“A striking woman deserves a striking date. Plus, it is my belief you need to be reminded of your roots. Before all this business with your grandmother and war, what made you, you?”
“Money worries and a chaotic life with supernatural squabbles.”
He chuckled. “No, Cora. Death made you, you. And it still does.”
“In name, not in nature.”
He paused beside a tree swaying gently in a breeze. Under it sprawled a set of fur blankets and an array of picnic foods. I was on a date with the god of death, and he’d brought me to a cemetery picnic in the middle of the night. He thought he was being so smart, yet everything about this scene was a cliché.
I glanced around. This scene was missing one ingredient. “Where are all the ghosts?”
“I sent them away. I thought you’d appreciate the quiet.”
More than he knew. Everyone wanted something from me. Every time I stepped out of my apartment, there was a laundry list of jobs and requests. I hadn’t realized the toll that was taking until this very moment.
I lowered myself onto the blanket and selected a sandwich. Damn, the god of death had a good caterer. Did they do weddings? The sandwich was halfway to my mouth when Donn reached into the basket with far too much ceremony, withdrawing a glowing blue bottle. He quirked a brow.
“What—” I began.
“The essence of a particularly chatty ghost I bottled earlier. He told long-winded stories about fly-fishing. I assumed you’d appreciate the peace.”
I stared at the glowing bottle, then at him. He thought ridding me of a problematic ghost was the equivalent of a bunch of roses. He and my father would make good friends with their ridiculous ideas of what constituted a good present.
“You extracted a ghost’s essence and turned it into a beverage?”
“Only the boring parts.” He popped the cork, and a whine drifted out, like a man complaining about bait quality.
My stomach twisted, and I dropped my sandwich onto a plate. “That’s not romantic. That’s a war crime.”
He frowned, genuinely confused. “I am removing obstacles before a courtship. I was being considerate.”
“That is not modern courtship.”
“I researched mortal mating customs. Step one: bring offerings.” He raised the glass of blue soul-infused liquid. “Step two: impress with displays of dominance.” He shrugged. “That’s to come.”
I folded my arms and glared. “I’m ecstatic to witness it.”
“Step three: invite her to witness your power over the dead.”
“Those are not steps. That’s true crime documentary fodder,” I snapped.
Indigo stirred with interest.“Does he serve souls for dessert?”
I ignored her, watching Donn pour the shimmering soul-wine into two delicate glasses that absolutely did not belong on a blanket in a cemetery. They looked like the sort of crystal you only used for summoning elder gods—or impressing your date with your ability to commit coded atrocities.
I cleared my throat. “Normal wine is fine. Or water.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Normal wine does not sing when poured.” A faint hum drifted out of the glass, sounding like a dying barbershop quartet.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Donn.”
“Yes, Cora?” he drawled, faux innocence dripping from every syllable.
“This.” I gestured at the glowing bottle, the graveyard, the fur blankets, the Coachman of Doom. “Is dramatic.”
“I am dramatic,” he said without shame.
“Normal dates involve movies and popcorn or a restaurant without soul sacrifices. Crazy golf is also an option.”
