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“Now, what is this?” The Death God does not raise his voice. There is no need to. The dark, quiet rasp in it is like a sword sharpened against stone. “I have been too kind in the past, have I not? Too accommodating? That must be why,” he says, with barely repressed rage, “you would dare even entertain the idea of hurting her.” He lifts two fingers. Dark smoke quickly gathers in the space between them, snaking down to his wrists. “Maybe I ought to be more punishing.”

“N-no, my lord,” one of the ghosts stammers.

The others are quick to join in, the chambers filling with the cacophony of their pleas.

“No, please, we didn’t mean to . . .”

“We were just cold . . . Her blood would warm us . . .”

“We’re sorry, my lord. So sorry . . .”

“She is a healer god . . . Just one sacrifice, and all of us would be saved . . .”

“Forgive us, my lord . . .”

“It won’t happen again . . .”

“We couldn’t help ourselves . . .”

But the Death God’s voice cuts through them all. “Let this be a reminder,” he says, terribly soft, “that only I can kill her. Anyone else who tries will know a pain ten thousand times worse than death itself.”

Then he lifts a hand, palm up. Dark smoke quickly gathers between his fingers, snaking down to his wrist, and the ghosts begin to shriek.

“What—what are you doing to them?” I ask, startled. In mere seconds, they’ve fallen to the floor, writhing and twitching and clutching their heads as though they’ve been sliced in two. Their wild keening presses against my eardrums, and despite the fear still coating my tongue, I feel a prickle of pity. Just from the pitch and volume of their screams, I can be certain that whatever agony I’d endured is little compared to what they are experiencing now. The Death God has made sure of it.

As if hearing my thoughts, he turns his head the barest fraction, offering me a view of his face for the first time. I draw in a surprised breath. Though I’d heard it in his tone, I am wholly unprepared for the cold fury in his gaze, sharp enough to cleave the moon, to carve through ice. There is no hint of humanity to be found. He is death incarnate, a lord of the underworld, with no more warmth in his veins than the ghosts kneeling at his feet. “Do not worry about them,” is all he says. “Worry about yourself first.”

He snaps his fingers again. The ghosts disappear, though their howls can still be heard faintly through the thick walls and closed doors of the palace. The Death God barely seems to notice as he twists around in full and takes two steps toward me.

Then stops.

I am abruptly aware of how I look to him: my hair uncombed and curling with sweat and running wild, my back pressed to the bed, my robes ripped in too many places to count and sliding up my thigh.

His hand hovers in midair, uncertain in a way he so rarely is. “You’re bleeding,” he says.

“I can handle it myself,” I tell him. “Relax. It’s simple to treat.” Free from any interference, it is no real challenge to heal my wounds. Wincing slightly, I adjust my position and reach down, a bluish glow emitting from my palms. I let my hands hover over my legs and the marks on my arms, feeling the warmth spread through me, my powers rippling across my skin like light over the surface of the sea.

The relief is instant.

My pain dulls into a quiet throb before vanishing entirely. The angry red gashes begin to close, too, my flesh stitching itself together until only thin white lines remain, shallower than scratches, and then seconds after that, perfectly smooth skin.

“See?” I say, stretching my bare legs out over the sheets. “All better.”

His gaze drifts up slowly, and the air in the room seems to heat. There is a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. As intense as the rage that had flared mere moments ago, but softer, molten, calling to life something buried in my chest. And I am still so shaken, so shocked by the events of the night that for a few delirious moments, I wonder what would happen if he drew closer.

“You should have called for me right away,” the Death God says.

“I didn’t think you would come,” I admit.

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you still mad at me?”

Something shifts in his expression, and I half expect him to laugh at me for asking such a childish question, as if we have been engaged in a petty argument, rather than attempting to kill each other. “Oh, trust me, I’m perfectly furious,” he says. “But I seem to be getting quite accustomed to the feeling, thanks to you.”

“I am sorry, you know,” I say, offering him a small, tentative smile.

He doesn’t exactly reject it. Just holds it, motionless for a few moments, staring my way like he thinks it might be another trick. “About what? Trying to stab me? Or trying to poison me? Or lying to me? For all I know, you could be lying to me now. Maybe you’re not sorry at all,” he says, lifting one dark brow. “And you only want me to forget the matter quickly so you can plan your next move.”