. “Can we have a rematch tomorrow night?”
He leaned his shoulder against the wall. “Perhaps.”
“If I’d won tonight, I was going to ask you to tell me about our past.”
“You wouldn’t have asked me for longer to live?”
I shook my head. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
In the muted light of the landing, his gaze was so brilliant as he said, “Will I not?”
“I know you enjoyed tonight. Why deprive yourself of me?”
With a perplexed expression, he turned toward the stairs. But I thought I heard him murmur, “Why indeed?”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, or asking himself a genuine question.
Once he’d gone, I floated into my room, pleasantly buzzed, marveling at how much fun I’d had. Cyclops was already on the bed. As I changed into a nightgown, Matthew tentatively called for me. —Empress?—
I was in such a good mood, I felt bulletproof. I allowed him in. What is it?
—The Empress is my friend. I miss Evie.—
The pang in my chest shocked me with its intensity. I missed him too. Even after everything. Didn’t mean I could forgive him.
—Don’t be angry.—
You hurt me, Matthew. And I wonder if you even care. Maybe he was scheming right now.
—We need you. We fall to ruin.—
Fall to ruin. J’tombe en botte. Jack had told me that the night at Finn’s place when he’d bared his soul to me.
Or at least, select, edited parts of it.
Jack and Matthew weren’t my responsibility anymore. The two of them equaled pain. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, Did you tell Jack what I learned? That I knew he’d helped my mother kill herself, then lied to me repeatedly?
Now that I was in a somewhat better state of mind, I could see things more clearly, accepting that Jack would never have hurt my mom on his own. His motives might not have been pure, but my fierce mother could be . . . persuasive.
If she’d decided her suicide was the only way to save my life, then Jack had never stood a chance. I could only imagine the toll that night had taken on him,
a boy who despised violence against women.
When he’d worked so hard on that dinner for us the last night at Haven, making it as nice as he could, they both must have known it would be her last. Which made me realize that Jack was devious. By his behavior, I never could have guessed what he was on the cusp of doing.
Jack had said he didn’t have secrets. Another lie. And I sensed I’d only scratched the surface of them. At least Death had been up-front about his continual impulses to kill me.
—I told Jack.—
And?
Matthew sighed. —And.—
What does that mean?
—You’re in my eyes.—
A vision began, and I saw a blur of Jack. He was frenzied, tearing at his hair as he yelled—
NO, Matthew! I shook my head hard. No, I don’t want that! I’d only recently gotten my emotions under control. I wasn’t that bulletproof.
It faded. —Empress?—
I don’t want to see him. I can’t. I couldn’t handle any more rabbit holes!
—I feel your heart; it actually aches.— The same words he’d told me on the night Jack had confessed his feelings to me.
You need to get him far from the game, Matthew. It’s not his war to fight, and what he hopes for isn’t going to happen anyway. I couldn’t be with someone who reminded me of grief, someone I couldn’t trust. You need to make him go. It was for the best, anyway.
Over these weeks, I’d come to accept that I didn’t belong with a non-Arcana, which Matthew had told me again and again. Jack, for all his faults, deserved a long life. He wouldn’t get it if he continued to wade into our deadly contest.
For the best . . .
—You’re not ready, Empress. The machines won’t end without Death.—
Yet another decoder-ring statement. My head started hurting as I tried to make sense of his words. I’m almost afraid to ask.
—You sail on weeks of lull, then the storm. The game begins in earnest. You must be ready to strike. . . .—
37
DAY 318 A.F.
“I want to show you something,” Death said as he escorted me back to my turret. He’d done this for each of the three nights we’d played cards this week—would’ve been four but for another one of his excursions.
