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You would have to ask Death, she says. All I know is that this is the way I am always to present myself when dealing with others.
She stops lathering my head and then scoops the water in the wood bucket, immediately dumping it over my head, the soap running into my eyes.
Close your eyes, she says cheerfully.
“Yeah thanks for the warning.” I wipe my eyes quickly before she pours more water on my head, the bathtub filling with suds.
“When was the last woman here?” I ask as she starts shaking another tin jar into her hand. “You said it had been a long time since a beautiful one was here.”
Well, Lovia is beautiful, but I don’t think you mean her. There was Louhi of course. She was Queen. She was the Goddess of the Underworld.
“And what is she now?”
Not here, Raila says simply.
“What does she look like?”
Beautiful, in a savage way, she says, rubbing some thick red goop into my strands, making my dark hair blood-colored.
“Please don’t tell me that’s bat’s blood or something,” I say, gesturing to the lotion.
It’s conditioner, she says. I’m not sure what it does. I don’t have any hair myself, but Lovia created it with the skin of frostberries. Sure does look like blood doesn’t? She says that last part almost wistfully and I try not to cringe.
“But what does Louhi look like?” I ask again, strangely fascinated with Death’s ex and their messy relationship. “Can you describe her?”
Oh sure. Tall. Taller than you. Very slender. Narrow hips. Big breasts. White skin. I try not to roll my eyes, since Death seems to have gone totally stereotypical in his choice of wife. Fangs, she then adds. Claws. White eyes. Several large ridged horns coming out of her head. Giant wings. Long red hair.
“Wings?” My eyes widen. “Horns? Real horns?”
Well, she is part demon, Raila informs me. Part witch too. Lapp Witch, the oldest and most cunning of the witches.
The image I’ve conjured in my head is terrifying. “Something tells me I don’t want to meet her.”
I would advise against it, Raila says, pouring water over my head again while I sputter. But she’s not allowed to step foot inside Shadow’s End. They have an agreement. In exchange for letting her live, she’s not allowed to leave the Star Swamp. She has her lover there in her own castle, but she can’t see Death or her children or interfere with the politics of the worlds at all. She had to give up her crown of crimson.
“And so far she’s done that?” I ask warily. If she’s part demon and part witch, I don’t see her giving up all her power and prestige so easily.
So far, Raila says, scooping up another bucket of water. I pinch my eyes shut and hold my breath as it cascades down again. There. Nearly done.
I look down. The tub is a gruesome sight, the red conditioner turning the water a wicked shade of red, like I’m bathing in blood. It makes me think of Louhi’s crimson crown.
“Was it an actual crimson crown?” I ask, moving my hands under the water so that I create waves of blood. “Does she still have it?”
As I said, she gave it up. It’s in the crypt. Waiting for the next Goddess, I suppose.
I think back to the prophecy. Death seems to think that whomever he’s allowed to touch without killing them will end up becoming the new Goddess of Death. Is that where the alliance is formed? Between him and his future wife? Or is the alliance between other worlds or other gods?
Okay, stand up, Raila says to me, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I stand up in the bathtub, trying not to slip, fighting the urge to cover my breasts and nether region. There’s no point, she’s seen it all.
She’s grabbing yet another tin jar and shaking what looks like brown sugar into her gloved palms. Time for a scrub, she says. Lovia taught me to do this as well. She said the mortals use it for exfoliating these days. Not that I have much skin to scrub.
I try not to make a disgusted face. I feel like Raila’s happy-go-lucky attitude could turn murderous without warning, and having no hair and not much skin might be a sore spot for her. Literally.
Especially as she’s applying the scrub to my body and rubbing vigorously. This time I decide to just grin and bear it, even though I feel like she may be trying to remove my skin in the end, perhaps to wear it herself.
I shake those thoughts out of the way as she finishes and starts pouring more water over my body, then slides a wet washcloth over every inch of skin. Finally she brings out a towel and starts drying me off.
There, she says triumphantly. Squeaky clean. Now to get the powder. She looks around her. Oh where did it go?
