Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4)

by Laura Thalassa

  “What else?” he asks.

  I pick up my wine glass, settling into my long-running list. “I hate that you’re oddly kind,” I admit, “and I hate that you get no joy from your task. It makes you seem so noble and it makes hating you that much harder.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his face has softened with my admission.

  “Is there anything else?” he asks.

  I bring the glass to my lips, taking another swallow of the expensive wine. “I hate that you’re beautiful.” More to myself than him, I add, “I can barely think around it.”

  I exhale, feeling oddly unburdened.

  The heat is back in the horseman’s eyes.

  Seduce Death.

  “I hate that I am drawn to you,” he admits.

  Now I lower my glass.

  When he sees my shock, Thanatos says, “Surely that can’t come as any surprise to you?”

  It’s always going to surprise me that this … this … this monstrous angel is interested in me, the girl who never outgrew her hometown and never made much of a mark.

  “I was better off before I met you,” he says. “There were few thoughts in my head then besides traveling and vanquishing. I spent no time musing on your eye color, or the savage expression you wear when you’re determined. I never replayed the way your body moved when you fought.”

  I swallow, and I know I have a look in my eyes, the same one wild animals wear when they know they’re trapped.

  I force myself to tear my gaze from him, turning my attention to my plate. Only this man could make me forget that I’m a starving woman sitting before a feast.

  Setting down my wine, I lift my fork and take a bite of the pasta. There’s a moment where the sauce and the noodles gross me out—where all I can think about is that a dead body made this—but then the flavor hits and it tastes upsettingly good. I have another bite, and another, and pretty soon I don’t much care who made this because I’m ravenous.

  I can feel Death’s eyes on me. I’m sure I look like a savage. I’m beyond caring.

  Eventually, I do come up for air.

  Next to me, Thanatos looks mildly horrified—which I take a gleeful amount of pride in—as well as very curious.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him.

  “Food of the living?” he says, his gaze fixed to my mouth.

  My mouth quirks at his words. “That’s a weird way of putting it,” I say. “Do you eat food of the dead, then?”

  “I’m a death deity. I don’t need sustenance at all.”

  I look him over—from his dark, wavy hair to his chiseled features, to the black wings and shirt that seem to devour the light.

  “Have you ever tried food?” I ask.

  “What would be the point?”

  He hasn’t. He’s never bitten into a ripe apple or twirled pasta around his fork, or had a bite of bread with melted butter.

  I’ve known for a while now that Death doesn’t have human needs, but to have never—not once—tasted food?

  I set my fork down.

  He’s still watching me with burning curiosity when I push myself out of my chair and approach him. Ignoring Thanatos for a moment, I pick up a slice of bread. I grab the bottle of olive oil that rests nearby and I pour a little of it onto a small plate that seems to have been set out for such purpose.

  I dip the bread into the oil and then I turn to the horseman. Bread and oil is one of the most basic foods; it seems like a good place to start.

  I take a steadying breath. Here we go.

  Before he can do anything at all, I sit down in his lap. I hear Thanatos’s sharp inhale, but then his hands fall on my hips.

  “If you try to stab me—”

  “With what, the butter knife?” I say teasingly. More serious, I add, “I’ve left that behind, Thanatos.”

  His fingers press into my skin at the sound of his name.

  I hold up the bread, a line of oil sliding down its flaky crust. “I want you to try this.”

  Death grimaces. “Perhaps I would prefer a good stabbing.”

  I bite back a laugh. Only this man would say such a ridiculous thing.

  “This is bread and olive oil. Humans have been eating it for thousands of years. It’s good. And I want you to try it.”

  His chest rises and falls. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you care at all?”

  “For a year now, you have forced me to experience what death is like. Maybe it’s time you experienced a little life for a change.”

  He hesitates, looking half convinced.

  “It won’t kill you,” I say.

  “An unfortunate truth,” he murmurs. “Death, I am comfortable with. This … I am not.”

  I’m trying really, really hard not to snicker at the fact that this man—who has been shot repeatedly by me—is afraid of a little bread.

  “This is your victory dinner,” I remind him. “And dinners are meant to be eaten.”

  He frowns.

  “And,” I add, “if you try it—” I hesitate, my gaze dropping to his lips, “I will kiss you.”

  His starry eyes flash. In an instant his hand closes over mine, and he brings the bread I hold up to his lips. He stares at it for a moment, scowling.

  “Everything in me revolts against this,” he admits.

  “Then you must really want that kiss.” I say a bit breathlessly. I’m trying to make light of it, but inside, I feel raw.

  Death’s eyes meet mine. Yes, they seem to say.

  While our gazes are locked, he brings the bread the rest of the way to his mouth. Without looking away from me, he takes a bite.

  That seems to break the spell.

  His face twists into a grimace, and I see him gag a little as he awkwardly chews, then forces the bite down.

  “It’s awful,” he gasps out.

  I can’t help it, I start laughing—I laugh so hard my entire body shakes with it.

  “It’s really not,” I say, quieting down.

  His eyes have returned to my face, and despite looking a little queasy, he stares at me like he’s never seen anything like me before.

