Chapter 8 Daxton
Itold Noir to meet me outside Mercer Hall—another female dormitory on the extensively lavish campus—at sundown, but of course, in true form, she is late.
Luckily, I don’t really feel the cold that I’ve been waiting in for two hours. I haven’t felt cold for millennia.
No, not because I am dead. Truly, gods are alive, but this, my existence, has taken its toll. Somewhere around the sixteenth century, I noticed it. And thereafter it only worsened, until I became the same temperature as the souls I collected.
My sisters think it’s the weight of it all. Charon believes it is an affliction of circumstance. But who gives a shit anyway? Maybe it’s a reflection of all I’ll ever be. Cold. Heartless. A creature who knows no warmth. No love.
I’m not sure why my thoughts are awry on this matter tonight, but the care Leah deserved in life, I gave her in death, the kind of care no one offers me.
I dressed her in a nightgown and laid her to rest in her bed as if her soul simply slipped away as she slept.
I’d realized two things at the same time: her soul felt peaceful and warm because her mind had years to prepare for me, and her diagnosis would have brought her to me anyway, but one twist of fate shortened the timeline, and still she accepted her fate.
When I think of it, maybe that’s what Monroe meant when he said he needed time—time to prepare. Time to accept so that he would come to me as Leah did, unafraid and ready.
If I am honest with myself, everything about me—my intensity, the reality, and understanding of what I am—can be a lot for a mortal to take in.
Any mortal in their right mind or who has not had the time to prepare would detest me, and in turn, I show them my fury…
but what if it didn't have to be this way?
“Gods, Thanatos, it’s fucking freezing,” Noir shrieks, dragging me out of deep thought, her heels clicking toward me.
“Well, no one told you to show up half-dressed.” I cut her a look so sharp, she stops in her tracks. “And I’ve told you about calling me that, not here. Never here.”
“Fine, sorry. I forgot,” she says, hand on her hip, leather hugging every curve of her and a sly smile curling at her lips.
“You can’t blame me, though. The name that you have taken is…
” She gags. “So…” She shivers, really playing up the dramatics in proper Noir form.
“Mortal.” She sticks out her tongue, gagging again.
“It’s almost as if that’s the point,” I say, leaning off the metal bicycle rack right outside the building. I lick my freshly formed joint closed, tucking it behind my ear.
“You gonna share?” she asks
“No,” I say, closing the distance between us. “Bad girls don’t get rewards.” I grin.
“Oh.” She moves in, heels biting the concrete, closing the gap. She drags her fingers over my lapel. “So, what do we get then?
A smirk crawls across my lips, but before I can respond, the heavy steel of the door beside us bangs into a metal rail.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t just wait for her?” Mackenzie’s scent wafts in my direction, almost knocking me off balance—mint rattled together with the sweetest sage and a hint of pineapple.
I grab Noir, snapping my hand over her mouth before dragging her behind a tree off to the side of the building, cloaking us from all mortal eyes within a five-mile radius.
Her muffled shrieks get swallowed up in my death grip, but for some strange reason, Mackenzie’s head swivels in our direction, her eyes straining to see into the darkness, and for a moment, I swear she’s looking right at me.
Her oversized sweater rides up, revealing inches of skin that I want to lick and a silver skull piercing catches the light against her bare midriff.
The dark metal matches her other jewelry—typical for her style—yet the sweater itself surprises me with its pink pastel and scattered red hearts.
I didn’t think she would give up on her crusade against the color so easily.
And still, something flutters in my chest when eyes the color of an endless chasm peer deeply, as if she can sense me, no, as if she can actually see me.
Her freckled nose crinkles slightly as her gaze intensifies, searching.
“No, she’s taking forever, and it’s not even that far.
” Her blonde friend adjusts her bubble gum pink dress, pushing together her plastic breasts as if they need to be any higher.
She pulls a red plastic lighter out of her bag before lighting the joint hanging from her lips.
“She’ll be fine,” she mumbles, taking a deep drag, smoke swirling around her.
As she nudges Mackenzie’s shoulder, it finally breaks our staring contest. Mackenzie swivels her head to meet her friend’s ocean eyes.
“Yeah, you’re right. She’ll be fine.” Mackenzie hums, plucking the poorly formed joint from Valentine Barbie’s perfectly manicured fingers and taking a drag of the herby smoke.
