I watched as the tension in his shoulders softened, though his air of melancholy remained. “Then…forgive me for my severity.” He looked me over, bit his lip, and then scooped my hand into his own. My pulse quickened. “Despite what I have said, I do not wish you to come early to my wings,” he professed. “Apollo is the guardian of prophets, yourself included. He isvindictive, and he is not fond of me. You are in great danger should he become aware of our…” He cleared his throat. “Of this.”
“That is why I have told no one about you,” I assured him. “I will be fine. Though this is the first I’ve heard of Apollo not liking you.”
“Doesanyonelike me?” he deflected sardonically. “Besidesyou, for some unknowable reason?”
“Why do you need more than me?” I quipped, trying to brighten his mood. “Surely one idiot oracle is enough to soothe your ego.”
He laughed, and the usual luster returned to his eyes. “Indeed. I require nothing more. In fact, allow me to expound upon your original theory, dear oracle, as a matter of penance. You suppose that the Olympians must be awaiting a prayer in order to receive it, yet you base this notion upon an observation ofme. It is fallacious.”
“Oh? And why is that?” I encouraged.
“Because I am different to them.”
“How so?”
“Iam a primordial concept, unbound by the emotions that shackle them and unswayed by the pleadings of gods or men. I cannot be fickle. Hence, it stands to reason that I may not be able to hear prayer the same way they do.”
“Being steadfast does not imply a profound difference, unless you mean to say you are without the agency to deviate from your patterns,” I debated.
“I haveagency,” he scoffed. “I simply do not have the same inclinations. You could hardly catch me being fed fanciful things atop the clouds.” He helped himself to an olive as he said it, and I swallowed the urge to snicker.
“Yes…you rarely have the inclination to eat, as you said. Just as yourarelyconverse with the living; yet here you are,sharing a snack with me. If you’re truly bound to concept, then why did you return when I asked you to?”
“I told you. I was curious.”
“So Death can be curious, then. Why not indulgent?”
“Indulgence is not in my nature.”
“You’re indulging me right now,” I contended. “Or is this still curiosity?”
“Hmm.” Thanatos raised a brow. Then, with the slightest motion, he stroked my index finger with his thumb. “Could it be that each time we meet, you ignite mycuriosityanew? For instance…I had not known it possible for a mortal to sleep peacefully in the arms of her ruin.”
“It would be rather selfish of me to call youmyruin,” I said. “I know well enough I’ll be made to share your wings.” The words came to me so readily that I didn’t spare a thought before speaking them aloud. Flirting with Death was so dangerously easy.
Thanatos breathed deeply and moved closer, by the width of a hair. “I have another curiosity, then.” He freed his hand from mine, only to bring it to my shoulder. He traced the path of my collarbone with his thumb, lingering where the edge of my clothing gave way to bare skin. Another measured breath, and he stroked lightly down my arm, from shoulder to elbow. We both watched as goosebumps trailed his touch. An unmistakable blush washed over my face.
“My curiosity concerns this…reaction,” he murmured intently. “It is not fear, is it?” His eyes snapped back to mine. He knew the answer.
“No,” I breathed. “It is not.”
Thanatos blinked slowly, his lips parted. He retraced his delicate caress from my elbow to my shoulder, then around to the nape of my neck. “You can always tell me to stop,” he whispered. “To leave.”
I drew a steadying breath and replied with the raw truth. “I am far more preoccupied with hoping you’ll come back.”
Thanatos massaged a circle into the soft skin of my neck. He stared at my mouth, and then at my eyes, and my heart fluttered rapidly against my ribs. But then his brow furrowed ever so slightly. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he focused his gaze to something behind me. I turned to see his scythe propped up against the wall.
Of course. I had almost forgotten. My shame and insecurity rushed back over me, and the tension between us snapped. I hung my head, shoulders sagging.
“Cyrie—”
“Can I see that?” I asked, motioning to the scythe. I begged him with my eyes to not put words to his thoughts. I didn’t want to talk about what he was planning to do with it.
Thanatos acquiesced with a dejected sigh and a nod. He shifted our empty plates onto the table, then paced around it to retrieve his scythe. His wings sprawled behind us when he sat beside me again, and he laid the weapon across our laps with the blade flat on his thigh.
I felt his eyes on me, and I readjusted myself to move slightly nearer, to open myself to his touch again. Despite my fraught emotions, I was certain I still wanted it. When I was rewarded with his hand pressed to the small of my back, I returned my attention to the scythe.
It was a weapon both elegant and menacing, adorned with swirling geometric patterns etched expertly into the lustrous metal. Its sleek, gracefully curving haft joined seamlessly to an arcing crescent blade at the tip, the flow of its line unbroken by any designated grip. Clean and polished though it was, an array of nicks and scratches along the blade betrayed its purpose as far from ornamental.
