“What a monstrous thought,” Death says, looking offended. “I can assure you, Lazarus, the souls I collect are entirely intact.”
I laugh at that. “Not everything is literal, Thanatos.”
His eyes heat when he hears his name on my lips.
“Supposedly this is a family recipe that spans hundreds of years,” I continue, beginning to add the ingredients together. Quieter, I say, “Sometimes, I like to imagine all those women—or at least, I assume they were women—making this recipe. That in this moment, I am linked to an unbroken chain of people all brought together by the joy of feeding their loved ones.”
“That’s not how it works,” he insists.
I laugh again. “For a supernatural being, you have zero imagination.” I move over a little. “Here,” I say, handing him a container of salt, “help me.”
Death looks at the salt as though it might grow eyes and teeth, but he does push away from the counter and reluctantly take it.
Together I help him measure out the salt and the last of the ingredients.
Now for the fun part.
I take his hands and move them to the bowl.
“What are you—?”
Pushing down, I plunge his hands into the mix, a powdery cloud of flour billowing up around our wrists.
“Lazarus.”
“Oh my God,” I say, “don’t act like I took your firstborn. This is how we mix bread dough.”
Death grimaces, though I can’t be sure whether it’s this method of mixing or the thought of bread itself that displeases him. And to be honest, I could’ve used a spoon for this part.
Regardless, he does let me lead him through mixing, then kneading, the dough.
The movements are unfamiliar to the horseman, but somehow those deft hands of his aren’t clumsy. Not that it makes him appreciate it any more.
“This seems like a frivolous task,” he says, the edge of one of his wings brushing against my back.
“I imagine if I were an ageless, deathless angel who didn’t need to eat, it might feel frivolous to me too,” I say.
Thanatos’s eyes move to my face and after a moment, I meet his gaze.
You see me, his expression seems to say.
I briefly glance at our hands.
“Now you’ve pressed a little of your soul into the recipe too.”
“That’s ridiculous, kismet.” But now he sounds less skeptical and more curious.
A little smile slips out.
“So it’s done?” he asks.
“Technically it is, but—” We still have to cook it.
I never get that last part out.
Death lifts me onto one of the counters, knocking over a bowl of red sauce that one of the skeletons worked hard at making. It shatters against the ground, splattering both me and him.
Neither of us pays it any attention.
“Good. That was a fun secret,” he says, his gaze fixed on my lips. His hands move to the edge of my shirt, his fingers still sticky from the dough. He lifts the garment off over my head.
Death glances speculatively around. “Now, it seems to me that a kitchen is the last sort of place one should be caught fooling around.” He flashes me a mischievous smile and pulls me to the edge of the counter. Grabbing my legs, he wraps them, one by one, around his waist.
I mean, in this post-apocalyptic hellscape of a world, there are definitely worse places to get down and dirty …
I tug on his black shirt, pulling it off of him and revealing his sculpted chest and the lines of glowing writing that stream down it.
Thanatos’s grin falls away and he cups my face, his gaze growing heated.
“You were made for me,” he says fervently. “And I for you.”
He kisses me savagely, and we forget all about the soul bread.
The fully cooked bread loaf sits on a platter on the dining room table. Death stares at it like an adversary.
“You don’t have to try it,” I say.
“Of course I must,” he replies. “It’s soul food, and I am the overseer of souls.”
I give Thanatos a cautious look as I begin to cut it. Last time the horseman tried bread, he hated it.
I slice off a thin piece of the bread and hand it to him. Reluctantly, Death takes it. I don’t bother offering the horseman some butter or olive oil or anything else that might add some flavor. I’m afraid that anything might scare him off.
Around us, the candles flicker, and the only noise in the room is the soft sounds the flames make as they burn their wicks. It feels like the room itself is watching, waiting.
Death glances at the bread, a slight frown on his face, as though he’s dreading what he’s about to do. He brings it to his lips and, after a momentary pause, he takes a bite. He chews for a long moment, his face expressionless, and my stomach plummets at the sight.
I don’t know what I was actually expecting or why it even matters. He’s a horseman. He doesn’t need to eat food nor enjoy it.
I just wanted him to, I guess. It’s as simple as that.
Thanatos swallows, and his brows pull together as he studies the bread slice again.
“I like it,” he admits, scowling. He takes another bite.
“Soul food,” he says to himself, a private smile on his face. His eyes meet mine, and they twinkle like we’re sharing an inside joke.
And maybe we are—but soul food or human food, Thanatos eats every last bite of it.
Chapter 66
Los Angeles, California
October, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I’ve gotten used to the sensation of waking up confused. Different city, different bed, different surroundings. It always feels like I’m falling for a moment, like my feet are no longer on firm ground.
That’s what happens tonight. When my eyes snap open and I stare at the massive windows, I don’t know where I am. But then there’s a familiar arm thrown over my waist, the glyphs along it softly glowing, and my body relaxes as I remember that I am with Death.
