Or, fuck. Make me your bride.
Why the hell did I say that?
“Make me your bride?” Bell repeats.
I look at her with wide eyes. “You read minds too?”
“No, you just said it with your mouth.”
I run my hands over my face and growl. “Urgh. I had told Death earlier that he could take me in exchange for my father, and then I offered various reasons why he should. One was that he could make me his bride.”
“Hmmmm,” she says.
“What?” I shoot her a sharp glance.
She purses her lips together for a moment. “As I said earlier, there’s a prophecy. Perhaps you could find out more about it from Raila and play into it? If you could be Death’s bride…”
“I don’t want to be Death’s bride!” I yell.
“Shhhh,” she hisses, motioning with her tiny hands to tone it down. “Take it easy, mortal girl. What I’m saying is if you could be Death’s bride, that would make you the Goddess of Death. The new one. And then you could do anything.” She notes the disgruntled look on my face because she quickly adds, “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Have him marry you, or fall in love with you, or at least like you enough to give you more freedom. Make him happy. Do what you can to make that happen, make him want you and want to be around you. Then when you get it, you escape. You go back home. They can’t get you there. That’s your world, your terrain. You’ll be safe. You’ll be with your father, you’ll get to live your life again, and none of this would have counted. None of it.”
I stare at her, wishing it could all be as easy as she makes it sounds.
Then the sound of the key in the lock makes me back away, the rest of my coffee spilling to the floor, and Bell ducks under the water, swimming into the back corner, disguised by an aquatic plant.
I run over to the bed and sit down on the end of it, coffee in hand, trying not to shake, just as the door opens.
The tall figure of Death strides in, a sight that makes my entire body tingle, with fear and something else, something ancient and primal.
“Good morning, fairy girl,” he says in a booming voice that carries across the room. “How are you planning on annoying me today?”
Go fuck yourself, I almost say but Bell’s suggestion rings in my ears. Nice. I have to play nice. No, I have to play more than nice. I have to act like I want to be here, want to be with him, and I have to do it in a way that doesn’t read fake either.
No fucking pressure or anything.
“My, my, my,” he says, folding his arms across his massive chest and staring down at me. “Those wheels are definitely turning. Plotting my demise? Have complaints about your coffee?”
I watch as he removes his hood so that his face is no longer hidden in shadow, my eyes widening at the sight. He has a different skull on today, a totally new face. A human skull with gilded teeth stretched in a macabre smile and impressive gold ram horns that curl back from the head. The gold matches the accents on his black leather gauntlets that cover his hands. The rest of his clothes underneath his black velvet robe are dark colored with leather accents at the waist and shoulders. Somehow he manages to look both medieval and modern.
I feel his eyes burn from behind the skull as I continue to gape at him. “I take it you’re impressed by my mask of the day.”
“I was more impressed by the French press you got from Ikea,” I remark. “What is the story with that?”
He tilts his head, and I feel him study me closer. It’s most unnerving, to feel someone’s eyes so clearly and yet still not see them. Since this is a mask he’s wearing, I find myself trying to see into the depths of the eye sockets, to see a hint of iris or whites of his eye, like I thought I did the other day. But there’s nothing but a black void.
The most disturbing thought enters my head: what if he doesn’t even have eyes? What if he’s wearing a mask because the thing underneath is even scarier than the masks he wears?
“You’re very observant,” he says in his low, silken voice. “And I have to admit, I find it fascinating that in all that you’ve seen so far, it’s my coffee-making device that has you asking questions.”
“I have more questions,” I say. “You have a mask of the day. Why? You ugly or something?”
The air in the room goes still and I swear I hear Bell gasping underwater. I’m preparing for a clap of thunder, or perhaps a lashing of rain against the window, but the heavy pause ends when Death bursts out laughing. The sound is hearty and sincere, filling the room, and it makes me wonder how often he laughs like this.