For a heartbeat, my veil tightens over my true nature, as if the way her aura dims with each blink frays the edges of my illusion, letting her see who will come for her soul soon enough. But there’s no fear, only an unknowing recognition that pricks even at my patience.
Finally, her wrinkled mouth parts. “You look like a man who doesn’t sleep.”
Indeed, and it’s her stubborn daughter who’s to blame for it. “Work keeps finding me endlessly.”
Mother hums as if she expected as much. “Elara has always had work, too,” she says. “Even when she was small, she’d rather carry a bucket than play with dolls. Always hauling something heavy, like it was her birthright.” Her mouth curves. “When she was upset, she’d go sit among the stones behind our home. Said the dead listened better than the living.”
A faint tremor runs through my hands, so slight I’d deny it if anyone could see. I don’t like that I can picture her so perfectly: little Elara, crouched among headstones, making a home out of the very stillness mortals fear, moving through death like it’s a room she belongs in—my domain, my purpose.
The fact that she fits there, that she fitswith me, twinges at that tightness in my chest. It’s…unnerving.
“Suppose now that she’s queen somehow…she has to take a husband.” Mother shakes her head. “The girl can no longer hide in graves now, cozying up with death.”
A chuckle slips out, only to die on the sharp memory of Elara grinding against me in that fresh soil, feigning a desire this traitorous body was all too eager to answer. Why would she ask to see my true form? Strategy? True curiosity?
Certainly not attraction. Her panting would’ve curdled to screams had I revealed myself. Even if her lust was real, it wouldn’t survive the sight of a half-corpse god. Amonster.
I give Mother a nod, if only to rip myself out of my mental ramblings. “She does seem to have a penchant for the morbid and the macabre.”
Mother simply shrugs as she glances at the chapel doors. “She’s…late.”
“She’s alive,” I murmur. “That’s enough punctuality for this kingdom.”
Mother’s lips thin at the bluntness, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she takes one more step closer and lowers her voice.
“I don’t know where you came from,” she says, “or how my daughter wound up wearing that mean-looking crown.” Her eyes flick to the door again. “But if you’re going to be her husband…be kind.”
The request is so earnest it almost irritates me. “I do not believe myself to be particularly kind.”
Mother nods slowly, as if she expected that, too. “Then at least be useful.”
My teeth grind, an instinctive bristle I have to swallow before it shows. The absurdity of this is laughable—Death taking orders from his future mother-in-law. Yet the words sink in with a strange, grating weight, like a hook catching on something I forgot was there.
Just this damn cord.
I stare down at it again, yanking at it with two fingers, buying myself a deeper breath that smooths the ripples of my frustration. Despite the fact that Death can’t die, I have no intention of letting a blade bleed my throat. Neither will I indulge Elara’s pathetic attempts at seduction, only further fanning her lunacy. No, I will simply…wait.
What are twenty years to me? Thirty?
A blink. A breath.
I’ll remain true to my word and endure the tedium of her aging, of course. Watch the gray overtake the brown in her hair. Listen to her heart stutter to its inevitable?—
“Get away from her!” The command cracks through the chapel.
I look up.
Elara stands in the archway of the heavy oak doors, caressed by deep green silk and velvet that make even the dim chapel light look rich. The bodice fits tightly around her shapely body before flaring out in heavy, embroidered folds. Long sleeves adorned with golden threads flutter behind her as she comes down the aisle in long strides that straighten her spine, lending her neck a posture of elegance.
It should delight me. It should amuse me, a dozen taunts lining my teeth like knives. Oh, look at how she finally abandoned her coarse deathcloth. Look how even a vulture can pass for a peacock if draped in prettier feathers.
My mouth parts, and out comes…
…nothing.
Because I’m fucking gaping, not at her gown, but at her hair: pinned up in the most straightforward, most practical twist, a few ornery strands refusing captivity at her temples. No jewels. No elaborate braids.
Just Elara, plain and simple.
