Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4)

by Laura Thalassa

  “What does that have to do with cleaning?” I ask. Up until yesterday I’ve never just sat next to the horseman and shot the shit with him. It’s almost as destabilizing as watching these revenants work.

  “You’re asking questions that don’t have nice, orderly human answers, Lazarus. The dead clean because I tell them to.”

  “But they know how to clean and you don’t.” That’s weird, right? “Do they have higher thinking?”

  “Their spirits are gone, kismet,” he says softly. “What is left is not self-aware. But their bones still remember what their minds once knew.”

  He gazes at me as I process that. And then he continues to gaze at me, even when the silence stretches out between us.

  “It’s still rude to stare,” I say, picking up my coffee once more.

  “I still don’t care,” Thanatos replies smoothly.

  I turn to face him a little better. “What are you thinking of when you stare at me?” I dare to ask.

  “That I could look at you for a thousand years and never get bored,” he says without missing a beat. “I am used to seeing a person’s essence, not their features, and I have taken the latter for granted.”

  I give him a small smile, though he’s unsettled me.

  “And when I look at you,” he continues. “I wish I could fully sense your soul the way I can other humans. I’m sure I would find that it is strange and lovely. It—you—are a mystery to me, and I am unused to mysteries.

  I sit there, not knowing what to say. Because I don’t have anything reciprocal to say, except, perhaps, that beneath his powers, Thanatos is also strange and lovely.

  “Come,” the horseman says suddenly, rising from the couch. He reaches a hand out for me. “I never showed you the outside of the house.”

  I take his hand and let him lead me away from that fainting couch. We head across the room and through a door that opens to an expansive back patio. Death is quiet as he leads me on, his tattoos shimmering in the sun.

  A pool glimmers in the distance, and that should be the most appealing feature on this warm day, but my eyes catch instead on the extravagant garden set at the corner of the house.

  Now I’m the one who’s tugging on his hand as I lead us towards it. I wind us through the rows of raised garden beds, eyeing each one. When I notice the fruit trees running along the back of the garden, I make my way to them.

  I stop in front of an apple tree, its branches laden with fruit. There’s a metal bucket sitting at the tree’s base, as though someone was thinking of harvesting these soon.

  “This is what you wanted to see?” the horseman says from behind me, inspecting the tree like it holds some decipherable secret.

  “I’m hungry,” I tell him.

  “My servants have made—”

  “I know what your servants have made for breakfast,” I tell him, suppressing a shudder at the thought. “But I wanted something a bit—” less death-touched, “more palatable.”

  Thanatos’s gaze narrows. “I have spent months sourcing the most skilled servants when it comes to preparing food. I assure you, kismet, they can fulfill all your needs.”

  “I know,” I say softly. That doesn’t stop me from still recoiling at the thought of those bones touching the food I eat.

  My gaze flits over the apples. Spotting a ripe one, I reach out and pick it.

  “You know,” I say, staring down at it, “our relationship began with an apple.”

  This stupid, innocuous piece of fruit. It was there leading Adam and Eve into temptation, and now here we are, come full circle. From the first supposed fall of humankind to the last.

  If, of course, the Bible is to be believed.

  A part of me wants to chuck the fruit as far as I can and burn this entire orchard to the ground. Instead, I dust the apple off on my shirt and take a bite.

  It’s just an apple, after all.

  After I swallow, I offer it to Death. “Want a taste?”

  He grimaces. “Not unless you have another kiss to bribe me with.”

  I lower the fruit, tilting my head a little. “Would you really want that?” I ask.

  His eyes move to mine, shining with intensity. “I would want more, kismet. But I will settle for taking what you offer.”

  I keep my gaze trained on him. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, Thanatos.”

  “Perhaps I don’t,” he says, his expression magnetic. “But I do know of the things humans do when they cannot stay away from one another.”

  He doesn’t move any closer to me, but it feels like there’s no distance between us and no air to breathe in. It doesn’t help that he still hasn’t found his shirt, and his glowing tattoos are making him look particularly unearthly.

  “And that’s what you want?” I ask again softly, my heart rate beginning to pick up.

  I can’t believe we’re talking about this. Or that the man who thinks bread sucks is open to being intimate.

  “I already told you, kismet. I would want more. Your flesh promises much, but for me, it is merely the beginning.”

  We’re outside for a long time. I’ve taken to picking far more apples than I need, but there’s literally no one else around to enjoy them, so I try not to feel too guilty.

  Death has dragged over a stone bench and butted the thing up against a nearby tree. He lounges on it, his back leaning against the tree trunk, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other one bent at the knee. This is the most comfortable I’ve ever seen him. It’s more than just his posture. The two of us have spent the morning chatting about things that don’t revolve around the fate of humanity or the sexual tension between us.

  As I move around a second tree now, I begin humming—then singing—“Scarborough Fair,” the song stirring up old, achingly sweet memories. It was a song my mother would often sing while she did the dishes or hung clothes up to dry, one that some of my siblings and I would harmonize with.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been singing when I hear the scuff of a boot.

  I glance over my shoulder, staggering a little when I see the horseman standing in front of me, his gaze fixed to my mouth.

