Chapter 30
“We are bound to receive attention now,” Death said.
Ilys knew he spoke of her chemise, but she could not and would not don her bloodied dress. Death’s robes did a fine job of covering her. Except now, astride Spire, she looked down and it occurred to her that her nipples peeked through the sheer white of her chemise.
“More so than when I am veiled in all my divine regalia?” she questioned, quirking an eyebrow. His gaze caught on her pink buds clinging stubbornly to the cotton, lingering just long enough to make her stomach clench with heat.
“Yes, I presume so,” he affirmed, forcing his gaze forward.
She cursed the sudden, treacherous warmth pooling low in her belly.
Did his mortal form notice such things? The thought made her burn hotter, and yet—gods help her—it was almost welcome.
It cut through the guilt and self-disgust coiled tight in her chest. Her thoughts spiraled, turning sharp and self-deprecating, until Death’s voice cut through them.
“Ilys?” His tone sharply asked, snapping her back to herself. “Did you hear what I said?”
She blinked, dazed. “What?”
“There’s lodging up ahead. We’ll stop and get a warm meal, yes?”
“That sounds fine.”
He studied her, worry etched across his brow, then turned away without pressing further.
Before the last two years, Ilys had never stepped foot outside the Sanctum, and now the exchange of coin for a night’s lodging barely made her pause. She leaned against the wall, waiting while Death made arrangements. Her fingers combed through her hair, cringing at the stiff, crusted texture.
When he finished, she slipped up beside him and addressed the woman behind the desk. “Is there a river or stream nearby where I might bathe?”
The woman glanced at her with a faintly puzzled expression. “You wouldn’t want to, dear.”
Ilys frowned, but the woman turned back to her ledger.
“Waste, Ilys,” Death explained near her ear, his voice low and wry. “The rivers here are filled with it.”
The woman looked up again, satisfied with her work. “There’s a bathhouse next door. I’ll take you there once we’ve gotten your rooms settled.” Ilys had never heard the term, but her body betrayed her begging and cowing at the word bath. It cared not what form it came in.
The woman guided them up the stairs, to their room. Ilys realized she had not heard the discussion of their actual arrangements. It was a room with two beds once more.
“Sharing?” Ilys queried.
The woman smiled at the disdain in Ilys’ voice, quietly leaving the pair.
“There are two beds,” he defended.
“Was there only one room available?” she pressed. He cowed.
He faltered, caught. “I—” He searched for the right words. “After all we’ve seen, you would prefer we stay apart?”
“Is someone frightened?” she teased, though the last few days tugged at her as well.
“New as I am to mortal feelings, I have no name for it,” he admitted quietly. “But I should like you near.” He seemed to hear the intimacy in his own words and added quickly, “In case of another attack.”
“So I may save you again?” she needled.
His demeanor immediately changed, face falling. “I am sorry, Ilys. I promised you a clean slate this march.” His pity rankled her.
“You did not ask me to end those men,” she said, looking away as she began to tidy her meager belongings.
“Yes, but—” he started.
“I’m going to bathe.” She cut him off and left him standing there, words caught in his throat.
Steam clung to the air as she sank into the bath.
The heat burned her skin, but Ilys welcomed it.
She ducked her head under once, holding herself beneath until her ears filled with the hush of the water.
No crowd, no screaming, no Death’s pitying voice.
Only the muted pound of her heart and the smothered ache in her chest. She surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to her cheeks, and for a brief respite she felt lighter.
So she did it again.
This time she stayed longer. The water folded around her, drowning sound and shape alike. Her lungs protested, pain blooming sharp and hot, but she didn’t move. She wanted that quiet to swallow her whole. Her chest convulsed, her body begging her to breathe, but still, she stayed.
A hand seized her by the shoulder, yanking her violently to the surface.
She coughed and choked, water streaming down her face, her chest heaving as she clutched the stone edge for balance.
