“Do you know who I am?” the voice asked.
I didn’t want to look away from the warmth, the light. It was dimmer now; the rose was losing its depth. It wouldn’t shine forever, was already fading.
“Do you wish to know who I am? I find curiosity to be one of the more enduring traits of humans. Not that you have been among them as long as you may have wanted to be. You and Lula.”
The name,hername, wrapped around me like a chorus of voices, a garden of fragrance, a universe of stars. Lula. My heart. My love.
“Yes,” the voice said. “Love. Such a simple word for something which contains so much power. The power to comfort. The power to heal. The power to lift a soul and call it home. Where is your home, Brogan Gauge? Do you remember it?”
The curiosity in those words made me turn, made me look away from the glitter to answer the voice.
It was not a voice. Notjusta voice. It was a god.
He was tall and very lean. His dark hair was combed back as if it were a daily observance of perfection, his eyes deep enough to swallow the void. All the lines of him seemed whittled to a razor’s edge.
The wooden staff—no, snath—supported the curved blade of a great scythe over his head, the weapon dripping with black and silver blood.
“Who?” I spoke, without air to carry the word.
“Death,” he said, with a slight nod. “Thanatos, if you wish. Do you know of me?”
I did. What I knew of him was fear. He was the monster I raged against, the angel I prayed to.
“Death,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you remember me?”
I remembered he was the god who had abandoned me. Abandoned Lu. The god who had trapped us in a state of un-living. Both of us not quite dead, nor fully alive for nearly a hundred years.
I hated him. Feared him. Longed for him. I never wanted to meet him. Not without Lula by my side.
“You don’t look like Death.” There was something strange about him. The scythe made sense, his sharp, emaciated features, bones nearly visible beneath his skin. The eyes of eternal darkness. But something was wrong.
“Do I not?” he encouraged.
It was his shirt. That’s what was wrong. He should be wearing a cloak, tatters, funerary ash.
Instead, he wore a bright red T-shirt with the map of a town, or maybe the shape of a state, drawn on it. Letters above the map said:Ordinary is never boringand below the map:Ask me for a tour.
There were little waves on one side—an ocean, I thought—and tourist destinations drawn out, including one that appeared to be a shrine to a penguin.
“Are you really Death? The god of death?”
“Of course,” he said, looking pleased to be recognized. “However, my attention and attire are occasionally turned toward things other than ending mortal suffering.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Vacationing,” he said, as if I should have guessed that’s what he was talking about. We were walking again, his tone conversational. “Have you heard of such?”
“Vacation?” I asked.
“Just.”
“Yes,” I said. “Most people have heard of vacations. Holiday. Leave.”
“I find it…interesting.”
“Vacations?”
