“Who was it?” Rolfe asked, tone more solemn this time.
Death turned and leaned his hips to the counter, leaving his hands wet as he gripped the edges at His sides. “Sutton,” he replied, wisping bang falling over his left eye.
Rolfe cursed. “Damn shame,” he muttered. “He was a good man.”
Death pushed off the counter, bare feet brushing the cold wood floor as he stepped to the table and grasped his coffee. “He was,” he agreed. “I let him suffer too long. He deserved better.”
“His family might disagree.”
Though the comment only made him feel a little less shitty.
“To Danbri,” Rolfe said, raising his mug.
Death lifted his own in response.
The first touch of coffee on his tongue brought a sigh to his lungs. Lifting the weight of his morning off his shoulders and bringing him peace with the mere hot bean water. He’d often contemplated over the years how this small plant held the power that it did, how it calmed and surged his being in all the ways needed.
Witches.
Luna sprawled out in the middle of the table, her deep purrs sounding with the rain pelting against every window around the house.
The newspaper had a grand article in it about Death’s Day, including a large photo of the castle and cemetery gates. It looked like someone had tried to break-in again to grab a photo of their King. There was a piece titled ‘Will the King appear on Death’s Day?’ held at the bottom of the page. He skimmed over the writing, catching questions and speculations of what He looked like littering the paragraphs.
He kicked his feet up on the tabletop as he flipped to the second page.
“You should check the front lock,” he told Rolfe, who was now eating cereal.
Rolfe paused mid-slurp, brow quirking. “Should I?”
Death fluttered the front page and pointed to the article with the photo of the foyer with his middle finger. Rolfe practically threw the spoon in response.
“Fuckers,” he mumbled. “Knew I smelled something off the other morning. I’ll change it out before the celebrations start. I was hoping to have a little fun tonight.”
“With a strange being or your hand?”
“Probably both,” Rolfe replied, almost making Death smile. “What about you?” Rolfe asked. “Will you be going as yourself or that shit little demon you doodle on your face every year?”
“Shit demon doodle,” he replied. “You?”
“I don’t need makeup to make me look scary,” and the response made Death’s head tilt around the paper at his friend.
Rolfe wasn’t wrong. Rolfe had a rugged stature and quality about him that struck fear into most. His hair was longer on the top and he kept it swept back, buzzed on the sides with tattoos behind his ears. His handlebar mustache and neck-length beard were thick cinnamon-brown despite the darkness of the brunette hair on his head. He was always wearing snug black t-shirts, and the fabric strained against Rolfe’s thick tattooed arms.
What stuck out the most about Rolfe, though, were his ice-blue eyes. They were round and wide and made him appear as though he could control one’s mind if he stared for too long. Which, Rolfe had been known to do, especially in his other form.
Death knew Rolfe’s co-hort, Millie, would have another plan for him. She would probably make Rolfe sit and have his makeup done after she finished doing His own ‘demon doodle.’
He turned back to the paper just as Rolfe started slurping on the almond milk again. An article on autumnal season plants caught his eye at the bottom of the last page beside the advert for the farmer’s market hours. He folded the newspaper in half and took another gulp of his coffee as he read.
Something thudded against the window.
Death flipped down the corner of the paper and locked eyes with Rolfe.
“On it,” Rolfe said as he stood.
He turned back to the paper and continued reading, confident Rolfe would take care of whatever it was outside. And if it was an intruder or photographer, He was sure Rolfe would have a little more morning fun than he wanted to know about.
“Hey, boss, you may want to look at this,” Rolfe said as he stuck his head back inside the door.
