Sikras gave Death a playful nudge with his elbow. “Come on, you wouldn’t keep dropping by if you didn’t find us at least a little charming.”
“In my eternity of existence,” Death mumbled in a strict monotone, “only seven casters successfully played host to the Cat’s Eye. You are by far the worst. Those before you may have allowed the power to corrupt their bodies, minds, and souls, but, here you are, of sound mind and spirit, still willfully torturing your alleged companion by denying him his right to eternal rest.”
Sikras gasped, hand over his heart. “You think I’m of sound mind? That’s so flattering.”
If Death had eyes to roll, she surely would have. Instead, she gently rested both palms on Sikras’s shoulders and squeezed. “I know there is good in you, Mr. Nikabod. You may be a killer, a compulsive liar, a man who has little respect for the dead’s right to eternal rest, and youcertainlyconned me out of my precious scythe—”
Sikras smirked. “Was it really a con though? A bit of luck, maybe, but—”
“I know you’re not a bad person,” Death continued, “which is why it issofrustrating when you act like one.”
A flicker of a flinch, then nothing.I know you’re not a bad person.Words Vessik had said to Sikras many times. So often, in fact, Sikras had believed him. He wanted to embody his dear friend’s pure heart. Nobody was kinder, more compassionate than Vessik before the cheese slid off his cracker, and he started slaughtering people like they were sacrificial lambs.
Sikras inhaled deeply. He could still be a good person. He could still be the man Vessik thought he was. Maybe. At the very least, he’d never let anything bad happen to Benjamin. “Ben is in good hands. You’ll see. I’ll find him some pants; it’s just taking longer than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, tell her I’m not that worried about the pants,” Benjamin called out as he absently strummed the lute. “I’d settle for a cloak or a long tunic. A man must leave something to the imagination.”
“See? He’s fine. Besides”—Sikras wriggled his shoulders out of Death’s touch—“I’ve got eight more lives left to find him a proper tailor.”
A low, thoughtful hum rumbled in the reaper’s throat. “At the rate you’re going, Mr. Nikabod, not even eight lifetimes will be enough to see you past the first stage of grief.”
“I never made it past the first stage of a lot of things. My wizardry apprenticeship, for example. Blood and bone, Vessik and I lasted all of two months, and we turned out fine. Mostly. I mean, if you don’t count Vessik’s last four years of mayhem, the thirty before that were exceedingly well lived. Don’t you think?”
Death’s arms disappeared into the cavernous sleeves of her robe. “Necromancers. Liches. Diavoli. You beings who violate essence, soul, and spirit will be the end of my sanity. Do you have any idea how many blank patches mar Enos’s garden where human essence should be?”
“Liches and diavoli are a little beyond my skill level,” Sikras mumbled, “but since you loath necromancers that much, you’ll be happy to know we’re off to kill Vessik.”
“Forgive me for not leaping for joy, Mr. Nikabod, but I’ve heard this proclamation before.”
Sikras frowned and turned away. “It’ll be different this time. We’ll have the Red Sentinel on our side.”
The reaper scoffed. “You could have the whole of Siaphara behind you, but you’ll still freeze faster than a flower under the chill of a frost giant’s breath when you come face-to-face with your undead wife.”
A sudden twitch betrayed the crumbling infrastructure of Sikras’s feigned confidence. “Just because that worked exceedingly well for Vessik last time doesn’t mean it’ll work again. Besides, failure isn’t an option. Saelihn has threatened poor, fragile Benjamin with jail time. You and I both know he’s too pure to rot in a dungeon.”
“Actually,” Ben cut in, “she threatened you. I’m just a casualty of your refusal to pay taxes.”
Death huffed. “Yet another slight Mr. Reese is forced to suffer in your company, it seems.”
An unsettling stillness locked all retorts in Sikras’s throat, until he cleared it. “Are you done wagging your finger at me, or is there more?”
“Just one.” Death’s eyeless gaze turned toward the scythe. “Have you been treating her well? My Niapoli?”
Sikras gave the weightless scythe a twirl and planted it into the ground. “She’s definitely not a glorified walking stick, if that’s what you're asking.”
Tension stiffened Death’s shoulders, and the sound of her grinding teeth rippled through the room. “An ancient relic of legendary acclaim reduced to holding the weight of a broken man.”
“I kid. I’d die for this scythe. If I ever got married again, this scythe would be the best man at my wedding.”
A ghostly sigh filled the air. “That’s the last time I barter with necromancers.”
“Probably for the best.” Sikras waved. “Safe travels, old friend.”
In a flash, the reaper vanished.
Benjamin cocked his head. “Is she gone?”
“For now.”
