“Cheat you?” I gawked.
“Yes, Tempest. Cheat me.”
My spine went rigid, and I briefly wondered if this had all been a ploy to soften the blow. Smoothing my hands over my lap, I stood to leave and threw my napkin on the table for good measure. What if something had happened to Arthur? Or Leo? What about Mary? I hadn’t received any correspondence from them in quite some time. My skin began to itch beneath the silk of my gown and I tucked my hands between my folded arms as ifthey glowed and I needed to hide it. It was a bad habit, one that accompanied the frantic pace my heart had set.
Hardly making it a few steps, Death’s broad hand came around my wrist as he pulled me back to face him. “You mistake me, woman. Death is not the same as fear.”
“Even so, do not expect me to thank you,” I bit out.
He chuckled, as he rose to meet me. “I know better.” His gaze pinned me, sharp and unrelenting. “But you will dance.” His hand slid from my wrist, fingers slipping between mine. The touch crackled through me, fierce and electric.
Before I could protest, I was being dragged through crowded tables. Death’s grip was tight as he led me to the middle of the dance floor. People laughed as they clinked their champagne glasses together, candlelight revealing their merry faces. Leaning back, I gathered the train of my red silk gown in my hand, trying to keep up.
Spinning to face him, the soft swing of the band caused my heart to clench as I gazed upon my damnation. His eyes were dark and mysterious, his jaw sharp and set. My gaze lingered on the curve of his upper lip, and his reddened cheeks that stood out against his ashen gray skin. Did others see him as I did? Or did they perceive something else? A fractionated version of the indomitable man before me.
Yet he wasn’t a man, he was an omen. A relic. A god in his own right.
“Don’t think, Astoria. Just dance.”
But when the room fell dark and all I saw before me was a ghostly shape in a vast of color, my mind grew quiet. The soft swing of the band swelled as a clarinet carried a gentle and swaying melody. My sharp tongue fell silent, and my reeling thoughts fell into line as he pulled my body closer, much too close to what was appropriate, but I didn’t push away.
His hand came to my waist, settling right under the soft silk bow at the small of my back. “Are you ready, Tempest?” His deep voice vibrated against my head, his lips grazing my forehead as he held me close, our clasped hands wedged between our bodies. I nodded, unsure if it was just my loneliness or if I would have to admit that something was breaking between us… still, I reveled in our closeness.
“Yes.”
Later, when we retired to my rooms, he surprised me again, loosening the bow tie at his neck before taking off his shining black shoes.
“What do you think you are doing?” I asked, a bit alarmed. The evening was lovely, we managed to sit through dinner without committing a crime and I had even enjoyed dancing. But now it was time for him to go.
“I am getting comfortable,” he replied before moving to unbutton his shirt.
“Why?!”
“To sleep…”
“Surely in another cabin, where you have your own bed and bathroom…”
Patting the firm mattress beside him he smiled, “No, right here will do.”
“No, absolutely not.”
With another snap of his fingers, I found myself looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The door locked behind me and a deep laugh rang out beyond the door. “Just dress for bed, Astoria.”
“I am not sleeping in that bed beside you!” I called out. If he was trying to raise my hairs…
Well consider them raised. I would not be sharing a bed.
My nightgown was not where I left it—in my trunk. It was folded beside a towel on the small cabinet in the wash room, myhairbrush beside it. If he expected me to change and walk out with a change of heart, he was in for a rude awakening.
“Care to finally explain why you’re here?” I spat, running the brush through my hair as I exited the attached bathroom. Death’s shirt was missing and his cotton sleep trousers were wrinkled and well-worn. He’d put on leather slippers lined with sheep skin and held a weathered book between his long fingers. The light was off, but a small table lamp beside him washed the room in a soft orange light, highlighting the shadows that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.
“Not particularly,” he answered, setting his book aside. Motioning me over, he took the brush from my hands and snapped his fingers so that the soft voluminous curls I’d just tamed into place reversed to their disorderly chaos of red trailing down my back. “I like it better this way.”
“Why are you here, Death?”
“I am sorry about Beatrice, Astoria,” he whispered, reaching for my hands at my side. Standing before him and looking down at the scythe of the universe made my head spin. What was I to him? What did it matter to him…
I've always had somewhat of a fire in my belly, one my mother claimed was part of the curse. Perhaps that’s why instead of accepting his apology, I pulled my hand away and glared back at him. He was the source of my pain, and the shame I felt over his presence threatened to swallow me alive. The orange glow in the room began to swelter, roasting my body in the fires of hell. Here I was dining and dancing with the king of hell himself and forgetting the war between us was not and would never be fair.
