Thirteen Death
THIRTEEN
D EATH
It was no simple venture to hunt for something when you didn’t quite know what, exactly , you were hunting for. The job was made even worse when it came at the expense of being away from the woman he loved.
Every part of Death ached to return to Wisteria and check on Signa, though he knew it’d be the wrong choice. He had to trust that she had a handle on the spirits and that he was safe to focus his efforts on his own looming task.
Tired of trudging through the snow, Death had taken a seat outside a quaint tea shop that made him homesick for afternoons with Signa.
He leaned back on the bench, disgruntled and admittedly moping, and watched as the townsfolk toddled by with turkeys and ham for their holiday meals.
Children ran circles around their parents’ heels, and he couldn’t help but scowl every time a happy couple wandered by.
Sometimes his bitterness got the better of him, and Death would imagine all the ways in which he could make others feel as lonely as he did in that moment.
A pox, or perhaps a mysterious wave of deaths that would have people fleeing their cities in terror.
Death wouldn’t actually do such a horrible thing, of course. But his mind stewed on bleak thoughts whenever his mood was particularly foul. Christmas was but three days away, and still he was wandering around this blasted town, far from his family.
He loved Blythe, truly. They had come a long way in their years of getting to know each other, and Death had unfortunately learned over time that he could be conned into anything if Blythe made it sound important enough.
She had quite the penchant for giving orders and maintaining strong opinions about how things should be done, and yet she was little help when it came to actually completing a mission.
If he hadn’t found this particular plan of hers so appealing, he would have returned to Wisteria Gardens long ago, even if it meant foiling his plan with Signa and the spirits.
He’d searched everywhere he could think of, scouring the woods and wandering through the halls of each home in the neighborhood.
He’d examined every pointed face and set of beady eyes, and still he felt no closer to finding what he and Blythe sought.
His temper was flaring, and it didn’t help that people kept dying .
Even at that moment, he had hundreds of souls hovering near him, circling aimlessly as they awaited ferrying.
And these were just the ones who’d found him since sunrise.
He ran a hand down the length of his face before dropping his head back against the bench and blowing a long sigh up at the sky.
Why did so many humans have to die around Christmas?
Death stretched his legs out before him, keeping a watchful eye on any living human who might wander too close.
As it was, most of the townsfolk avoided him entirely.
They may not have been able to see the reaper, but almost no one ventured toward a bench where the air grew colder and where their breath grew tighter in their throat.
A young man had nearly tried to sit at one point, only for the hairs along his neck to rise. He’d lurched away, rubbing his arms.
And so Death really had no choice but to keep to himself, the snow gliding around him, as he contemplated his next move.
He could try the woods again, though he’d traced every inch of it. It wouldn’t hurt to wander through town a few more times, but he’d already checked all the homes.
It was impossible to track something when he didn’t even know what form this soul had taken. What he needed was to lure it to him.
He let the darkness swarm him, and a second later he was standing in the room that Blythe and his brother shared back at Wisteria.
It was as ridiculously over-the-top as he’d expected, and his eyes adjusted slowly, drawn upward to the dark expanse that loomed above.
The ceiling Aris had crafted swirled with faint, shifting colors—green, violet, and the occasional burst of gold—like the northern skies held captive in this quiet space.
The walls were seamless panels of polished black stone, their glossy surfaces catching and stretching the aurora’s glow.
The reflections twisted into faint trails of light that danced upon the stone like whispers of magic.
Above a hearth recessed into one wall were vases filled with clear shards of crystal, frost-covered pine cones, and the occasional bunch of silvered branches.
The hearth itself was unlit, but a cold, bluish shimmer lined its edges, a ghost of flames that longed to burn.
Facing it was a curved sofa of deep green velvet, the cushions edged with a soft iridescence that caught the colors shifting above.
Death lingered in the center of the room, his eyes drawn to the bed. The sheets were tucked tight, the covers smooth and unwrinkled. Far too freshly laundered for his purposes.
He crossed instead to Aris’s wardrobe, its surface gleaming faintly.
When he opened the door, the scent of cedar and wisteria embraced him.
Inside, rows of meticulously stitched clothing hung neatly, pressed to perfection.
