Chapter 17 #2
My palms are sweaty, and I keep rubbing them together like a goddam praying mantis.
Pacing the floors so many times, I might put a hole in the hardwood.
Finally, I decided to sit at my desk and get some words out—I haven’t written anything in days, and that’s so unlike me.
Putting pen to paper, my hand doesn’t start to move in its usual flow, too cluttered by only one thing that being consuming my mind—
KNOCK, KNOCK.
Daxton.
I rush to the door, swinging it wide, but the eyes that I expect to see are replaced by a jade-green glare.
“Hello, mortal,” she says flatly, pushing past me, a huge black duffel bag slung over her shoulder. I stick my head into the hallway, looking both ways, only to find it desolate.
“Where’s Daxton?
“He’ll be along shortly,” she says without looking at me, unpacking what seems to be a brigade of clothing, all of which are scraps of fabric that would leave barely anything to the imagination.
“For now, shower, and I’m not talking about a quickie, make it sexy—shave, body oil, the whole nine yards.
Act like you have a dick appointment tonight.
” She finally looks up at me, eyes sparkling.
“You never know.” She winks. “You just might.”
I stare at her, feeling my face go hot. “I don’t—what are you—” I sputter, watching as she continues pulling clothes from her seemingly bottomless bag.
“Off you go,” she says, making a shooing motion with her hand. “The water isn’t going to run itself, and I need time to work my magic on you. This is what you’re wearing tonight, so when I say shave, I mean it.”
I stare at what appears to be a leather skirt that would barely cover my ass. “Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.” She smirks, continuing to unpack various intimidating beauty tools. “Daxton enlisted me to make you look like a sex god, and I don’t plan on failing—so you better fucking cooperate.”
“Why would he—”
“Why do you ask so many questions, mortal?”
I roll my eyes but know better than to argue. “Fine,” I sigh, heading to the bathroom. “But I draw the line at anything involving glitter.”
“Glitter is the least of your concerns,” she calls after me. “And use that fancy scrub I see on your counter. The one with the little beads.”
The hot water feels good against my skin, but I can’t relax. Why would Daxton ask her to dress me up? What exactly is happening tonight? I let the questions swirl down the drain with the soap suds as I meticulously follow her instructions, shaving areas I normally wouldn’t bother with.
When I return to my bedroom wrapped in a towel, she’s transformed the space into a makeshift salon. Music plays softly from the speaker on my desk. Noir insisted on a Sleep Token mix on Spotify—her taste is impeccable; I guess she’s all right.
Since I’m dried and moisturized, she orders me to put on the outfit—a leather skirt, a top that could easily double as a bra, more straps than fabric—which is somehow worse than I imagined. She watches with a critical eye.
“Not bad, not bad at all. Now, sit,” she commands, pointing to a chair she’s positioned in front of my vanity mirror.
I obey, watching nervously as she circles me like a predator.
“You know, you’re not half bad for a mortal.
Your bone structure is actually quite lovely.
” She tilts my chin up. “We just need to enhance what’s already here.
” I stare at her, jaw slack. “Do you always look this terrified when someone’s about to make you hot? ” she asks, reaching for a brush.
“Only when it’s someone with unknown motives,” I mutter.
“Please,” she scoffs, running her fingers through my damp hair. “If I had nefarious intentions, you’d already be dead. Or worse.”
I don’t ask what “worse” entails.
She works in silence for a few minutes, sectioning my hair and applying products that smell like expensive salons. I try to peek at what she’s doing, but she turns my head back into position every time.
“So.” I finally approach the topic that’s been slowly gnawing at the corners of my consciousness. “Can I ask you something?”
She backs up, running her eyes over her creation, my made-up face.
“Just a little bit more black,” she says to herself more than me, her tongue pressed to the left side of her top lip as she squints, patting the makeup brush into my eye crease.
She steps back again. “Perfect.” She grins, but then her smile falls, and she sighs.
“What, mortal?” She rolls her eyes. “Look, just because I’m doing your makeup doesn’t mean we’re besties. ”
“Did I miss the part where I asked to be your fucking friend?” My perfect eyebrow arches, courtesy of her. “I said I have a question. Don’t get ahead of yourself, love.”