  “So that’s music,” he says wondrously, as though he only just put a name to the sound.

  I guess that’s the irony of Thanatos. He’s existed for forever, and he seems to be a well of wisdom when it comes to humans, but the horseman has only been a man for a short while.

  Giving him a hesitant look, I nod.

  His gaze scours my face. “Don’t stop,” he whispers.

  Heat creeps up into my cheeks.

  I don’t really want to sing now that I have an audience.

  “Please,” Death adds. He’s still staring at my lips.

  I want to tell him that people don’t ask these sorts of things, but he knows that. And he seems genuinely … moved by the music. So, I clear my throat, and after only wavering for another moment or two, I begin to sing again, turning back to the tree so that I can resume picking fruit and pretend I don’t have an avid audience.

  Only, I’m not left alone for long.

  Thanatos rounds the tree, his gaze moving over my eyes, my lips, my hair. He’s looking at me like I’m the Eighth Wonder of the World and I have no defense for the blatant longing on his face.

  My song ends, and it’s silent for a long moment.

  Death shakes his head, still looking possessed. “That was … opodanao.”

  The foreign word draws out an instant reaction. I feel bathed in light, as though it were stroking my skin and running its fingers through my hair. I think I understand the word’s meaning, but the horseman translates for me anyway.

  “Beautiful.”

  Chapter 41

  Sugar Land, Texas

  July, Year 27 of the Horsemen

  I need to start making good on my promise to the horsemen.

  Seduce Death.

  That was the deal.

  I pull myself out of the cold bath I drew for myself, grabbi
ng a nearby towel and wrapping it around my body. Water puddles at my feet as I cross the bathroom and enter my bedroom, the world beyond the windows dark.

  The massive closet gapes open, and I catch sight of all those clothes neatly hung up inside. Curiosity tugs at me. Just what did the horseman—or his undead servants—think to pick out for me? Grabbing a nearby lantern, I head over to it.

  The flame flickers in the glass container, making the shadows dance along the various materials.

  My fingers drift over the clothing, the sizing and styles all over the place. My hand pauses when I come to a black dress, one that appears to be form-fitting. I pull it out, noticing that a slit runs up the side all the way to mid-thigh.

  It’s perfect for my needs.

  It looks like it’ll fit too. I grab it and pull it on. The dress is a little tight, and I’ve gotten so used to loose, practical clothing that I tug on it absently, trying to make it less constricting.

  There are a dozen pairs of shoes stashed away in the closet as well, but only two of them are even close to my size, one a knee-high riding boot and the other a worn pair of flip-flops. Neither really matches the outfit.

  I glance down at my bare feet.

  Fuck it. I’m going shoeless.

  Also in the closet are several shallow drawers which contain some random jewelry, including a single gold bangle and a delicate chain anklet—both of which I put on as well. I cannot tell if these were items owned by whoever lived here before me, or if—like the clothing—they were odds and ends that Death had his servants pick up.

  I guess it doesn’t really matter either way. The dead no longer have need for them, though I do.

  Entering the bathroom once more, I find a stash of makeup in one of the drawers.

  This is trickier.

  Used makeup cannot hurt me any more than anything else, but it’s still somewhat off-putting. Luckily, I find a couple lipsticks and some gold eyeshadow that look untouched, and I put those on instead.

  The end result … robs me of breath. I stare at my reflection. I haven’t worn makeup in a long, long time. So much of the last two years has been about survival—Ben’s survival and humanity’s—that I hadn’t put much thought into physical appearance. But now my skin shimmers where I put the eye shadow on, and my lips are rosy. I even added a hint of both to my cheekbones, and the overall effect is …

  I look feminine. Pretty and feminine.

  Not even my damp, unstyled hair can take away from that, though I do my best to make even my hair as presentable as I can.

  Hopefully this works.

  I cannot believe I’m actually trying to seduce anyone at all—let alone Death. I’m a better archer than I am a temptress.

  With that encouraging pep talk, I leave my room, forcing myself to find the horseman before I can chicken out again.

  Thanatos is already in the dining room, waiting for me. He has a full plate of food in front of him and a glass of wine, but I doubt any of it will go between his lips.

  Not unless I can convince him to give it another try.

  It’s worth a shot. All of it is worth a shot. Eating. Sleeping. Seducing. Saving the world.

  All it takes is a little convincing.

  As soon as he sees me, his eyes burn with some inner fire. But then his gaze sweeps over me, from my made-up face to my form-fitting dress, to my bare feet, and a hunger grips his expression.

  Oh God, he looks like he wants to devour me.

  Maybe this was a bad idea, after all.

  I steel myself and walk into the room like I’m headed into battle. I’m not the only one. At some point between when I last saw him and now, Thanatos has found his shirt and his armor. He looks ready to lead an army and vanquish his enemies.

  Here goes nothing.

  I head past my seat and over to his. Setting his plate aside, I hoist myself on the table and sit where his food should be. Tonight, I’m the main course.

  Granted, this is not as drastic as sitting on his lap, like I did last night, but then I wasn’t planning on actually getting carried away.