A smile slips onto my face. I keep doing that lately—smiling at the little details I notice around the horseman. It’s a softer, more subtle emotion than the breathless rush of desire I usually get around him.
I think this is what being in love feels like.
I reach for Death’s hand, threading my fingers through his. I expect him to give mine a squeeze. When he doesn’t, I flip around.
His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted. The sharp angles of his face are somehow softened in the dim light, and that tattoo-riddled chest of his is rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
He’s … asleep. Death actually managed to fall asleep. First he ate the bread, and now this. It isn’t the first time this has happened, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it with my own eyes.
I don’t dare make any sound as I watch his wings lightly rise and fall with each breath. His arm is still slung over my waist, and his other one is buried beneath my pillow. A lock of his dark hair has spilled onto his cheek.
My heart flutters at the sight. Oh so gently I reach out a hand and tuck his hair behind an ear. And I stare and stare.
I’ve seen him unconscious plenty of times. This is different. There’s no pain or strife to the horseman’s features; this is the smooth set of a face that knows peace.
On impulse, I lean forward, pressing my lips to his. Next to me, Thanatos stirs. He throws a leg over mine, and pulls me in close.
“Love you, kismet,” he murmurs in his sleep. One of his wings extends, just a little, covering me like a blanket.
I smile to myself, warmth spreading through my stomach. “I love you, too.”
Chapter 67
Los Angeles, California
October, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Death
I startle awake, my eyes snapping open. The room is dark.
Still nighttime.
I take in the woman tucked under my arm. Lazarus is curled up tightly to my chest, so close that even in the darkness
I can see the arch of her eyebrows and the sweep of her lashes. The sight makes my chest tighten in the sweetest way before I remember—
I fell asleep.
Again.
It’s been happening more and more. The whole experience is unnatural and off-putting. Humans with wings were not made to sleep like this—though one such wing of mine has stretched itself out over Lazarus, and at the sight of it, I feel a deep, primal sense of satisfaction that the woman I love is right here with me, tucked within my embrace.
I am not the man I used to be. Not in the slightest. And this woman is almost wholly to blame for that.
It would be a lie to say I haven’t toyed with the idea of giving up everything for Lazarus. The thought has crept up on me more times than I should admit. She thinks I haven’t been tempted to turn away from my task, but in truth, I’ve always been tempted. Back when I first considered it, it symbolized my fall, and it was something to fear.
Now … now I could live with her here forever, making love under the stars, swimming in that unpleasant ocean just to hear the trill of Lazarus’s laughter. My nights would be spent sleeping at her side, her body tucked against mine—just like this.
I ache for that.
My hand slips down her soft skin, resting on the swell of her lower stomach.
What if?
What if things were different?
What if I stopped killing? What if I gave in? Truly lived as a human?
What if I formed life?
My cock hardens at the mere idea.
I’m so close to waking her up. To spreading those thighs of hers and driving myself in. Of making good on this one, truly forbidden thing.
She doesn’t want kids with you. She thought you’d be a terrible father.
That stops me completely.
I could change. If I did, perhaps she’d reconsider. I want her to reconsider. None of it has to be this way—
This is how Famine fell.
That day, when the Reaper tried to strip himself of his immortality and his purpose, I felt his intentions while I lay in my stupor. They are what roused me. And how they now mirror my own.
Here I am, on the brink of giving up everything, all for the love of a good woman.
I’ve spent so long thinking I was better than my brothers, thinking I was different. And perhaps, in some ways, I am.
But my God, this is how Famine fell.
Unlike the Reaper, however, I do believe in humanity. I always have. None of this was ever about humans’ innate goodness. One look at their souls and it’s plainly obvious.
No, this has always been about carrying out the task the four of us horsemen were given.
Even as I think on this, I sense those brothers of mine. I haven’t mentioned to Lazarus how close they are, but now they lie just outside this city. Tomorrow they will be here.
A decision must be made.
My fingers tighten on Lazarus. At the sensation, she murmurs in her sleep, then her eyes flutter open and she gives me a sleepy smile.
She’s about to roll over and fall back asleep when I caress her cheek. “In all of my existence, I have never come across anything worth forsaking my duty for until I met you,” I say fervently. “You are my everything, kismet.”
She wears a sleepy smile. “It’s not fair to say such pretty things when I’m too tired to process them.” She leans forward and gives me a kiss, her body brushing against mine. My grip tightens on her.
In response, she shifts herself, spreading her legs in an invitation. I am an angel, but even I cannot resist this.
With a single hand, I remove her panties, then push my way inside her, hissing at the intoxicating feel of her around my cock. I nearly come undone right then and there. Instead, I pump in and out of her with a franticness that she mistakes for passion, each deep thrust pulling moan after moan from her until, all at once, her pussy clenches around me and her moans turn into a cry, my name on her tongue.
