Chapter 19
Ilys stirred beneath the quilt, sleep hanging on her skin like fog. The room was dim, dawn barely creeping through the small window, painting the wooden walls in soft gray light. She blinked once, adjusting to the quiet, and then she realized she wasn’t alone.
Death was pressed hard up against her, one arm slung heavily over her waist, his breath warm against the curve of her neck. His body, solid and unfamiliar in its closeness, caged her in, his grip asleep but firm.
Her mind raced through the events of the night before. The drink. The stumble up the stairs. The way he had pulled her down with him, drunk and unaware of what he was doing.
And now here they were.
She eased herself back, inch by inch, hoping to slip free without stirring him. But the moment she moved, his hand found her again, tightening by instinct.
She froze. For a brief, terrible moment, she thought he was awake. But when she tilted her head, peering at his face, his expression remained pliant, peaceful in a way she had never seen before.
A god, undone.
Her heartbeat pressed hard against her ribs.
Then, with calculated precision, she eased herself from his grasp, rolling off the bed and onto her feet.
Her body ached from the awkward way she had been lying, but she ignored it.
She needed to move, to put space between herself and whatever that had been.
From behind her, Death stirred. She turned just in time to see his eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded with sleep. For a second, he simply stared at her, trying to piece together where he was, what had happened. Then his brows furrowed, and he rolled onto his back, pressing a hand to his face.
“By the Unbound,” he groaned, voice hoarse.
Ilys crossed her arms. “Feeling mortal?”
He let out a long exhale, dragging his hand down his face. “It is unpleasant.” Then the shuffle of fabric as he stood, the groan of protest from his body barely concealed.
“You’re slow this morning,” she observed.
“You poisoned me,” he countered.
She smirked. “The innkeeper poisoned you.”
Death surrendered a reply, only straightening his coat and smoothing the fabric as though willing his appearance to resemble order.
Ilys, watching from where she adjusted the strap of her pack, couldn’t help but smirk. “Come,” she said, nodding toward the door. “You can lament your poor choices on the road.”
Death shot her a look but didn’t dignify her with a response.
They descended the stairs, the inn still quiet in the early morning.
The scent of wood and faintly stale ale lingered from the night before, mixing with the aroma of breakfast. Ilys strode toward the meager offerings laid out on the table: rough bread, soft cheese, and a thin porridge.
Little worth savoring, but warm enough to be welcome.
She grabbed a hunk of bread, tearing a piece free as she turned to Death.
He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, composure fixed in place, but the way his jaw tensed was telling.
Ilys lifted a brow, gesturing toward the table with her bread. “You should eat.”
Death flicked a glance at the food once, then dismissed it with a quiet shake of his head. “I’ll see to the horses.”
The morning outside was crisp, the sky painted with thin streaks of pale blue. She inhaled deeply, adjusting her cloak, pulling it closer against the cool air as she made her way toward the stables.
Then she saw him.
Death stood beside the horses, tall and composed, his godhood restored. No longer the man from the night before. No longer the one who had laughed with her over ale and stumbled up the stairs, who had pulled her close as he mumbled drunken confessions.
He was himself again. Dark, seamless, untouched by mortal things. His face smoothed into that careful neutrality she’d learned to dread, the faint stir of shadow curling around him.
Ilys halted, watching him. “I thought we were trying to move discreetly.”
Those divine eyes bore into her bare face, carving meaning.
She rolled her eyes, pulling her veil from her bag, donning it once more.
Arsehole, she thought, staring at his back. Murderer. Her mind hurled the words like a stone. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. A song of violence thrummed in her skull, a litany reminding her of his trespass, his unworthiness, his disregard for law.
Her distaste only grew as she followed the god. Next time I will not be so weak, she vowed. Rage burned through her veins, carrying her forward for hours, until Death finally raised a smoky hand to halt the horses.
Tucked back behind a cluster of trees, smoke curled from the chimney of a lone stead. Without a word, Death turned his horse off the road, angling toward it.
Ilys’s pulse fluttered in her throat. Whether born of her own body or conjured from the air around them, she felt the dangerous hum return, wrapping them both.
Death dismounted, leaving his steed untethered. Ilys glanced at Spire, whispering silently, Stay, before slipping to the ground and following Death to the door.
The floor groaned beneath their steps, old wood betraying her. Ilys moved as quietly as any mortal could, but no one was as quiet as Death. The cottage was modest, almost neat. A black cloak with gold trim lay draped across the square table in the front room.
But then came the flies. They swarmed the air in thick black ribbons, their hum deafening, curling around the room’s true horror.
