Chapter 11 #2
Milos leads me to the center of the ballroom. Whispers break out. They’re muted by the rise of music. I try to remember what I learned from Cary. Then instantly regret thinking about him.
Nervously, I rest my hand on Milos’s shoulder. It’s the first time I notice the embroidered details on his suit. A mazelike pattern of swirls. With a wry smile, he coaxes me closer. Flush against his body.
In the ballroom light, his eyes are vivid brown. Like the shore at dawn.
“Shall we?”
Milos dances with grace and control. I’m still wobbly, uncertain with every step. But he doesn’t mock me. His smile curves high, and he looks nothing like the boy I saw sentencing a soul to the Abyss.
After stepping on his foot, I blurt, “Sorry. I’m not good at this.”
His fingers dig into my hip. “I can teach you.”
I consider telling him his brother already tried. I’m sure he’d love that.
Leaning closer, Milos says, “Or you can tell me what you are good at.” The flickering fire in his eyes makes my skin flush.
“Cleaning restrooms?” I tease. When his eyebrows slope, I shake my head. “Never mind. It’s a joke. A bad one.”
I watch as a faint laugh bobbles in his throat. His thumb rubs along my knuckles. “What else?”
With a weak shrug, I say, “I used to do music. I wrote songs. Played a little piano.”
I’m surprised by how quickly the words leave my tongue.
Milos hums. “And you stopped?”
“Yeah, um.” My eyes drop guiltily to our feet. I hear Cary’s voice in my head: Do not look down. I jerk my head up. “It was just for fun. It wasn’t serious.”
Now London’s in my head: Journalism will be better for a degree.
Milos twirls us in a steady circle. I manage to not trip on his cape as my thoughts continue to tailspin.
My eyes catch on someone by a table. A server with broad shoulders and a narrow waist collects empty glasses. It’s still not London. But the sight jars something in me. My attention flits back to Milos.
“How do you decide where souls go?”
His expression shifts, dimming.
Quickly, I say, “Sorry, I’m curious. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You are not.” He smiles smally. “Very few people ask such questions.”
I nod, waiting.
“There is a process. Rules. Books to consult.” He sighs, like this is the most tedious thing ever.
As if deciding how someone spends their eternity after death is as mindless as doing a load of laundry.
“I let them tell me about their lives as mortals. What they wanted. What they did with their time.”
“And then?”
A smirk ticks along his lips. “My turn to ask a question.”
I force myself to relax, even while my frustration grows. There’s only one way to get the answers I want. I need to play Milos’s game.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about your parents.”
My brow knits. “They’re not very interesting.”
“I doubt that.”
I snort loudly. “No, seriously. My dad is a pediatric nurse. My mom works with plants. It runs in the family. My grandfather, his mom. They all loved plants and gardening.”
There’s a subtle curl to his mouth. “Is that so?”
I ignore his question for one of my own: “What about the souls in here?”
He grips my hip tighter. “What about them?”
“You’re giving them a second chance, right?”
“A second chance,” he echoes.
“Is it true that you choose some of them to become more than just souls?”
Like Aminta? I almost ask. Do you remember each of them? Please tell me you do. Tell me you’ve seen London.
“Someone has been very chatty.” Milos’s pointed gaze moves in Henri’s direction. Clumsily, I pivot until I’m in his eyeline again.
I grin. “That’s so kind of you. To give them another chance.”
He licks his lips. “Is it?”
“I want to know more about you.” The lie comes out sweetly, but it leaves a bitterness in the back of my throat.
The hand on my waist moves silkily to my lower back. Milos’s fingertips dip even lower. “My turn.” His electric stare crackles in my bones. “Where you are from…what is it like?”
“Santa Barbara?”
“No. The mortal realm.”
Suddenly, I trip a little. With a firm hand, Milos holds me upright. It’s not like when Cary did it in the garden. There’s no gentleness in his touch or flicker of concern in his gaze. Milos does it like he was preventing himself from falling instead of protecting me.
Flustered, I say, “You’ve never been?”
For some reason, I assumed all the Deathless have.
Milos frowns. “My brother did not tell you?”
I shake my head.
Leaning closer, Milos says, warm breath against my cheek, “I am unable to cross over to your realm like the other Deathless.”
“Why?”
His eyes grow smaller. Darker. “I am the final judge. Aides’s prince. I am bound to the throne. I must be here, always.”
“Always,” I repeat in a whisper.
He searches the ballroom like he’s hunting for someone. Through his teeth, he grits, “It was not my choice. But it is who I am.”
Trying to process everything makes my head dizzy. There’s too much information. And still not enough answers.
“So, you can’t ever leave?”
His mouth smooths back into a smile. “There is one way.”
I look at him expectantly.
He spins us. The room becomes a blur. Dripping stars and falling petals and hypnotic scents. I’m lightheaded. Milos hauls me in until it feels like my body’s melting against his.
Against my ear, he says, “You look beautiful tonight.”
A flush burns against my cheeks. “Thanks to you.” My hand slides down to the wing of his shoulder blade. “I love my suit.”
“I am glad.” His lips trail lightly down my jaw.
“Nice touch with the flowers,” I comment.
He eases back a fraction to look in my eyes. “That was…someone else’s suggestion.”
“Someone else?”
The music falls away. I scan around. Everyone is watching us. Aminta with her heavy scowl. Poppy, arms crossed, curiosity shaping her features. Henri, beaming, two half-finished glasses raised. Unfamiliar faces studying me like I’m…a marvel.
Strange and fascinating.
A puzzle to solve.
Or something else.
Clinging to the shadows of the room, I see him.
Cary, with his flat mouth. His unblinking eyes. His expression unreadable.
Abruptly, I stop dancing. Free myself from Milos’s hands. “Sorry,” I say, tugging at my suffocating collar, “I need some fresh air.”
Deep, confused lines wrinkle Milos’s forehead. “You are leaving me?”
“Thank you for everything.” I bow like an awkward amateur.
Then, without another word, I run for the elevator.