Ilys scowled, a small, dangerous flame kindling in her chest at her own refusal. “I will not pursue him until we have addressed whoever remains inside.”
The deity, with his supernatural glower, relented. The air still buzzed with his anger, sharp as static, but he dismounted and followed her inside. Her limp slowed her, and he overtook her easily. Up the narrow stairs, he halted before the door, gesturing for her to enter first, like this were some gatheringshe had forced him to attend rather than the likely prison of the suffering.
The room was much the same as the last. Three girls bound, their faces pale with terror. This time, Ilys tempered her approach, kneeling, voice soft.
“You are safe now,” she promised, working at their knots with careful hands.
Two of the girls shrank back, trembling. But the youngest, no more than fifteen, flung her arms around Ilys’s waist, sobbing into her robes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
From the corner, Death’s gaze bore into her, cold and unblinking.
Ilys waited until the girls were clothed, then guided them outside. She apologized for not being able to return them herself. When she looked to Death, asking for his mare, she felt only the echo of his haughty laugh in the back of her mind. He gave no answer, turning from her as if she had never spoken.
The girls stumbled down the road, murmuring that their village was near, their hope sparked by Ilys’s description of the land.
“You are unfeeling,” she spat once they were gone, her words sharp as steel.
Death turned his head, considering her. When he spoke, there was no anger, only certainty.
“I am Death. I feel nothing. I want nothing. I am.”He held out a shadowy hand, one that turned to flesh when she grasped it and he helped her astride his mare. “Thanks to your diversion, you will have to find sleep in my arms. Our pursuit will pause no longer.”
Hatred surged in her chest, a tide she could not quell.Diversion?His disregard for mortality, for mercy, was boundless. She dreamt of a thousand ways to kill him—bladethrough his throat, dagger in his ribs, poison slipped between his lips—until the violent catalog blurred, softened, and sleep stole her against his chest as they rode.
Chapter 20
They traveled the entire next day as the sun was dragging itself across the sky in a laggard, punishing arc. Death pressed forward without pause, relentless, allowing her only the barest mercy to relieve herself before forcing her back into the saddle. Her muscles burned, her spine ached, and still he did not relent.
By dusk, the shadows lengthened, and his temper frayed. The air around him crackled, the edges of his form blurring with agitation.
“I have lost him,” he cursed, the words a low snarl spat against the wind.
Ilys blinked, heavy-lidded with exhaustion, but his fury sharpened her attention. She almost smiled at it—his failure, his rage.
By the time the village lanterns flickered in the distance, Death slowed his mare. The mortal guise had already settled, dimming the cold brilliance beneath. As they reached theoutskirts, his hand suddenly shot ahead. Without warning, he wrenched her backward against him in the saddle and masterfully undid the veil pins before tugging the fabric from her head.
Ilys gasped, instinctively reaching for it, but he didn’t so much as glance at her. He crammed the veil into her satchel with brutal efficiency, the gesture cold, final. Then he released her just as roughly, his grip shoving her back into place.
Her scalp prickled in the night air, hair exposed, her face bare. She burned with humiliation, fury sparking in her chest, but he rode on in taut quiet.
When they reached the inn, he dismounted first, not offering her a hand. He tied off his horse, claimed two rooms without a word, and dragged her forward when she faltered, as though she were cargo, not company.
The innkeeper behind the counter scrawled with a ledger open and a stub of charcoal poised in hand. He looked up as Death approached.
“Two rooms,” Death said flatly, dropping a stack of coins onto the counter.
The innkeeper wavered for a heartbeat, then slid two keys across the wood. Death scooped them up without acknowledgment, turned, and thrust one into Ilys’s palm with a rough shove before striding upstairs.
He did not look back. His door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls, leaving her veilless and seething in the corridor.
Her chamber was small but clean: a narrow bed, washbasin, and single candle singing against the wall. She shut the door hard, dropped her satchel to the floor, and tugged at the ties of her cloak with shaking hands.
She readied herself for bed, movements stiff, mechanical. Boots unlaced. Cloak folded. Dagger laid on the table within easy reach. Each motion failed to cool the heat under her skin.
Because he was right there.
Through the wall’s frail boards, his presence seeped—Death, silent and self-satisfied, inhabiting the next room as if the night had left no mark. As though ripping her veil away, parading her bareheaded into the inn, had been his right.
