“On my honor,” he swore. “It is not your time. Not yet. Let me warm you first.”
The wind gusted and the moon bent closer. He bent closer, the entire world starlight and spice.
“Just to get warm,” I whispered.
VII.
In His Desert
The ride on his stallion passed as if in a dream, and I remembered it as if looking through a frost-covered window. At some point I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. When I next opened my eyes, I was tucked under a pile of blankets in a bare room,alone, still as I had been—dirty and scratched, shrouded in my grave shift, fingers and toes intact, dirt on my thighs unmarred. I did not know where Death had taken me, but he had honored his promise to bring me there unharmed. Relief flooded me.
I should have been more on guard. I was a prostitute, after all, I knew all men masked their true nature. But, I reasoned to myself, Death was no man. I pulled myself up onto my elbows and tried to get my bearings in his world.
He had placed me on a makeshift bed in a small room such that you would find in any château kitchen cellar, with a wide hearth on the fireplace for cooking. A thick layer of dust lay over the empty shelves and the hearth was cold. I imagined Death did not often host fetes and wasn’t in need of large storehouses, but I wondered how long I’d been left alone to have the fire die. I couldn’t gauge the light coming through the half-moon window high on the stone wall. It could have been morning or evening.
“You’re awake.” His sudden arrival filled the room with his presence, like a cloud across the sun.
Death.
His hood was removed, as was his veil. And instead of an icy abyss or a swirling shadow, he was in the shape of a man. A dark-haired man with a strong brow, slight curl at the ends of his hair, and a Roman nose—younger and handsomer than I had imagined. He was as tall as I remembered. Lean and clothed in a black tunic and hose and boots—clothing as spare as a monk’s, but as finely wrought as a king’s. That faint smell of rich black spice and blowing snow still emanated from him.
He must have sensed my wariness for he did not even look at me, keeping a careful distance as he crossed to the cold fireplace. Was Death a man? A god? A demon? He seemed all of them and none of them. He clasped his long fingers, clad in black leather gloves, behind his back. Without even a word, flames sprang alive among the coals, crackling as the charred logs lit.
As the firelight played along the edge of his profile, I felt as if I were witnessing the visage of some divine being. I swallowed quickly and looked away, overcome. His presence made me feel too aware of my every breath.
“Any lingering frost?” he asked, still with his back turned. “I believed I removed it all, but …”
“Oh! No, I am well.” I shivered against a prickly flush I couldn’t tell was hot or cold, and pulled the blankets up tighter. “How does Death heal?”
“I only undid the work of my servants,” he said. “You might call them Frost and Fright.”
“What do I owe you for your kindness?”
“Your life,” he said simply. Almost carelessly. “Do you have family?” he asked.
“No,” I answered plainly.
“How did you become a whore?”
“I ran away from a convent.”
“Where were you going out there, all alone?”
“I …” But my voice trailed off and I stared into the coals. It all came back to me then. The horror of blood. The whispers.Dacia.Had she seen? I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. “I crawled out of my grave,” I said.
He stiffened and bowed his head to stare at the floor, as if stopping himself from turning to me. I felt like I had surprised him, somehow. What did Death know of life? Ofmylife?
“Why did you leave the convent?” he asked quietly.
He knew. I could feel the word, shimmering between us.Witch.
“I was not suited for a nunnery,” I said, lifting my chin.
“I have never come across one such as you. Do you not know what you are?”
I felt a bit like he was playing games with me, so I played right back. “I am the devil’s gateway. I am the unsealer of that forbidden tree. I am the first deserter of the divine law. I am she who persuaded him whom the devil was not valiant enough to attack. I am the destroyer of God’s image, man.”
“Tertullian,” he said placidly, hands folded behind his back. “Yes, I’ve read his work. Strange to hear such learning from a prostitute.” He did not seem at all disturbed. “Have you killed someone yet?”