She freezes, blinks, then blinks once more, looking like she is deciding whether to kill me or kiss me. She opens her mouth and then closes it. Finally, she says, “You know what? I think I…you’re okay, in my book, Kenzie.”
“Aw, you have a nickname for me. So, now we’re friends?” I roll my eyes.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, love.” We both stare at each other for a while before a smile breaks across both of our faces. She snaps my eyeshadow palette closed. “Whatcha wanna know?”
It’s almost as if I had been waiting for this moment. I don’t think she’ll give me the blow-by-blow details, but it’s worth a shot. I think I just want to understand him better.
“Why is Daxton so…” I trail off.
“Daxton,” she responds as if no other word could cover it.“Well, how would you feel if mortals and gods alike hated you for just existing?”
She has a point. He didn’t choose this existence—as fantastical as it sounds to my very indoctrinated brain, where only heaven and hell exist—even after what he’s told me, I’m sure no one knows the half of it.
“And what about his family? Why are they estranged?” I ask while she pats blush onto the high points of my cheeks.
“I think that’s a question better answered by him,” she says, her lips tightening.
“Noir, please,” I plead, looking up at her as she leans over to dab red lipstick on my lips. “I just want to get to know him better, that’s all.”
Her gaze finally falls to mine. “You really care for him, don’t you?”
I’m sure I can feel heat creep up my neck and onto my face. “I do,” I breathe. “But I don’t have a lot to go on, so I admit it’s so hard for me to know what to think. To any sane mind, he would be exactly what most think of him—a monster, a phantom that steals souls.”
“Do you think him a monster?"
“Most days, no, but sometimes…yes.” I opt for the truth instead of covering it up with a lie.
“Daxton knows, he sees, he feels the weight of it all—he bears the weight of every soul, mortal and god alike—as they pass through him.” She straightens, folding her arms across her chest. “Now, can his methods come off a little cavalier at times, sure. But do you think you could trade places with him for even a night?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond.
We both already know the answer; her next words are sharp.
“So, he has a little fun from time to time. Do not mistake that for atrocity. It’s him staying sane. Even the gods weep sometimes.”
“Murder is still murder.”
She scoffs. “And the way you feel about him still remains.”
I don’t even know what to say. Because she’s right. I am in love with the God of Death. And even when that little voice inside me whispers, “run,” my feet stay planted. But does that in turn make me a monster too?
“Mackenzie, I’ve been with him for millennia—I’ve watched him do unspeakable horror, seen him through wars, the plague—none of it has been easy on him.
I’ve watched him question his existence.
The last thing he needs is someone making him feel worse about it.
He does a spectacular job of it on his own. ”
As she turns to pull a highlighter palette out of my makeup bag, I consider her words, and it makes my feelings all the more of a tangled mess in the pit of my stomach.
My mind is spiraling out of control, even then, something deep inside burns to know more.
A prisoner of circumstance, held captive by a duty he had no say in.
“I have one more question,” I whisper.
Given Daxton’s reaction when I first asked, I’m more than nervous to ask what seems to be his closest friend. What if she doesn’t want to tell me, for his sake? Or even worse, what if she tells him I asked? God, I’d die of embarrassment.
“I’m waiting, mortal.” She sighs, turning to face me again.
“Can…” I gulp. “Can you tell me what Elysia means?” I ask, hoping to hell Daxton hasn’t heard this whole conversation.
“Where did you hear that!?” she screeches so loudly, her pretty jade eyes bulge out of their sockets, and I have to shush her.
“Noir, not so loud!” I beg in a hushed whisper while my head swivels toward the closed door. I know he said he would give us an hour, but I’m sure he could probably hear us clear across campus if he wanted to.
“Where did you hear that word, Mackenzie?” she asks again, her hand planted on her hip, but a smile curls on her lips.
“Daxton. He said it to me when we were…” My words trail off.
“When you were…?” She drags out the word.
“Nothing… Point is, do you know what it means or not?” I cross my arm over my chest, and that only causes a grin to spread across her face.
“Elysium…in the old language roughly translates to heaven. It is where the best souls reside in the Underworld,” she says, perched on the side of my desk, as she settles in for my history lesson. “In turn, Elysia is a derivative of Elysium…but more commonly, it is the word for—”
My door slams open so hard I think it’s going to come off the hinges. Daxton stands there, nostrils flared, his blue eyes a stark white. His usual calm is out the window.