  “Do that again,” he says quietly.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Laugh.”

  I give him a confused smirk. “I can’t just do it on call. Tell me a joke and I might.”

  He stares at my lips some more. “Hmmm …” Rather than telling a joke, he takes my hand and tries another bite of the bread—and proceeds to gag again.

  “I can’t—eat this,” he admits. “It’s … atrocious.”

  He grabs the wine his skeletal servant poured for him, presumably to wash the taste out, but it’s wine he’s drinking, not water, and this too, is an acquired taste.

  Thanatos nearly spits the liquid out, only stopping himself by pressing his fist to his mouth. Behind that fist, his face looks sickly.

  His throat works over and over before he manages to swallow it all down.

  “Devils, woman,” he wheezes out, his face twisting at the taste. “What is that?”

  But now I’m laughing again. I shake my head, unable to tell him.

  Death is doing his best to wipe his mouth with his hand, even as he watches me intently. “And you’d have me believe that life is enjoyable,” he mutters.

  With one last grimace, he drops his hand, his eyes fixed to me, and I’m pretty sure he only took a second bite of bread to hear me laugh again. That thought sobers me up, even as unwelcome warmth spreads through me.

  I take his glass and drink from it. I mean, it’s good wine and he’s not going to enjoy it.

  He marvels at me. “That is really wine?” he asks skeptically.

  I lower the glass from my lips. “Yeah, it really is.”

  Death is the picture of disillusionment. “I have seen and heard much about wine over the ages. I did not imagine it would taste so … disappointing.”

  “I bet the bread was a letdown too.”

  “Not entirely,” he says. He re
aches out and takes the wine from me, setting it aside.

  I give him a baffled look, not sure where he’s going with this.

  Rather than responding his hand goes to the back of my head. Thanatos draws me to him and it’s only in the seconds before my lips touch his that I remember.

  The kiss.

  Then his mouth is there, firm against mine. I suck in a breath because—

  It’s exquisite.

  Holding his hand was one thing, but to be caught in Death’s embrace, his lips seducing mine—I’d forgotten that kissing him was an entire experience.

  My mouth opens just the slightest, and he seems to be following my lead, his own lips parting. My tongue presses against his and Death’s fingers dig into my hair and he’s holding me to him like he doesn’t plan on ever letting me go. His tongue strokes mine and he kisses me with all the savagery that his reputation seems to promise.

  I am sucked under.

  My hands come up, cupping his face, cheeks, and I only promised a kiss, I can stop this. I should stop this.

  I don’t.

  I throw myself wholly into the kiss. I can taste the wine on Death’s tongue, and I’m sure he can taste the wine on mine, but he’s not gagging—in fact, by all appearances, he seems to like the stuff well enough after all.

  The hand of his that’s still on my hip digs in, and he grinds himself against me.

  I let out a breathy moan when I feel his erection against me.

  Is he even aware of erections and arousal? I bet he isn’t—not in any real sense. I’d wager money that this is another bread-and-wine thing, where Death knows, but he doesn’t actually know. I doubt he has any real idea what he’s doing or why things feel the way they do.

  The thought makes me smile against his mouth.

  “I like that,” Thanatos growls, his voice rough.

  I pause, breaking away just a little. “What?”

  “The smile you gave me while your lips were on mine—and the other thing, the sound you made just a moment ago.”

  The moan. Dear lord.

  This is all supposed to be happening this way. I’m doing everything right, yet suddenly—

  I pull more fully away from him, my breathing labored and my heart racing like mad.

  Death’s eyes are hooded when he stares at me, and he might not have any real experience with sex, but it’s clear he’s driven wild with want. That look is all it takes for me to once more feel like a cornered animal.

  I slide off his lap, swaying a little on my feet as I gain my footing. I haven’t slept well in several nights, and it’s all catching up to me. The wine doesn’t help either. I back away, even as my body cries out in protest.

  Thanatos watches me, the desire in his expression banking until all that’s left is a yearning so deep I can almost feel it. Or maybe that’s my own lonely soul seeking out connection, even though Death is the last person I should find it with.

  “Don’t go, Lazarus,” he pleads.

  But I do. I flee him then like I have so many times before.

  The trouble is, I have a yearning within me that rivals the horseman’s. And I’m not ready to face it—not yet.

  But I’ll have to, and soon.

  Chapter 40

  Sugar Land, Texas

  July, Year 27 of the Horsemen

  I rub my eyes the next morning as I pad through the house. I didn’t get great sleep last night. I kept waking up feeling as though I was forgetting something, only to then remember that something was Ben.

  Even though my mind knows he’s gone, instinct keeps demanding that I perform the same old parental habits I’ve done for the last six months.

  I cut through the dining room, which has been cleared of last night’s meal, and enter an enormous, industrial kitchen, lured in by the smell of breakfast. I stop in my tracks when I see several skeletons hard at work in the room.

  Just how many of these revenants are there?

  One of them is frying eggs in a skillet, another is cutting fruit. And oh God, dead people really are preparing food and I have never dreaded my own hunger as much as I do now.

