Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After a sleepless night spent lying a foot apart like ill-tempered, exhausted dolls, they were both awake before Amara’s phone went off.
Gray had time for a couple of irreverent questions before Amara kicked him out.
“Does Death need to set an alarm? Or does he just wake up on his own? Or is he like a rooster, who gets everyone else up? Wait, people die at night. Does Death even get to sleep?”
It’s the bubble, she thought groggily. It’s time-walking. It’s hard enough to explain when I’m wide awake. Which I’m not just now.
She stumbled into the bathroom and began the day by splashing ludicrously cold water on her face. It wasn’t enough, so she filled the sink with more cold water and essentially went snorkeling. She could almost feel her pores slamming shut in self-defense.
She got dressed and groaned in horror when she saw her reflection. Her dyed hair leached color from her face, and the dark circles made her look like the Crypt-Keeper, if the Keeper favored leggings and red wool sweaters.
Fuck it. Gray doesn’t give a shit and neither do I. Not that a man’s opinion—or anyone’s, really—dictated her outfits. But Gray put up with her frosted tips (“You’re like a sexy hedgehog!”) and athletic-socks-with-penny-loafers phase.
She rapped on Gray’s door on her way down to the kitchen. “My mother will have another breakfast feast waiting,” she shouted from the wrong right side of the door. “See you in a few.”
She heard the expected yelp of alarm; in sharp contrast to Amara’s ten-minute prep, Gray needed a minimum of half an hour to get ready. Two hours, if he showered.
As expected, her mother was putting the finishing touches on several pounds of food and beamed as Amara came in.
“Good morning!” The trill was jarring given how white and strained her mother looked; Amara could have sworn the woman’s laugh lines had deepened overnight.
“Looks wonderful, Mom. I can only assume by the ham and the turkey and the bass that you’re expecting seventy-five guests.
” Amara got a patented Morrigan shrug for her trouble, then continued with, “I’m going to check on Dad and come right back.
” When her mother simply nodded, Amara asked what she knew was a dumb question. “No change, I assume?”
“The bacon will be ready by the time you get back,” was the nonresponse.
“Okay, Mom. And I know I wasn’t here much yesterday, but when I was, I noticed you didn’t eat anything. And I’m betting you haven’t had your own breakfast yet, since you’re focused on ours.”
“Oh, well. Busy-busy, you know.”
“What I know is you’re no good to us if your low blood sugar forces a swoon.”
That got Hilly’s attention; she didn’t stop rolling out dough but her head came up at once. “I wouldn’t swoon on a bet, Amara Morrigan, and you know it.”
“Just checking.”
Normally the walk to Death seemed to take forever; today it felt like five seconds. And there were worse horrors to contend with than a comatose death god.
“You!”
La Croix was on his feet the second he saw her. “And a very good morning to you, Amara.” He paused and considered. “As good as can be expected under the circumstances. Would you like my seat?”
“You don’t want to know what I’d like.”
“Au contraire.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Spelling your dear mother.”
“Oh.” Amara could have smacked herself. La Croix set her teeth on edge, but she couldn’t deny he’d been .
. . not helpful, exactly. There? Was that it?
He’d been there? “Well. I know she’s not eating much, so.
It’s nice of you to give her a break from the grieving not-quite-widow at the sickbed thing. Thank you.”
“I live for your praise.”
“A mistake.”
“And friend Gray? Where is he?”
“I don’t know, how would I know? Why would you even ask me that? I’m not the attendance taker, dammit!”
“Er.” La Croix seemed taken aback, which was odd. Nothing ruffled that fucker’s feathers. “All right.”
“Sorry. Long night. As you could probably tell.”
“Not at all; you look radiant.”
She snorted. “I have access to mirrors, so I know you’re even more full of shit than usual.
” She came closer to the bed, reached down, and took her father’s hand; normally tan and strong, this morning it was like a small bundle of sticks.
“Hey, Dad. Thought I’d check on you before I went out on more Reaps.
