“I will simply sit beside you, and I won’t interfere with your sleeping in any way.”
“No way,” I say. “You said I could have the bed, so you get that chair. Besides, there’s no way I can sleep if you’re right there beside me.”
“You nearly fell asleep while riding me, and you were definitely beside me then.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s different.” I point. “Chair.”
“It’s not large enough for my frame.” Hearing him state the obvious makes me smile again.
“Look, once I come out of that shower all clean, you will not be on that bed.” I point, and I glare at him with real energy. “Okay?”
He blinks. “But won’t you just put dirty clothing back on? What’s the point in cleaning?”
“It’s the best I’ve got.” I shrug. “Not many options here, sir.”
“I like hearing you call me sir.” He lifts his chin. “What if I made you clothing? Would you continue to call me sir?”
I freeze. “You can do that?”
He balls his hands around, spinning and twisting some kind of dark smoke between them, and then he presses his hands together and yanks something out of the twirling darkness. When he extends his hand, it unfurls. It looks like a long black dress.
“What on earth is that?”
He offers it to me.
“A dress?” I shake my head. “Do I look like I wear dresses a lot? Try again.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He starts to toss it over his shoulder.
I snatch it out of the air before it can hit the disgusting floor. It’s black, it’s gauzy, and it’s strange-looking, but it smells like fresh leather and campfire, so I carry it into the bathroom. Maybe I can wash my clothes and hang them to dry. If I think about it as a nightgown, it’s not so bad.
The shower feels amazing, and I can’t stop marveling that somehow, my feet are healed. They looked like raw hamburger and felt even worse when we stopped at that gas station. But now, they’re pink, smooth skin. I suppose even death magic can help restore some things. After I’m clean, I do my best to scrub and wring out my tattered and fraying jeans, half-trashed shirt, and ripped jacket. The black dress turns out to be much more substantial than I expected, with gauzy but not at all see-through fabric that hugs my arms and legs, swirling out and around from my calves down to my ankles.
It’s pretty punk rock, which I should have expected seeing as it was made by Death himself, but I don’t hate it. A pair of black boots would make the whole thing almost awesome. The exact pair I had in my brain is waiting for me outside when I step out of the steamy bathroom.
“What’s this?” I reach for them.
“You were projecting again.” He’s lying back on the bed, his head leaning against the headboard.
“Hey.” I can’t decide whether I’m more annoyed about him being on the bed or about him reading my mind. “Stay out of my brain.” I set the boots down near the edge of the bed. “And get off.”
He slides over to the far side. “I don’t think I will. This is much nicer than the chair.”
“You can’t be here if I am.” I fold my arms.
He pats the empty part of the bed. “I disagree. You’re quite small. You should fit just fine right here. I promise not to touch you.”
I believe him. He seems entirely devoid of any kind of carnal interest, and the idea of genitalia freaks him right out, which I find funny, but I don’t love the idea of having him so close. “What if you bump into me while I’m asleep, and poof. I die? What then?”
He rolls his eyes.
“Seriously, something bad happens to you if I die, right? That’s why you haven’t killed me, even though I’m annoying?”
“Who says you’re annoying?” His cobalt blue eyes bore right into mine.
“I—” I swallow. “I stabbed you. That had to irritate you.”
He frowns. “It did.”