  At least the revenants are nothing more than bones. If they were still fleshy … I don’t think I could stomach that. Unfortunately, there’s a faint smell that clings to them, one that I have no name for, but it must be what old, desiccated things smell like. That, or this kitchen has a funky odor all on its own.

  One of the skeletons pauses their work and turns to me. I stare at the undead servant for several seconds before I realize—I think it’s waiting on me.

  I clear my throat. “Um, good morning.”

  Why are you saying good morning to the skeleton, Laz?

  “Uh,” I continue, “you wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?”

  The revenant swivels around and heads for a French Press that I didn’t notice earlier.

  I marvel.

  It understands me.

  The skeleton grabs a mug hanging in a nearby cupboard and fills it with the rich liquid.

  Behind me the door to the kitchen swings open, and I sense Death a moment before I hear his deep voice.

  “I see you’ve taken to my servants’ cooking, after all,” he says from behind me.

  I spin around, my breath catching at the sight of him. Those dark eyes all but beckon me to come closer.

  That’s when I register that from the waist up, Thanatos is naked. No armor, no shirt. Just hundreds of strange, glowing tattoos that bathe him in silvery light. I suck in a breath at the sight.

  How have I never noticed these before?

  Except … War had tattoos like this along his knuckles. Only his had been red.

  I study the markings. They look like … language, though none I’ve ever seen, and they cover every inch of skin from the base of Death’s neck to his wrists. By the looks of it, the strange markings continue down beneath the waistline of his pants.

  I try not to dwell on where else these tattoos might be.

  “Where’s your shirt?” I say breathlessly, my gaze still pinned to his bare chest. The horseman is truly built like a god, his physique heavily muscled.

  “Elsewhere,” Thanatos says.

  Death’s gaze shifts over my shoulder, and I glance behind me, only to see the skeleton approaching me with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, a porcelain creamer in the other. Behind it, the other skeletons are still busy at work.

  I reach out for the coffee. My fingers brush against the skeleton’s finger bones, and I nearly drop the mug.

  Get a grip.

  Steadying myself, I take the creamer, giving the skeleton a tight smile, feeling like I’ve gone mad.

  I sense Thanatos, meanwhile, watching it all with a perverse amount of pleasure, though perhaps I’m just assuming he enjoys my discomfort.

  I pour a little cream into the drink, then hand the creamer back, proud that my hand doesn’t shake. I have seen and done many disturbing things, yet this is what spooks me. A skeleton.

  I all but elbow Thanatos out of the way to escape the undead, pushing through the door and heading into the dining room. Only at some point since I entered the kitchen, undead servants have entered this room too. Two of them are beginning to set out more platters of food while another cleans drapery that already looks spotless. Through the windows I notice another two revenants tending to the shrubbery that surrounds the house.

  I stare at them all in abject horror.

  “Don’t tell me there is something my wild-hearted Lazarus is scared of,” Death says, studying my face as he steps up beside me.

  My wild-hearted Lazarus. A shiver courses through me, and I tell myself it’s from the sight and not his words.

  “Make them stop,” I say, uncaring whether or not they are capable of taking offense. This is wrong.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Thanatos replies just as fervently.

  I rotate to face him, my coffee half-forgotten.

  “Do you not remember, kismet?” he says, tilting h
is head. “You told me I didn’t know how to take care of you. So I learned.”

  All the air seems to escape my lungs at his admission. I had assumed as much, but to have it confirmed …

  My gaze sweeps over the skeletons once more, and now instead of seeing the horror of their existence, I see—I see a horseman trying to prove his worth to a woman who scorned him.

  “I was hoping you’d like it,” he continues. “I want you to be comfortable. I gave you a reason to run last time. This time, I want to give you a reason to stay.”

  My throat bobs.

  “How long have you been getting this place ready?” I ask softly.

  “This house in particular?” he asks, looking around us. “A month. But there were other houses I found and prepared and other servants who assisted me along the way. I have spent our time apart amassing all the … necessities you might need—clothes, food, and a dwelling fit for a queen.”

  My God. Meanwhile, I’d resented the hell out of him. I mean, I had good reason to—he was making my life a living nightmare. But still.

  I rest a hand on a chair back near me, sagging against it a little.

  The horseman’s eyes flick over my form. “Care to sit?” Thanatos gestures towards a fainting couch in an adjacent room.

  Distractedly, I head over to it, taking a seat and setting my coffee down on a nearby side table. The horseman follows me over. Only when he sits down next to me do I realize that this piece of furniture may have very well been one of the items the horseman took with him to this home; the shape of it allows for Death to easily sit while accommodating his wings.

  I want to ask about those wings, which are so large that they drape on the floor behind him like the train of a gown. I want to ask about the glowing markings too, the ones my eyes keep dipping down to. I find I want to touch them badly, and I have to clasp my hands to stifle the urge.

  Death catches me staring, and embarrassed, I force my gaze away. I can feel his inquisitive eyes on me.

  “How do these skeletons even know what to do?” I ask, nodding to one of them bustling by. Anything to distract myself from the fact that I want to unravel this man—and lick his tattoos while I’m at it.

  “I already told you, kismet, though the soul might be gone, there is still an afterimage of the person who once existed.”