The closet door had been left ajar.
Bodies. Four of them, piled upon one another, twisted at unnatural angles, their limbs overlapping, tossed carelessly into the small, dark space.
All women.
All disrobed.
Their skin was sallow and pale, their lips cracked open in silent, frozen gasps. Their eyes, hollow and glassed, caught no reflection at all.
Ilys’s breath hitched beneath her veil. The scent was overwhelming, thick with rot, sickness, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood that had been left too long in stagnant air.
Death moved through the home, his presence settling over the room like a judge.
"Upstairs."
She heard it then, the muffled rustling. There was a soft scrape of movement above them, a low mutter, the unmistakable sounds of someone there.
Her stomach lurched, but quietly, Ilys crept behind Death, her steps light, breath shallow, her fingers flexing at her sides. From behind the first door, muffled grunts spilled into the air.
“Not this one,” Death directed.
Ilys faltered. Not this one? Had he not heard the noises, the muffled cries, the faint scraping? But Death pressed forward, and she followed, her eyes wide.
The next door stood cracked with a thin sliver of candlelight trembling through the gap. Death pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
The space inside was cluttered and small enough to be suffocating. The air reeked of old parchment, spent wax, and coppery, foul smell beneath it. Symbols scarred the stone walls, jagged and desperate, carved as though the writer had been frantic.
At the center knelt a cloaked figure. His face was hidden, his body bowed over a corpse. A woman lay before him, her skin pale as wax; yet, her chest rose. Fell. A sluggish, unnatural rhythm. Her dull, milky eyes flickered as though some trapped thing tried to peer through.
The man stiffened at their intrusion. In an instant he was up, whirling, diving for the window.
Death moved fast. The figure crashed to the ground with a sickening thud but staggered up and fled around the front of the house. Death leapt after him, vanishing into the night.
“Now, Veilwalker,” his disembodied voice rang, sharp.
Ilys cursed, following. She hit the ground hard, pain jolting up her legs, leaving her limping as she pushed after him. But already the man had mounted Spire, cloak billowing as the horse carried him into the dark.
“Fuck,” shouted Ilys, watching as her mare disappeared. “Fuck!” she screamed.
Death landed on his own steed, extending a hand. “Hurry, Ilys.” His hiss curled like smoke.
Her leg screamed with each step. She glared at him, teeth bared.
“There are people inside,” she bit out.
“He is our priority.”
“If you are so eager to flee, perhaps aid me, you arse.” She gestured sharply at her gait. Death wheeled his horse closer, his hand still offered. But she ignored it, jaw set. “He is well and gone now. Pause our pursuit, and let us tend to those who remain.”
“Veilwalker.” The warning cut hard and silvery.
Ilys scowled, a small, dangerous flame kindling in her chest at her own refusal. “I will not pursue him until we have addressed whoever remains inside.”
The deity, with his supernatural glower, relented.
The air still buzzed with his anger, sharp as static, but he dismounted and followed her inside.
Her limp slowed her, and he overtook her easily.
Up the narrow stairs, he halted before the door, gesturing for her to enter first, like this were some gathering she had forced him to attend rather than the likely prison of the suffering.
The room was much the same as the last. Three girls bound, their faces pale with terror. This time, Ilys tempered her approach, kneeling, voice soft.
“You are safe now,” she promised, working at their knots with careful hands.
Two of the girls shrank back, trembling. But the youngest, no more than fifteen, flung her arms around Ilys’s waist, sobbing into her robes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
From the corner, Death’s gaze bore into her, cold and unblinking.
Ilys waited until the girls were clothed, then guided them outside.
She apologized for not being able to return them herself.
When she looked to Death, asking for his mare, she felt only the echo of his haughty laugh in the back of her mind.
He gave no answer, turning from her as if she had never spoken.
The girls stumbled down the road, murmuring that their village was near, their hope sparked by Ilys’s description of the land.
“You are unfeeling,” she spat once they were gone, her words sharp as steel.
Death turned his head, considering her. When he spoke, there was no anger, only certainty.
“I am Death. I feel nothing. I want nothing. I am.” He held out a shadowy hand, one that turned to flesh when she grasped it and he helped her astride his mare. “Thanks to your diversion, you will have to find sleep in my arms. Our pursuit will pause no longer.”
Hatred surged in her chest, a tide she could not quell.
Diversion? His disregard for mortality, for mercy, was boundless.
She dreamt of a thousand ways to kill him—blade through his throat, dagger in his ribs, poison slipped between his lips—until the violent catalog blurred, softened, and sleep stole her against his chest as they rode.