Page 67

“You’re very good at that,” I tell him, when there are no arrows left.

He makes his way back to me through the wide-eyed crowds, his cheeks a little flushed. “It’s hardly a fair competition,” he says, dropping his voice so nobody else can hear him. “A god against mortals.”

“But they don’t know that. And look how much they love you.”

He scoffs, though his gaze remains gentle on me. “Then they’re too easily impressed.”

“Have you really never played one of their games before? Even with all that time you spend in the Mortal Realm?”

“No,” he says.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He pauses a beat, then slowly, he shakes his head. “This night is very strange.”

“How so?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I cannot explain it. I feel . . .” His long fingers rise to his heart, grasping at the dark silk fabric covering his chest, seemingly unable to find the right words. His throat pulses. “Light. Is that normal?”

Pain flashes through me like the splash of scalding water. The more time I spend with the Death God, the more I wonder how he has survived the past five hundred years. What it must be like to carry the grief and hate of the world on your shoulders, and not even have somebody else to help hold that weight for you when you are exhausted. To be so used to the constant heaviness that the absence of it feels wrong.

“That’s perfectly normal,” I reply.

He lets his hand drop back down to his side, and when he looks at me, it’s with a tenderness I hadn’t known could exist. “Rujia, I—”

Before he can go on, an elderly woman barges into the space between us, a basket of flowers swinging from one arm. “You were incredible,” she gushes. “I’ve seen hundreds of people attempt that game, and nobody has played it as well as you. How about a flower, as a gift? The first one is free, and if you so happen to like it and want more, I can give you a bunch for a highly reasonable price.” She turns from him to me and offers a knowing wink. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate it. These flowers are as beautiful as she is.”

Keran has fallen quiet, his shoulders tensing. Something like fear flits in and out of his eyes.

“Here,” the old woman tells him, oblivious to his reaction. “No need to be shy. Take this.” She picks up a vivid red peony, the brightest one in the basket, and starts to press it into his hand—

He flinches back as if he’s been burned. The flower tumbles to the tiles.

“Keran?” I ask, uncertain.

His expression is wiped of emotion, his features hardening into stone. His eyes are a deep, deadly, fathomless black. The old woman gasps and cowers to the side, shaking madly like she’s seen a ghost. There is no mistaking him for a mortal anymore. He looks like the very worst of the gods, like he could destroy the Three Realms with a single tilt of his head. He takes one wordless step back, and then another, and then he twists around, his cloak billowing behind him, and sets off in the opposite direction, leaving me with his name on my lips and the peony fallen at my feet.

I chase after him.

Elbows bump against me; shoulders jolt into mine. I push through the crowds, ignoring the yells and bewildered glances that follow me down the street. I cannot bring myself to care about anyone else right now. I hold tight on to the dropped peony, cupping the half-crushed petals with one hand to protect them, and pick up my pace.

“Keran,” I call, my gaze locking on the back of his head. “Keran.”

The silver in his headpiece glints with the pale light of the moon. He slows down, his frame so rigid he could be carved from ice and jade, a statue dropped in the middle of the Mortal Realm. His fingers are clenched into fists.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, weaving my way forward until I am right behind him, standing in his shadow. This close, I could reach out and touch his sleeve, force him to turn around and look at me. But I make myself wait. Swallow the sharp edges of my hurt. There has to be a reason, an explanation for his actions, and I have to know why.

A wind blows past like an expelled breath on a yet-dried ink painting, brushing out the long, black spill of his hair, the soft strands fluttering with the red ribbons woven into them.

Very quietly, his voice almost buried beneath the hum of activity around us, he says, “It’s not normal.”

“What?”

“I thought I could be,” he says, still refusing to so much as glance back in my direction. Refusing to, or afraid to. “I thought . . . I could play pretend. That a normal life was possible for me. A normal life, as if I would know anything about it. Even if it was only for a few seconds, it is perhaps the most foolish thing I have ever thought.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I say. “But if you’re willing to talk—if you could just tell me—”

“Why are you even here? Why did you follow?”