“Welcome,” a young man said from behind the counter, busy at the workbench stationed against the wall.
Cassian assessed the backside of the man. His apron revealed a tall and lean build, and his long black strands were tied back and hung between his shoulder blades.
“Hello.” Cassian positioned himself a few steps to the left to get a better look at what the man was doing with his hands. There was a pestle in his grip, and he seemed to be crushing up something in a matching mortar.
Cassian stood there for a beat, waiting for further acknowledgement.
His unhurried manner bit at Cassian’s nerves, and he stepped closer to the counter, eyeing the variety of broken stems and dried greenery spread out around the bowl. “A friend recommended this apothecary to me.”
The man placed the blunt tool aside and brushed his hands off on the front of his brown apron. Several silver rings glinted in the midday sunlight that streamed through the windowpanes. “What is it that you seek remedy for?”
Cassian glanced around, pretending to make sure the apothecary was empty before leaning in. “A remedy to raise the dead,” he said in a quiet voice. “I heard there is a young man employed by this apothecary who possesses a gift in such areas.”
The man lifted his chin slightly, flicking his eyes all over Cassian’s face. They were a muted shade of green, similar to a withered leaf that had been under the sun for too long. Clearly glamor, much like the matte complexion of his tan skin.
Cassian was sure of it. This man was the young god. But before Cassian could curse him, he first needed to verify it was, in fact, thecorrectgod. Mavros had only provided a location and a physical description—black strands, slender build, and eyes the color of an emerald.
The young god’s expression held like a slate of stone, giving none of his thoughts away. He blinked in slow strides, once, twice, leaning back and crossing his arms, scrutinizing Cassian.Perhaps one had to be worthy of his secret talent? Or maybe he, too, could sense Cassian was a deity. Suddenly, he regretted not putting more effort into his glamor. He should’ve shape-shifted.
To Cassian’s surprise, the young god spun around and fished for two ceramic mugs on the second shelf. Nothing about his body language suggested Cassian’s request unsettled him. “Was it someone special to you?”
“Yes.” Cassian resisted the tugging at his fingers to trace the brass buttons of his waistcoat. He placed his hands inside the pockets of his tailored trousers to cap the urge. “Very much so.”
“When did your loved one pass?”
Assuming the answer to the question required a specific timeframe, Cassian was careful with his response. “A few days ago.”
The young god moved towards the steaming pot on the corner of his workbench. “Tea?”
Without waiting for a reply, he poured two glasses and placed one in front of Cassian.
He glanced down at the steaming mug in front of him, a pleasant tropical fragrance wafting up his nose, and forced out a grateful smile, perturbed by the god’s inability to form full sentences. “Tea sounds refreshing.”
The young god tapped his long fingers on the surface of the counter, not touching his tea. “Tell me more about your loved one. Was it a relative or a romantic companion?”
Cassian took a small sip—notes of rose hip and sweet pineapple danced across his tongue. “Family. I do not have a lover. Is that a requirement?”
“I do not believe in the loneliness in which death provides, therefore no. There are no requirements.” The look of indifference was an uncanny contradiction to the deep topic he spoke of. “All I request is that you bring me the corpse, and knowthat I cannot repair the mind of the person you care so deeply for. Their mental state is up to the soul alone.”
“You believe loneliness plagues those who step into death?” Cassian blamed his interest in the matter on the calm ambience, the comfort of herbal scents permeating in the air, and the sweet, refreshing flavor of the tea on his tongue.
He had zero motivation to know whatever preposterous reason the god had for resurrecting the dead. At least, that is what he told himself as he awaited the young god’s reply.
Finnian leaned in and his upturned eyes shrunk into slits that made the skin on Cassian’s cheeks prickle. The dark specks of his glamor spritzed through his emerald irises, glimmering like river stones beneath.
“Why don’t you enlighten me on the topic, Lord Cassian?” He tilted his head, an irritating smirk slicing across his mouth. “Do you consider yourself lonely as the Ruler of Death?”
Cassian’s jaw pulsed. The young god was dangerously close, and that either made him foolishly arrogant or extremely naïve. Cassian could snatch him in his grip like the jaws of a predator before he even had time to register the act.
The thought lingered steadily as he stared at the young god, studying the features of his face—a pronounced brow-bone, hollow cheeks, somber eyes, pointed like the end of a dagger, framed by chin-length bangs.
Cassian had underestimated the young god’s prowess of observation. A mistake he would not make again.
Cassian shed his glamor, revealing his true appearance. His height grew, and he slightly towered over the young god. “Good. We can move past the coy remarks and get to the point. You are violating the dead. I cannot allow that to go on.”
Something flashed in the young god’s gaze, brazen and defiant. “And if I do not stop?”
His ego was ridiculous.