At the feel of her orgasm and the sound of her release, I can hold out no longer. I drive into her, harder than I should, bellowing her name as I come.
Before I have even slipped out of her, I pull her to me.
Lazarus’s face nuzzles into my chest, and I can feel in this moment the trust she has for me. Here she lays in my arms, naked, vulnerable, with my seed spilling out of her as though she’d choose no other fate for herself but this one.
And I feel loss, bone-cutting loss, at what I know I cannot have.
Because I know I cannot have this, a human life—one full of laughter and children and … Lazarus.
Always Lazarus.
Without meaning to, I clutch her tighter.
I will not let her go.
The entire world could burn to ash, and I would not care, but I will not give Lazarus up. Not my Lazarus.
I was given a brief human experience—one filled with horror and tragedy but then, most powerful of all, beauty and hope and love. I was given it, and tonight I almost slipped wholeheartedly into that existence, I nearly threw away everything for it.
That’s what Pestilence did.
It’s what War did.
It’s what Famine has been trying to do.
It is what I cannot do.
I’ve questioned my own motives for too long. But this must end. It is what we horsemen were sent here to do. It is what I will do.
And nothing, nothing—not even Lazarus—will stop me.
Part III
Chapter 68
Los Angeles, California
October, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Lazarus
The next morning, I pad into the dining room where a spread of eggs, toast, and fresh fruit waits for us. I’m so distracted by it that I almost miss Thanatos. He stands at the back of the room, in front of the massive windows that look out onto the yard and the ocean beyond.
“I was wrong,” he says, his back to me.
I round the table.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, reaching for the steaming mug of coffee that’s been set out for me. Snagging the nearby creamer, I pour a little in.
Death still doesn’t turn around. It’s a small thing, but it pricks the back of my neck all the same.
“What were you wrong about?” I ask, my voice wary. I pull out a chair and slip into the seat.
“Staying here.”
I raise my eyebrows as I grab a piece of toast. Ah. He needs to keep moving, and no amount of beach sex can distract him from that.
This had been a blissful escape, but I’m also eager to leave, to go get Ben. Now that we’re on the West Coast, he seems tantalizingly close, even if hundreds and hundreds of miles still separate us.
“Do you think any of this was random?” Thanatos says, out of the blue. “That God hasn’t reached Her hand in and played you like a puppet?”
My brows pull together. Right now the horseman has this ominous energy about him that’s setting me on edge.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Did you really think it was random when your mother found you as a child?” he says, still staring out those windows. “Or when you found Ben alive in a city of dead, despite the fact that he is painfully mortal—did you think that was random too?”
His words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge.
“How about our paths crossing? What about that? Or when you met the other horsemen just in time for them to save your son and take him away?”
Death turns to me then, and his eyes look so sad. “Do you really think any of it was random? Because it wasn’t. That was intercession. It happens to humans all the time, but you’re all so blinded by your own perceptions of reality that you miss it. You miss the most potent forces of magic in your lives even when they unfold right before you.”
My heart is beating so loudly I’m sure the horseman can hear it. “Why are you telling me this?”
He takes a step towards me, his eyes magnetic. “Because it’s happening again—right no
w.”
I stand then, the chair scraping back; it feels too weird to sit when Thanatos isn’t himself.
Something must be wrong.
The horseman strides towards me, and I have to fight myself not to take a step back. When he reaches me, he cups my cheeks. He looks so mournful.
His eyes search mine. “I still wouldn’t change any of it—except for maybe the ending. But it’s too late for that.”
Before I can ask him what he means, he kisses me, the fierce press of his lips somewhat startling.
Thanatos breaks away just as abruptly. “I love you, kismet,” he says, his jaw clenching. “I love you with everything I am. Please don’t forget that.”
My brows draw together. “Why would I forget that?”
But the horseman has already let me go. He strides away from the room, and I watch him leave, baffled at his behavior, I get the oddest sense that for the first time in a long time, he’s fleeing me again.
Death’s strange behavior lasts all morning. He’s kept his distance from me, and there’s a gnawing fear festering in my heart. I can’t figure out what’s wrong, only that something is off. For once, I feel uncertain around Thanatos.
Even when we leave the beach house for good, the horseman keeps his distance, walking ahead of me.
I stand at the front porch, watching those folded wings of his sway with each step. My gut is telling me that something isn’t right.
He admitted to you that he loved you. He slept next to you and ate your food. Perhaps it’s not that something isn’t right. Perhaps he’s just different. Changed.
Reluctantly, I rejoin Death at his horse. Smoke coils around the animal, Thanatos’s torch already secured to the side of the saddle. All around us, skeletons are loading our belongings into the carts. I’m all for keeping a steady clip to our travels. Still, when I glance back at the house, there’s a lump in my throat.
Things between us changed here, and I am afraid once we get on that horse, they might change back to the way they were.
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 37