Oh, and I’ve been Reaping. Which, by the way, I’m certain I’m screwing up.
It’s not like I’ve had any training.” But her conscience wouldn’t allow the disingenuous comment, so she clarified: “Wouldn’t allow any training.
So that’s on me. But there’s still time to make a complete recovery and save the Midwest from my piss-ignorance. ”
She watched his face. Nothing.
“Now you’re just being stubborn. Did I mention I’ve temporarily taken your job? The one you’ve been executing—heh—flawlessly for centuries? And never wanted to give up? I’ve got no business in the field and even the swans know it. Now wake up and micromanage me, dammit!”
Nothing.
She let go of his hand and began to pace. “Remember when I lied to you about opening night so you wouldn’t come see my middle school play? Wasn’t that obnoxious and unkind?”
. . .
“And the time your ten-gauge shotgun ended up on the bottom of the swan pond? And I said the swans did it? Well, it was me. I didn’t just lie to my father, I traduced innocent swans. Don’t you want to give me what for?”
. . .
“How about May of my junior year, when I accidentally backed the truck into a ditch and left it there? And then convinced you it was an early Halloween prank? Or a late Halloween prank? It wasn’t a Halloween prank.”
. . .
“And the time I—”
“By all the gods, stop.” La Croix wore a peculiar expression, like he didn’t know if he should sob or giggle. “If the shotgun thing didn’t rouse him, nothing will.”
“Jesus.” Amara stopped pacing and stared down at the wasted figure on the bed. She knew it was impossible, but he seemed to be shrinking before her eyes. “Maybe he is dying.”
“We must, of course, consider the possibility.”
“Because it is a possibility,” Amara finally admitted. “Did you know the old Death? The Death before my dad?”
“No, my predecessor did. All I know of your grandfather is that he was born in Bornholm sometime during the ninth century. And that he never died.”
“Sorry, what?”
“According to your dear mother, he simply faded and allowed his son to assume the mantle.”
“Oh.” Why didn’t I know that? But she knew why: She never gave enough of a shit to ask.
She sighed and spared the bedridden figure a last look.
“Last chance, Dad. Open your eyes or La Croix and I are going to keep talking about you behind your back right in front of your face and you’ll have to deal with it. ”
. . .
Amara turned back to La Croix, splendidly arrayed in purple and black and managing to slouch even when standing tall. She came closer when she spotted the brown crumbs on his lapel. “Who’d you get to have lefse while you watched, you weirdo?”
“I reminded your dear mother that her duties as hostess prompted her to accede to a guest’s desires.”
“Sorry, I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” Argh. Why do I keep bringing that up? “What are you saying?”
“I told her I wanted her to eat something.”
“And she did. And she let you watch, like any good hostess.”
La Croix gave her the one-shoulder-modesty-shrug.
He had always been a bundle of oddities; she was just a teenager when she found out he could only enjoy vices like food and smoking if someone indulged right in front of him.
She remembered thinking that was sad and weird and a little bit hilarious, like La Croix himself.
No wonder he stays skinny. “Thank you,” Amara said. “God knows she was ignoring my gentle demands that she eat a fiftieth of what she’s cooked so far.”
La Croix inclined his head. “At your service, always. But I trust you will excuse me now. Skye offered to spell me, and then I must away.”
“Big day of watching people smoke and shoot up?” La Croix raised an eyebrow, and before Amara knew what she was going to say, it was out there: “Sorry. I’m thankful for all you’re doing for my folks.”
He smirked. “I can only assume we’re in Hell, and it has indeed frozen over.”
“I know you’re just being a wiseass, but this really is Hell and it has frozen over,” she said, pointing out the window.
La Croix shuddered at the chill March landscape. “Indeed. I should like nothing better than to flee south; New Orleans is lovely this time of year.”
“According to you, Nawlins is lovely every time of the year.”
“Never pronounce it like that!” he nearly shouted, and she had to laugh.