Chapter 2 #3
I cradle her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. She parts, invitingly. “Stop flirting, Noir, or I’ll remind you who really holds the leash.”
Her laugh spills out—dark honey, and soft—but her eyes blaze with the same hunger tearing through me. “Do it then. Or admit you’d rather save your energy for all the adoring mortals, whore.”
I release her and step back with a grin. “Fine. You can come. But don’t expect me to save you when you flirt your way into trouble.”
She smirks, brushing imaginary dust from my leather sleeve, but her gaze lingers on my mouth. “Funny. Trouble’s always worth it when you’re the one dragging me out.” She spins on her heel, and I can’t help but watch the way her taut ass moves in her leather pants.
Noir and I are friends—we have been for centuries—but I’ll never say no to a roll in the mud with her. We share a deep bond forged in centuries, tested over time.
She’s my confidant in every way, and as beautiful as she is, she’s also a fierce fighter.
Years ago, I appointed her as general of the Court of Oblivion, though we have not seen war in quite some time.
Our fierce loyalty transcends the physical, something I’m not quite sure your mortal brain can understand.
Yes, I’m talking to you. I can hear you breathing, little mortal.
As I study my reflection one last time, that deep ache blooms in my chest again, one that happens when I look at myself in this form too long.
But I shove the feelings back where they belong, ironclad in the recesses of my being, behind a solid door of sorts that I resurrect to keep my memories safe even as I sleep.
With a family like mine, you can never be too careful, especially with Hypnos, said twin and the god of dreams and nightmares—he can steal them as you sleep.
On the edge of the River Styx, Noir and I pass through the veil—an almost thin layer curtain that opens for me as I will it to—no excitement, just a mortal emerging from a stone building as Noir flies overhead from its clock tower, jet black and majestic.
Most mortals don’t realize how close to death they truly are. Only gods can walk safely across the veil, the way I do, without repercussion. And mortals cannot enter the underworld without special incantations and spells that only few know. The only other way is if your soul is mine to keep.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Naughty little thing.
Above, the world roars awake—car horns stutter, laughter cascades, the pulse of humanity thrums beneath every footstep.
Mortals think the world is infinite. To me, every city block is a narrow corridor lined with hidden doors—souls waiting for me to open.
As I slide my hands into my jacket pockets, I let the noise of the city wash over me
I stride onto campus, boots heavy against timeworn stone. Ivy crawls up the gothic facades of St. Aurelius University, as if trying to choke knowledge itself.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a café, a barista’s essence wavers like a candle on its last breath; he stares at me and I stop for a moment to stare back.
A pot of milk trembles in his grasp when I wave.
He tries to look away, I can feel his resistance.
But he has days, weeks maybe, because of something that could have been cured easily, if only that shitty boss would give him time off to check on his constant headaches.
The girl behind him smiles into empty air, her future bright and unbroken.
She doesn’t even see me walk by as she skips along, humming Taylor Swift.
No one sees me walk into Stanton Hall because I don’t need doors; my boots are like a whisper against floors. I don’t need time. I exist where I want, at any time when I want in the blink of an eye.
Rows of desks stretch out before me as I take up residence in the back of a lecture hall, the faint smell of chalk and coffee clinging to the air. I lean back in my seat, a dark corner that gives me a view of the whole room, my knife flicking open and shut between my fingers as I seethe
My tattoos shift under my shirt uncomfortably, a faint pulse of wings aching to spread.
Heat bubbles in my chest to the same pull of when I saw her essence glowing in my ledger.
Mackenzie is close. So close, I can almost taste the blood coursing through her veins.
My throat burns and my fangs ache, but I try so hard to push away the whisper of an instance that has only overcame me once before, a time that I’ve buried deep and promised myself I would never speak of again.
How could this happen with her? It’s not possible. Is it?
The first student trickles in, earbuds shoved in, not even glancing my way. She doesn’t see me sitting in the back row because it’s nowhere near her time. Another student follows. Same result. They don’t know I’m here. To them, I’m nothing—an absence, a void stitched between air itself.
But when the door creaks again, my four collectibles walk in together. Mackenzie is the last to tumble in, and my fangs snap from my gums in a rush that elicits a low growl
I know their frequencies intimately—their essences dimmed to pastel whispers under Death’s breath, neon drained to sickly shade. Each looks gaunt, life leeched from their eyes, no matter what they do to cover it up, I’m sure each of them has noticed something is not quite right.
They freeze mid-stride, pupils locked on me like iron filings to a magnet. Death can be irresistible to some, romantic even—in some way or another, mortals are intrigued by death.
I watch as fear crackles through them, a tremor they can’t explain.
But they still gravitate toward me, filing into the row in front of me in the scarcely filled lecture hall.
They sit directly in front of me, and I hear Mackenzie’s breath catch.
Her body quivers as if she’s fighting instinct—the need to run, the urge to never look away.
Her thoughts scream so loudly in my head they might as well be my own, ‘Don’t look at him.
Don’t look at him. Don’t fucking look at him. ’
All four of them have thoughts about me, but all I’m interested in is Mackenzie’s.
Something about the little mortal, in a hoodie three times her size, captivates me more than it should.
My cool skin licks with warmth, but I try to chalk it up to the excitement of claiming each mortal I’ve come for.
And still, even as her essence hums low and weak, something about her makes me want to unlock my jaw, as if I were a python, and devour her whole.
What the fuck is that?
The unrest she causes to crawl through my body has me flipping open my knife, then snapping it shut like a nervous tic.
I’ll save her for last. If she’s the one who caused this, I might as well let her suffer the pain of watching her friends die or vanish without a trace. Yes, I have a flair for the dramatic, I know, but this godsdamned mortal just made an enemy of me.
So, who said Death couldn’t put on a show?
Another day. Another feast of souls.