When her head starts to turn back in my direction, I teleport myself and Noir inside the brick building before she jabs me in the side with her elbow, shoving me away.
“Get off!” She straightens the tiny leather vest that barely covers her cleavage. “So now we are hiding from your mortal plaything?” She chuckles. “What, she doesn’t know you’ve been slaughtering her besties?” she coos, pinching my cheek.
Swatting her hand away, I dissipate, materializing on the sixth floor. But Noir is right on my ass.
The corridor air prickles my skin as the window darkens with a rush of black feathers. A raven’s wings clip the stone edges—it squeezes through with a soft thud as it tumbles in, scattering down across the floor tiles that vibrate beneath my feet.
Bones crack and stretch beneath glossy feathers.
The bird’s form twists, expands, and unfolds.
Fingers emerge from pinions, golden skin replaces dark plumage.
She lands on heeled human feet, knees bent, one palm steadying herself against the floor as if she were a godsdamn superhero—yeah, I know movies, I’ve seen them all.
A few black feathers cling to her shoulders, catching in her hair as she tosses it back.
And I roll my eyes. “Must you always make an entrance?”
The corner of her mouth lifts, her eyes never leaving mine. “You love it.” She straightens to stand, leaning against the doorframe of suite 612 while I knock. I can hear the mortal inside, shuffling around before the door swings open.
“Did you forget some—oh, hello.” Her brows crease into deep confusion, her eyes falling down my body then Noir’s before she meets my gaze. Her thoughts might as well have been on the P.A. system across the whole campus; her words blare into my head.
‘I haven’t been fucked in a month, and these two definitely aren’t helping my bid to stay faithful.’
“Something I can help you with?” Stormie asks.
I can feel the hole that Noir is burning into the side of my face, but somehow all of my usual charm escapes me.
Usually, I never have to say much before mortals are willing to get on their knees for me, but the only thing taking over my mind is my beautiful little soul in her tiny pink sweater.
“Gods, Daxton.” Noir nudges me out of the way. “We just saw Mackenzie on our way in. She told us she was a bit worried about you walking over to the party alone, so we told her that we were headed over in a bit and we could walk over with you.”
“Oh, okay.” Stormie turns on her heels, heading back into the suite, and Noir catches the door before it slams in our faces, looking back at me to roll her eyes as she steps in after the girl.
With a huff, I catch the door on rebound and follow after them. The suite is a typical college dorm with a cramped living area and cheap furniture, but it’s clean and smells of vanilla and cinnamon.
“Mackenzie is such a worrier,” she says, tightening the strings on a hot pink corset. “I’ve walked to OEP a hundred times by myself. You can wait here. I just need to finish getting ready,” Stormie says, disappearing into what I assume is her bedroom.
Noir gives me a look that could curdle milk. “What the hell was that?” she whispers.
“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“You were standing there like a statue. Since when does the great Thanatos lose his words around a mortal?”
I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant while my mind races. I’m not even so hard up on the fact that she just said my name—my mind continues to linger on my little mortal. “Just distracted.”
What is the deal with this damn girl? And why is she living in my head on repeat?
“By your little human pet?”
“She is not my pet,” I grunt.
“Oh yeah, that’s right… You’re hers,” she says, palm pressed to my chest as she walks me backward and shoves me onto the couch. She straddles me, sinking onto my lap. ”You know? I’m fucking sick of you.”
“Fantastic,” I huff. ”Because I’m sick of myself too.”
“Oh, don’t pout.” She scoffs, her eyes rolling in disgust. “It’s gross. Just get your head on straight, I really want to play with Stormie before she dies.”
She captures my lips in a half-hearted kiss that I barely put my all into—but she keeps kissing me until I relent, only turning up the heat a notch more as I pull her closer, trying to get into our usual flow.
The thing about Noir is—I never have to read her mind, because she always says what’s on it.
“Gods,” she groans. “At this rate, she is going to run, screaming. You call this seduction?”
“I’m trying,” I say, but it lacks conviction, even to my own ears. I push her off my lap, needing space. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” She laughs, a sound like breaking glass. “You’ve bedded thousands over the millennia. What makes this one so special that you're fumbling like a virgin on prom night?”
I stand, pacing the room, feeling caged. The truth is, I don’t know. I’ve never hesitated before. Death doesn’t hesitate. Death takes.
I don’t answer, only pace as a scowl creeps across my face.