“And that . . . is that how this all started?” I whisper. “That first time in my bathroom, I heard you. The second time I felt you, when you touched me.” He swallows at the mention of that moment, the act drawing my gaze to his throat. “And now, usually, I can see you.”
There’s a hard edge to his voice. “I didn’t have enough control in the beginning to cross over fully. I was both here, in your world, and in mine.”
“Your world,” I say quickly, remembering what happened with my hand. “I think I felt it—”
“Where I come from,” he growls, the strong reaction taking me by surprise, “is not someplace you will ever know. Do you understand?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. He looks impossibly threatening for someone lounging in a loveseat. “You’re learning everything about me and my world firsthand. It only makes sense I’d want to know a little bit about yours. About the person who’s stuck inside my room with me. I should get to know something about you, shouldn’t I? What it’s like being you?”
At that, he turns his gaze to the window, letting the silence build. When he responds, it’s quiet. Low. Dangerous. “You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to.”
“What makes you think you know what I do or don’t want?”
His eyebrow arches, and he leans forward. Closer. And closer. There’s something daunting about his movements, subtle as they are. Challenging. He doesn’t stop until our faces are inches apart. His heat pours over me from head to toe at the close proximity. So much for me being the one in control.
“You want to know what it’s like being me? What it’s like to steal a person’s soul?” he murmurs. The black in his eyes dances with the grey like wicked flames for a moment, until all that’s left is a cold, dark void staring into me. When I don’t respond, he continues, “To watch people die, every single second I’m in my world. See their fear when they look at me, when they feel my call. That moment they realize they will do anything,anything, I tell them to. Is that,” he says slowly, “what you want from me?”
My pulse is racing, my chest rising and falling. He’s so close that our uneven breaths tangle together.
I’m struck silent for a beat, frozen in place by his words, by his stare, by his essence. “Yes,” I finally whisper back, “that’s what I want.” His gaze drops to my lips, following each movement as I speak. “I want to know the person the universe has me so confused with. I want to know who’s sitting in front of me. That means all of it, the good and the bad.”
His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they’re colder than ever. “And that’s where you’d be disappointed, Lou. There is no good to be found in Death.”
Slowly, he backs away from me, until he’s pressed against the loveseat. He turns his head so he’s facing the window to his left.
“Maybe not in death,” I answer hesitantly, “but there is good to be found in you.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t indicate he’s heard me at all. Still, I continue, “I know there is, because I’ve seen it. It takes good to save a person’s life. And it takes selflessness to do it when you know you shouldn’t. When you don’t know what the outcome for you will be. That night . . . it was the scariest moment of my life. I really thought that was it, that I’d never wake up to see the sun again.”
Finally, he shifts his head just enough to look at me. And I meanreallylook at me. His eyes roam freely, lingering on every part they touch. They burn into my eyes, warm my neck, pierce my lips. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I take strange comfort in seeing that the green glint is back again. “Anyway, I didn’t realize what it might be costing you. Just—thank you.”
His silence torments me in the oddest way.Say something, I inwardly beg.Anything.
“Are there more of you?” I ask. It’s a desperate, scrambling attempt to fill the void, and it works—my voice snapping his eyes back to mine, holding his gaze there. Unfortunately, it takes the green with it, swirls of black-grey eating up any hint of warmth and replacing his stare with that deadly black ice.
“Yes.” He stands so gracefully it doesn’t make a sound and distances himself until he reaches the window. He doesn’t turn his back to me this time. Instead, he leans the side of his frame casually against the wall, in a way that looks almost unnatural for his sturdy build.
“Are they like you?”
“Our paths never cross.”
“So how do you know they exist?”
One dark eyebrow quirks. “Death is an endless game. It takes more than one individual to keep up with the demand.”
A cold, hard chill slides down my spine. I think back to the night I died. The first time I saw him. So firmly ingrained into my mind, I can remember every detail like I’m still there.Coming closer, floating, steadily closing the gap of blue-black water between us. The edges of his large frame are blurred, almost convincing enough to be a dream.
“And what—what exactly do you do? When someone dies?”
If voices had colors, his would be ash—black, smoky remnants of all that’s been lost. “I collect them.”
I can feel my life wasting away with each second, disconnecting me from my frozen heart. Something’s tugging at me, calling my name. A magnetic force trying to yank me away from my body.
My heart pounds against my chest, a dull thump ringing through my ears. “Do they always come with you?”
The closer he gets, the stronger the pull.
The way he’s looking at me, it’s like he sees the images playing out in my head. He’s right there with me in that ice-cold lake, flashes of lightening striking down above the water.
He knows as well as I do what I felt that night—that I already know the answer to my question.
