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“Here, my cute little succulent.”
Oh. He wasn’t going to stab me, especially after he just made me come. I felt stupid for the initial panic and accepted the dagger he held out, flushing with warmth.
“I realised you don’t have a weapon,” he explained, “and that was an issue that needed to be immediately rectified. I carved a little succulent on the handle, see.”
I turned the knife over and saw the crude drawing of a cactus on the polished wood handle. It was the most violent present I’d ever been given, but my heart went soft regardless. It had taken time and care to carve the cactus, and even though I didn’t appreciate the reminder of the world’s most embarrassing name, it was sweet. Really fucking sweet.
“Thank you,” I breathed, running my thumb over the carving. “I love it.”
His brown eyes lit up and he leaned over me, careless of the knife, to kiss me. “Keep it on you at all times.”
“I will,” I agreed, relieved to have something to defend myself with if Nightmare threatened me again. I sighed, pushing the thought away.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nightmare. She’s going to find me. If you’re right that cursing us is part of her plan for power, she’s going to hunt me again. She would have caught me if you hadn’t found me yesterday.”
Tor’s upper lip peeled back, a low, threatening noise revving his chest. “She won’t get anywhere near you. You are mine, not hers. I’ll beat her head into a shattered pulp if she even looks at you.”
“That’s… a vivid picture,” I murmured. But having two death gods on my side—the jury was still out on Miz—gave me a level of comfort and reassurance I didn’t have yesterday. “Thank you. I appreciate you protecting me.”
“Always,” he swore, gently taking the knife from me to set it on the bedside table.
My eyes widened when he laid me back against the cushions and glided down my body.
“What?” he asked, demur and wicked all at once. Those light brown eyes were glittering with mischief again. “Did you think I was finished with a single orgasm?” He scoffed. “My wife deserves more than one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CAT
After the way I’d woken—and the way Tor kept me occupied for a whole hour—I needed a run, needed to clear my head in the way that only early morning exercise could. Not only did I have the curse and Nightmare to stress about, but my new marriage to three death gods, and the fact that one had woken me with oral1 and the other had dropped by to leave breakfast, a lime green tulip, and my phone. That gesture made my heart full.
I’d eaten the bread, delighted to find it filled with chocolate cream as I cleaned up as much as I could. I changed into activewear leggings, a loose vest, and a hoodie with my knife in the pocket, and then jogged down the stairs of Lawrence Hall, taking a direction at random when I was outside.
It wasn’t raining yet, though I could have used a cold shower to cool the heat in my blood when I thought about Tor. I swore I could still feel his tongue on me, the sensation so much more intense than it had ever been before. Probably because Tor actually knew what he was doing. Honey’s derision for Clay, my one and only boyfriend, made me smile as I jogged around the side of Milton Hall, curious about what lay behind the main building. I’d glimpsed graves from the windows while I took classes yesterday, so I was prepared for the graveyard with its weathered headstones. But I blinked at the massive circle of mausoleums, towering high above my head, each decorative and ornate.
“Wow,” I breathed, unable to resist the urge to stop and inspect them. My family travelled three times a year, so I’d seen a lot of curious things, but I’d never seen a circle of mausoleums. I supposed the travelling would stop now I was at school. It hadn’t been the same without Virgil anyway. Maybe we could all go to Sydney to snoop around his university.
I fished my phone from my pocket and snapped photos to send to Mum, Dad, and my brothers, stepping back to show the circle of mausoleums as a whole, then getting closer for the details—roses carved around the doorway of one, Ford’s sea serpent motif recurring in most of the small, stone buildings, names etched above doorways, each one a Ford except for one: Caishen Malevollus.
“That,” I said, “is one hell of a name.”
Caishen Malevollus sounded like a Disney villain. I traced my fingers over the black dahlias etched into the stone around the doorway, leaning onto my tiptoes to see through the thick glass panels. Unlike the other tombs, this one was plain inside, lacking the luxury and details of the others—no gilding, no stars on the ceiling, no sea of serpents below. It was bare stone, almost austere. Lonely.
“I’d hate to be left to rot in one of these things,” I said, as if the ghost of Caishen would hear me, and walked to the next mausoleum, peering inside. This belonged to Rosalind Ford, presumably the same woman the woods was named after—Rosalind Woods. She must have been well loved to get a wood named after her. The inside of her mausoleum was ornate and full of faded colour—enamel and frescoes that someone had taken care to paint.
As far as distractions from my problems went, this was a pretty good one. I must have spent an hour in the graveyard, going from mausoleum to mausoleum. There were thirteen in total, an eerie number that called to mind bad luck and Friday the thirteenth. I was just about to move on and continue my run, the path taking me around the side of Milton Hall towards the lake, but footsteps crunched a twig behind me, and I spun with a gasp.
I only realised I was expecting one of the death gods when I saw Alastor Carmichael storming towards me, his golden hair bright in the new sunlight and his long coat open, flaring as he rushed across the graveyard.
“Alastor?” I asked, a ripple of unease in my belly. “Is something wrong?”
He laughed, a sharp, stunted sound, and it was too late to back up when he came at me.
Rough hands met my shoulders. My back slammed into Rosalind Ford’s mausoleum door, and I gasped at the shock of pain, the unexpected attack.
“What the fuck…?” I breathed, my unease turning to full panic when I saw the look in his eyes—sharp and bright with rage. Hatred. He hated me. But he barely knew me.
