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“I am going to take care of you, my marked, mortal mate,” Tristan promised. “I am going to love you into eternity.”
This was Tristan’s gift to Mort. Even in this satisfied state, he saw the hunger in his husband’s eyes, and knew without a shadow of a doubt that Mort had never allowed himself to take this role, though some hidden part of him had craved it. Not just submissive. Something deeper than that. Something less and more. Surrendered.
“Go back to sleep,” Tristan cooed gently. “I will make pancakes in the morning.”
Mort’s dark lashes fluttered against his cheeks. He obeyed.
It was still night when Tristan stepped out beneath the stars, sucking in not air, but power.
“Interloper.”
The German Shepherd he had once seen in the hospital was standing before him. He saw it for what it was now, not a dog, but a god.
Having already met Loki, Tristan was not impressed. Anubis was great, powerful, and very dangerous — but not to Tris. Tris saw the cracks of age and the bitterness of comparison in Anubis’ visage. His presence here was predatory, like his prototype, the jackal. This god had been circling Mort for a long time. Waiting for him to fall. Waiting for him to fail.
Anubis narrowed his jackal-eyes at Tristan.
“My father will not permit this.”
Tristan snorted, his upper lip curling. “Your father has no say in this. Loki may fear his power, but I fear nothing. Besides, your father will soon know what I know, what everyone will soon know.”
“And what is that?”
“Mort belongs to me.”
Anubis snorted.
“You are a jacked up little mortal playing with death, and there is only one way for that to end.”
Tristan extended his hand, reaching for something he felt, but could not see. Obligingly, a scythe appeared in his hand, the grip materializing from his fist, lower part of the staff extending toward the ground, upper part reaching for a starlit blade, which curled long above his head.
There was a prickling sensation as little claws made their way up his back. A little white kitten with bright blue eyes settled into his hood and began to purr.
Mort had not just passed on immortality. He had passed on the duty of the reaper as well. Tristan was ready to take on both burdens.
“I am the reaper now, Anubis. I am not like Mort. I understand death. And I know what drew him to me the day he found me trying to kill myself.”
“What was that?”
“His own death. A yearning for his own end. Freedom to forget. To be, and to become again. I will give him a lifetime of love, and when it is time, I will lead him to Lethe. I will watch him as he is reborn. And when he is of age, if he chooses me again, I will love him again. He deserves an eternity of happiness, and I will give it to him. Again. And again. And again.”
Schwip!
Something pink zipped past Tristan’s ear as a slice of ham was flung off the porch, flying past Tristan’s shoulder and over Anubis’ head.
“Fetch, boy,” Mort said from the safety of the wooden deck, safely behind Tristan. “Fetch, fuck off, and don’t come back.”
Anubis bristled. “You dare disrespect me because you hide behind your mate.”
“Damn straight,” Mort rejoined without a hint of shame. “Our rivalry is at an end, cousin. You have no business with me anymore. Find another family member to feel superior to.”
“You should leave us,” Tristan said. “We are not in need of any third wheels.”
Anubis made a sound of discontent, a predator deprived of his prey, but under the twin gazes of Tristan and Mort, he took his leave, sinking into the darkness with a certain awkwardness that satisfied Tristan very much. Only when he was sure Anubis was gone, did he turn to Mort.
“I knew the scythe would look good in your hand,” Mort said. “Cute kitten.”
Tristan turned toward Mort, and Mort saw the full force of what he had sensed the very first time he laid eyes on Tristan. This was his rightful, proper, fated replacement. Mort’s father would have no qualms with this development, because Tristan was perfect.
He stood like a cold angel under the silver moon, his his ice blue eyes absolutely radiant with beauty, kitten padding in his long blond hair.
“How much did you hear of what I said to Anubis?”
“Most of it.”
“Was I right? Did you come here looking for your end? Did you plan this all along?”
“I’d like to say yes,” Mort said. “But I am incapable of planning anything. I knew when I saw you that you were special. As I grew to know you, I understood you had a destiny. But I, like you, am a creature of impulse and instinct. Blame destiny. Not me.”
Tristan smiled at that. “That’s true. Blaming you for the outcome of your actions would imply you had considered them.”
