I pointed my finger at my open mouth.
He twitched one eyebrow upward. Sniffed. “I know what soup is, Reed Daughter.”
“Delaney, remember? Or Boss, if you’d rather.”
“Yes. Well.”
He lowered the spoon, gave the liquid a slow stir, scooped again. Just when I thought he was going to do nothing but stare at it, he opened his mouth and took a deliberate mouthful.
Not every god fits into Ordinary seamlessly. Some refused to give up their names and their bombastic mannerisms. Some walked around like they owned this universe and collected rent from all the others.
But even the gods who tried to play it cool, who fit into the mortal world easily, like Crow, like Cupid, still had this little something that shone through every now and then. Something that set them apart.
I was very aware that I was watching the god of death try a new thing: canned chicken and star soup. Watching him experience the world was fascinating.
He lowered the spoon back into the soup, stirred, and tried a second bite.
Then he placed the spoon and bowl back on the coffee table.
“You don’t like it?”
“I can’t like something I am unable to taste. Isn’t that the pleasure of consuming? Isn’t that the point?”
“Sure,” I said, nodding at the tea, which he proceeded to pour, then dollop honey into. “But food is more than just consuming. More than just the pleasure of taste. It’s necessary for a mortal body to function. Especially when a body is fighting a cold.”
He hummed, pinched and nasal, and sipped tea. “Much more pleasant.”
His eyelids drooped, and his normal complexion—somewhere between fish belly and snow melt—had an uncharacteristic blush over his cheeks.
Fever?
“I need to touch your forehead.”
He froze, both eyebrows lifting.
“To see if you have a temperature.”
He opened his mouth.
“A fever,” I corrected. “Because if you have one that’s too high you could need more than just soup. You might need stronger medicine. Or to go to the hospital. People your age…”
“Myage?” He drew himself up, shoulders pulled back. “People? There are no otherpeoplesuch as I, Reed Daughter. The god of death is not some kind of…of plastic membership card handed out at street corners for all comers. My temperature—”
He bent to the side and sneezed again into his elbow, careful to hold his tea up to keep from spilling.
“—is of adequate joules. Fever. Indeed.”
“I’m not even going to comment on that little tirade. Where’d you learn to cover your sneeze?”
I pressed the back of my hand against his sweaty forehead. He was hot, but not burning up. I didn’t know what his normal temp might be, but if it was anywhere in human range, I’d say he was in the clear.
“I am Death,” he said, his nose all stuffed. He blew again, folded, blew, then dropped the tissue in the bag. “I am familiar with sickness and disease.”
He sipped tea, and those eyes over the top of the cup were sharp. Had this all been a lark for him?
“Tell me you didn’t just invite me over so you could show off your cold.”
“Delaney. Such cynicism. Now, tell me why you are unhappy.”