“What are you doing?” Death demanded, voice sharper than she’d ever heard it, ragged and near-panicked. His sleeves were soaked, water dripping from his fingers where they gripped her, his own body half-submerged alongside her.
Small and raw, like a child caught in the act, she confessed, “I wanted quiet, just for a moment.”
Death’s face darkened. “Do you think me invincible, Ilys? That I could wrench you back from the Veil itself? Do not play so carelessly with your life.”
Her mouth curled. “It is my wretched existence. I will play with it however I choose.”
His jaw tightened. “Would you spit in the face of what I have sacrificed? Of what I have lost?”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped, anger flaring.
“Why do you think the Fates stripped me of my godhood?” His voice rose, sharp and cutting. “Have you truly no clue?”
She stared at him, blank and mute.
“I am but a collector,” he said, voice suddenly low, dangerous. “But you—” The tendons of his palm flexed. “You forced my hand.”
Her mind reeled, dragging her back to that night: Lord Veylen’s blood, the cell, Owin’s broken body, Death standing over her, saving her.
“This is because—” she started.
“Yes.” His mouth twisted. “Well done, Ilys. After nearly a century, you’ve managed to kill a god in one stroke.”
“I did not ask you to kill Owin,” she said, forcing the words through her throat.
“You did not last a day on your own!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Would you have preferred I left you there? Let them finish what they started?”
“Yes.”
“Ilys—”
“Yes.” Her voice rankled. This was not Ilys the Veilwalker speaking, not the obedient sanctum-born servant; this was Ilys the bird, untethered and broken. “I wish you would have.”
Ilys no longer yearned to kill this Death.
She knew not when that changed, only that it had.
She found no satisfaction in imagining his end.
No joy in the thought of his undoing. What she felt instead was older, darker.
The anger toward him that had once kept her alive, that malicious flame, now curled around her own heart.
It burned, cutting her open from the inside.
“No,” Death said, shaking his head as though he could will her into compliance. “You will live, you foolish creature.”
“I will not.”
His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You will, Ilys.”
She seized his forearm, her own words coming like a strike. “I. Will. Not.”
Her breath came fast and shallow. Only then did she notice how close they were, how close he had come to drag her from the water. His breath cooled her wet cheeks. His white shirt clung to him, soaked through, outlining every sharp line of him.
Her body was a storm, betraying her, and she welcomed it. The fire drowned out the gray, drowned out the dread. Finally—finally—she felt something.
She bit him, sharp and quick, her teeth sinking into the meaty heel of his hand.
His eyes went wide, the shock giving way to desire hotter, darker.
She dragged his thumb to her mouth, licking the droplets of water from it, tasting salt and skin.
His gaze locked onto the motion, pupils blown wide, lust sparking there like struck flint.
“Ilys.” His voice warned, but the admonition frayed at the edges.
She bit down on his thumb again, slower this time, and he groaned. Grabbing his wrist, she guided his hand down, pressing it against the swanlike curve of her throat, making him hold her there. His breath hitched.
Lower still, she pressed his palm against the swell of her breast, molding his hand until his fingers curled around her. He squeezed, unthinking, and she felt him lean closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers.
She could feel him, hard against her stomach, the heat of him grounding her as much as it set her alight.
The contact must have shocked him as he pulled back.
“Gods, Ilys.” He reclaimed his hand and pressed his palms to his eyes hard. “Come. I will not stay, but I will not leave you here alone.”
She swallowed the small embarrassment. “Leave. I’ll be fine.” She pulled away, pushing back into the waters and concealing her naked body once more.
“I will wrench you from the waters and carry you if I have to,” he promised.
In answer, she ducked beneath the surface again, a willful act of defiance. Death waded toward her, jaw tight, refusing to play her game.
“Now,” he ordered, voice low and sharp.
Ilys broke the surface with a roll of her eyes and swept past him, striding for the edge of the pool. Every step felt like a provocation.
More than ever, she wished she did not have to sleep just across the room from this dying god.