His fingers moved through them, disappointed to find that all belonged to Aris as he was now.
There was nothing old here, nothing that had what Death was searching for.
He closed the wardrobe and turned toward a smaller one by the window—Blythe’s.
Inside, her clothes were hung less precisely, soft fabrics in muted tones mingling with scarves that spilled over the edges of their hangers.
Death riffled through everything carefully, setting a few pieces aside and continuing to dig for something he recognized until he reached the bottom.
There, a pile of folded items rested buried beneath her other things.
Death pulled free a navy coat with its edges lightly frayed, the texture worn under his touch. His breath caught as he stared at it for a long moment, recognizing it as the piece Aris had worn to his and Blythe’s wedding all those years ago. She’d kept it tucked away, safe.
It was perfect. Death folded it over his arm, grabbing several of Blythe’s nightgowns as well as a few scarves.
Then, before anyone could catch him lurking about, Death fled from Wisteria and returned to his bench, where he took a seat, draping Aris’s wedding jacket over his lap.
Eyes shut, he let his shadows sweep the rest of the garments across the village and the woods surrounding it, brushing them around trees—against oil lamps and the corners of buildings—and back to him.
And as he sat there, all Death could hope was that the scent would work.
He didn’t know how long he waited, snow falling around him and his head tipped to the sky, ignoring the press of souls vying for his attention.
The oil lamps had been lit, then doused again as the sun rose.
The baker in the shop across from him had arrived hours ago, and the rich scent of fresh dough carried on the wind, winding around him.
And then, later still, the sun crept into the sky, melting the snow that had made mounds beside him.
It was only thoughts of Signa and her dedication to remaining in that blasted mausoleum that kept him in his seat.
The cold couldn’t touch him as it did her, and still she’d been willing to wait as long as it took to get what she wanted.
And so he remained for hours more, convinced he was on the wildest goose chase, until he heard a quiet chittering down the alley ahead of him.
He lifted his gaze and found two glowing green eyes blinking up at him from a beast crouched low.
It had a swath of one of Blythe’s nightgowns between its teeth, and Death grimaced when he saw that the fabric was torn.
But he dared not move as the creature prowled out from the shadows.
Only then could he see that it was a cat—a small black beast with a surprising girth for a creature he suspected was feral.
Death looked at the swell of its belly and the proud way its tail swished as it trotted over to him, dropping the strip of Blythe’s nightgown on the ground after giving it a small shake.
“Hello there,” he whispered, smiling to himself when the cat chittered in response.
He’d always loved animals and the fact that they could see him, though he found cats in particular quite charming.
They perpetually behaved as if they knew something no one else did and were entirely uninterested in sharing it.
This cat was no different. It hopped up onto the bench, took one look at Death, gave a slow blink of its unnerving green eyes, and then jolted with a sudden yowl to bat its paw at one of the floating souls that surrounded them.
When the soul swayed away, the cat growled low in its throat and tried to catch the next one between its paws.
It hissed upon missing a connection, its teeth bared, and Death laughed.
Careful not to spook the beast, he stretched out his gloved hand and let it hover several inches from the cat’s face. As expected, the cat tensed, its whiskers twitching as it stared at the palm. Then it bent to give the leather a curious sniff, and ducked its head for petting.
Death was more than happy to oblige, a great weight easing from him as his fingers curled beneath the beast’s furry chin. It leaned in with a growing purr, though when Death attempted to reach around and pick it up, the cat smacked away his hand.
“Apologies for my eagerness.” He laughed.
“Do you know how long I’ve been searching for you?
” He waited until the cat relaxed again before returning to scratching beneath its chin.
All anyone passing by would see was a cat behaving strangely on a bench, twirling and purring and pressing itself against nothingness.
They would have no awareness of the shadows that Death had pulled around him, forming a barrier so that this creature could not escape him.
Ever so slowly, careful not to give the cat any way to touch his skin, Death worked his hand up its neck. And when the time was right, he grabbed the beast by the scruff.
The cat yowled, scratching at the air. Several people turned to investigate, but Death gave them little chance to witness the situation. His shadows ensnared the beast, and with it tucked in his arms like a screaming child, Death disappeared with a grand smile.