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It’s not long before the two of us are feeling pretty buzzed—at least I am—and are stuffing our faces with food. I thought my appetite would be satisfied early on, but I keep on eating. Maybe going from Underworld to Upper World takes a toll on your body, or maybe I’ve just had my share of horror and exhaustion over the last however long it’s been. Days? Time ceases to behave when you know how easily it can be taken from you.
As the night goes on, the fuller the bar area gets. I know I should be trying to figure out how to contact my father, doing full-on Google searches, perhaps reaching out to my relatives, but with that comes so much baggage I can’t face at the moment. Every time I open my phone, I’m reminded of what a ghost I am. If I Google my father, I’m afraid I’ll see another article about how I went missing. It’s so much of a headfuck that my sober brain can’t handle it, let alone my drunk one.
Death seems content, though, drinking and eating with a voracious appetite. I’ve never really seen him drunk, so this might be the closest he’ll be to it—his eyes are heavy-lidded, his shoulders relaxed, with a mouth that’s quicker to smile. It’s odd to see him in this light, in such a modern setting as a bar filled with beer-swilling patrons.
Once again, I find myself pretending that he’s a mortal man I met on Tinder, or perhaps through a mutual friend, or maybe he was an instructor at one of my capoeira classes. Here, in this world, his eyes could be grey. The silver lines of death covering his body could be tattoos. His long hair, beard, and dark lashes could paint him as mysterious, rugged, wild. His height and muscles could be attributed to genetics.
And yet, he doesn’t belong here, not even a little bit. Even the people in the bar know this, and it’s not because of the things I listed that could be explained in this realm—it’s because he exudes the supernatural prowess of a deity. He’s a god walking the Earth, something that should never be, and that draws theattention of people like a moth to a flame, even if they don’t know it.
This isn’t your world,Tuoni,I can’t help but think.
And I’m not sure if it’s mine anymore either.
I’m not sure where I belong.
“Excuse me,” a guy with a British accent and a skinny mustache says to me as he approaches the table. He’s probably in his late twenties, part of a group of businessmen who have taken over a few of the standing tables in the middle. They’ve been boisterous and loud this whole evening and keep looking over here at us, which I’ve been ignoring.
I give the guy a pointed look. “Yes?” I probably sound a little rude, but I think being in Tuonela has hardened my edges. Also, I’m always wary when a guy approaches me out of the blue.
Meanwhile, Death is staring at the guy curiously, though the line between his brows deepens when he realizes the guy won’t look at him.
“I was wondering if you could tell me: if you’re here, who’s running heaven?”
My eyes widen, and I bite back a laugh. “Are you serious?”
Is this guy not only trying to pick me up in front of Tuoni, but with the cheesiest pick-up line in the world?
“What do you mean?” Death says gruffly, enough that the guy finally looks over at him. “Have you mortals already heard the news about my ex-wife? She’s running heaven at the moment, though it won’t be heaven for much longer.”
The mustache guy’s face scrunches up in drunk confusion. “Your ex-wife?” he begins before he shakes his head and gestures to me. “Nah, mate, I’m just trying to tell this woman that she’s so gorgeous, she takes my breath away.”
Death is about to say something else, but I beat him to it. “He’s not being literal,” I say to Tuoni. “He’s just trying to pickme up.” I give the guy a loaded look. “And he should know that cheesy pick-up lines don’t work on a married woman.”
“Oh,” he says with a slow raise of his brows. “You’re married? Sorry, I didn’t see any rings.”
“He gave me a crown instead,” I answer before I have a sip of my beer. I wave him off. “Now, run along to your friends.”
The guy jerks his chin back, and his flirty gaze turns into a scowl before he heads over to his drunken, laughing cronies, who have been watching the entire scene unfold.
“What the fuck just happened?” Tuoni asks. “A pick-up line? I would never let him pick you up.”
“He didn’t mean it literally. He was hitting on me.” I pause, unsure if he’s also going to take that phrase literally or not. “He was trying to sleep with me.”
Suddenly, Tuoni’s fist curls around his mug so tight, the glass shatters in his hand.
I gasp, watching as the beer spills across the table. Luckily, he’s wearing his gloves, so he wouldn’t be cut anyway, not that it would probably matter with him.
Everyone else turns to look, and our waitress hurries over with a towel and a tray for the glass.
I apologize profusely on Tuoni’s behalf, even though he’s just sitting there, eyes sparking with rage, his jaw tense as he wiggles it back and forth.
“I should kill him,” he seethes under his breath after the waitress leaves.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’m used to it.”
“You’re used to it?”
“I mean, not to toot my own horn…” He blinks at me, and I clarify, “Not to sound conceited, but yeah, I get hit on from time to time, especially in a bar where men are drunk. It happens to all women.”
