I clear my throat. “Hello?” My voice is quiet, shy, and I get no response. “Um . . . Death?”
Hearing those words come out of my mouth and drift into the empty bedroom makes it pretty damn hard not to stop and roll my eyes at myself. But I resist, sitting up a little straighter instead and trying to add backbone to my voice.
“If you can hear me, I’d like to . . . I don’t know. I’d like to see you. To speak to you.”
Silence.
“I—I have questions.”
Still nothing.
Okay, this is ridiculous. He probably can’t hear me; not that I know anything about him, how any of this works. If another person were to tell me they met Death himself and were having one-on-one conversations with him, I’d take their temp or give them a drug test.
Yet here I am.
After another long moment of silence, I shake my head and peel the covers off. The wooden floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I pad to the restroom, where I brush my teeth and take a short bath. It’s still early. I have no reason to rush before heading over to Mr. Blackwood’s, but the time seems to be ticking slowly by, leaving me with over an hour to spare once I dress in dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After pulling my hair into a ponytail, I turn on my heel and crash straight into a solid, warm figure.
“Wha—Jesus—” I look up to find those blackish grey eyes piercing into me and stumble back a step. The fact I just saidJesustoDeathis not lost on me. His dark hair is just as disheveled as the last time I saw him, and he’s wearing the exact same fitted, black T-shirt molded to the hard shape of him, with dark, worn jeans over sculpted thighs. “You can’t just keep . . . sneaking up like that.”
His jaw tightens, the only indication of a reaction. His eyes are closed off. Hard. Dark brows furrow, almost slight enough to miss the movement completely. He says nothing though, which only makes me more aware of the way he seems to take up my entire bathroom. He’s practically pushing me out with his presence alone.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt the all-consuming way he commands a room, but usually I can’t see him. Somehow, this feels different. More intimate in some ways, letting me see every flicker in his eyes, every tick of his jaw, each curve of muscle. Less intimate in others, relying on words instead of touch.
I yank my eyes away from him and maneuver my way around his body until I’m standing in the large open space of my room. He turns his head over his shoulder, eyes tracing my movements. He exits the bathroom, taking two large strides until he’s standing beside the unlit fireplace.
There’s about ten feet of space between us, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I get the impression he wouldn’t be able to simmer down his heat and intensity any more than the sun would.
Finally, he speaks; the roughness beneath the cultured tone of his voice makes my spine tingle. “Your questions.”
Straight to the point. I wasn’t prepared for that and don’t really know where to start.
After a beat, I say, “So, you can hear me then.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Okay. . . You can hear me then?” I make sure to emphasize the upward tilt at the end, exaggerating the—now—question.
“Apparently, yes.”
“Apparently?”
“Are these your questions?” The way he asks, it’s not like he’s mocking me, but rather genuinely confused. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle.
“You were here a few nights ago,” I mutter. When I realize that’s another statement, I add, “Weren’t you?”
A pause, then a firm nod. “In a way, yes.”
I frown before recalling I wasn’t able to see him that time. Is that what he means byin a way?
I’m about to ask when the hard edges of his body begin to blur, smooth shoulders fading enough that I catch glimpses of the brick wall behind them. It’s not much, not like last time when he disappeared, but I realize he might be about to take off.
The next thing I say comes out of my mouth on its own, in a hurry before I lose my chance. “You saved me.”
His muscles tense, jaw ticking again and eyes somehow hardening even more. Scared he’s going to leave before I can go any further, I force my legs to take a step forward, then another, until I’m close enough to have to lift my chin to see those eyes.
“Why?” I whisper. With the closeness, his warmth reaches me like a silky blanket teasing my skin, making me want to inch even closer. But I don’t.
A moment of silence passes. “I can’t answer that.”