  Tonight I am.

  “Isn’t sitting on tables breaking some arbitrary human rule?” Death says with a twist of his lips. He looks absolutely delighted at the notion.

  Instead of answering, I pick up his fork. Spearing a scalloped potato from his plate, I pop it in my mouth, trying not to think about the entity that made the dish.

  I set the fork back down and, after a moment, I put one foot, then the other, on Death’s lap.

  Breaking etiquette rules is actually kind of fun. I think I could get used to this.

  Thanatos stares down at my legs. Ever so slowly, he moves a hand to one of my calves, resting it there. The black material of my dress has slipped away, revealing my bare flesh.

  “It will always cause me no little wonder to see you withstand my touch,” he murmurs, staring at where his pale hand touches my skin.

  “Oh, your touch does do things to me.” I don’t know what possesses me to voice that thought, but the words are out before I can think twice about them.

  Death’s gaze flicks to my face, even as that tantalizing hand of his slides up my leg.

  He has no idea what he’s doing.

  I pick Death’s fork back up and spear another slice of potato, trying to ignore my rising anxiety.

  “How’s the food?” he asks, his penetrating gaze on me.

  “I haven’t found any bones in it yet, so good.” I’m only half joking. I’m actually more than a little terrified that someone’s thumb is going to show up in one of the dishes.

  Thanatos’s hand continues moving up my thigh, shifting my thoughts from one disturbing topic to another. He must know how intimate his touch is, he must—

  All at once Thanatos removes his hands from my legs, but only so that he can grab me by the waist and haul me onto his lap.

  I let out a small yelp, my fork slipping from my hand and clattering onto the ground. And then I’m back where I was last night.

  Death’s face is so close that I can see those strange silver flecks in his night-dark eyes and how his pupils dilate at my nearness. His cold, unyielding armor bites into me, and I can smell the smoky scents of frankincense and myrrh drifting off of him.

  Ever so slowly he raises a hand and wraps it around the back of my neck. He pulls me into him.

  Death has a hungry, predatory look on his face.

  He’s going to kiss me.

  Only … he doesn’t.

  He brings my ear to his mouth. “Last night we talked about all the ways you hated me,” he says. “Tonight it’s my turn to pick the game.

  I go still in his arms.

  He draws away from me so he can look me in the eyes. “No more dancing with words, Lazarus,” he says. “I want your passions and your truths all laid bare. I will ask you questions, and you will speak to me plainly.”

  “This is your game?” I say, skeptical. I don’t think I like what he has in mind.

  “Yes,” he says with relish.

  His hands resettle on my hips, one of his thumbs stroking the soft material there. “Tell me what you feel when you look at me.”

  My throat seizes up. Alright, I officially hate this game.

  Technically, telling the truth should be easy. I hold all the answers to these questions within me. Unfortunately, I’ve buried my truths underneath so many convenient lies that I’m frightened to unearth them.

  “What I feel right now when I look at you? Or when I first met you?” I’m stalling. I know I’m stalling. But God, I don’t want to admit any of this.

  “All of it.”

  Of course he wants all of it.

  My eyes dip to his armor, and I trace a finger over the skeleton and the woman he’s intimately embracing.

  “When I first laid eyes on you—” I pause. Fuck I don’t want to do this, “I thought you were the most beautiful man I had ever seen.”

  There. I did it, and only a little of my soul died in the
process.

  Death’s eyes have a feral shine to them. “This … is a good thing?” he asks curiously.

  I huff out a laugh because is beauty really a good thing? I don’t know …

  “It makes me want you even when I shouldn’t,” I admit.

  “Want me?” he echoes.

  I give him a look, trying really hard to ignore that overbearing beauty of his. “You know what I mean.”

  “You’re dancing with your words again,” he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of black hair away from his face. “I would like the unvarnished truth—stripped free from all your human assumptions.”

  I blow out a breath. God, he really is going to make me spell it out.

  “You are so annoyingly handsome that even though I have hated you, I have always craved touching you and kissing you …” I let my words trail off, petrified of continuing to give him the entire truth.

  Thanatos leans forward, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Damn him for being perceptive enough to notice I was omitting some of it.

  I mutter an oath under my breath then twist around, reaching for the horseman’s full glass of wine. I take a long drink of the alcohol before I set it back down. I was ready for seduction, I wasn’t ready to be confronted with these questions that cut to the most guarded parts of me.

  You don’t have to answer them, a cowardly inner voice whispers. You could simply rush things along. A kiss or two would make him forget.

  The problem is that—as most people know—seduction isn’t just physical. It’s mental too. This is part of seduction every bit as much as tasting him and teasing him is. It just happens to be the part that I’m least prepared for.

  My gaze drops to Thanatos’s lips. “I have craved removing this armor, touching your wings, and running my lips over your bare flesh.” I stop short of mentioning anything else.

  Death’s eyes have grown hooded. “Then do it, kismet.”

  I rear back a little.

  Do it?

  Death sits very still. Waiting.

  Reaching out a tentative hand, my fingertips touch one of the velvety wings that rise over his shoulders. Death sucks in a sharp breath, but stays still.