Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  In his world, whatever world that is, he is Death. In control and wielding all the power, he knows exactly who he is. What he’s doing. What comes next. But here, in my bedroom, he’s just a man. A man with an undercurrent of innocence that’s at clashing odds with the rest of him.

  His gaze, lowered toward the ground, slowly, leisurely drifts up until it slams into mine with the heavy force of steel against steel. The green is back, emerald flames dancing behind clouds of black and grey. And with just that single look, his head slightly dipped, I know . . . Here, right now, I’m the one with all the power.

  Chapter 19

  Something about that knowledge sends an electric spark through me. A part of me revels in it, knowing I have more control than even he might suspect, and yet another part of me is intimidated by it. I can stand and face the cold, commanding side of him, but I almost don’t know how to respond to the glimpses of vulnerability I’m getting now.

  “Tell me . . .” My voice comes out huskier than I intend. I’m not trying to seduce the man—I don’t think. “Why did you save me, that night in the lake?”

  He doesn’t look away, doesn’t try to avoid the question. A thousand unspoken thoughts deepen his gaze, darken his expression. It takes him a minute to respond, but I don’t mind. I’ll be patient. I know he’s going to answer this time. Something about that green glimmer; it thaws the ice of his usually frigid stare. It adds warmth and fire, hinting at the kind of secrets I suddenly feel a burning ache to unravel.

  “I needed to.” It’s a murmur, almost quiet enough to be a soothing whisper. “I recognized something about you. Your eyes, your soul. I don’t—I don’t know what it was. It felt like . . . I owed it to you.”

  “Owed me my life? W-why would you owe me anything?”

  He lets out a deep sigh, like he’s exhausted, and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been asking myself the same damn thing.”

  Neither of us speak for a long, drawn-out minute. I don’t know what to say. He recognized me? He owed me? How’s that possible? Surprising me further is the knowledge that Death would even care about such a thing. Maybe I’m too judgmental, but even if it were true—if he did owe me somehow—I wouldn’t have taken someone with his title or demeanor as the type to readily return favors.

  He’s still lost in thought when he leans back against the seat, stretching his long legs out before him. His shoes almost brush my bare feet. “I got myself into this mess,” he mutters, though it’s more like a groan. “Both of us. I crossed a line that night. Did something that isn’t done—ever. Now the universe is confused, crossing more lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. Blurring them altogether. Blurring you and me together.”

  His words hit me with surprising force. I never considered what that night might have resulted in for him. The consequences of such an act. How it’s affecting him, his world, everything he knows. Everything he’s a part of. It’s like a thread that’s come loose, slowly unraveling and taking everything he knows with it.

  “And that . . . is that how this all started?” I whisper. “That first time in my bathroom, I heard you. The second time I felt you, when you touched me.” He swallows at the mention of that moment, the act drawing my gaze to his throat. “And now, usually, I can see you.”

  There’s a hard edge to his voice. “I didn’t have enough control in the beginning to cross over fully. I was both here, in your world, and in mine.”

  “Your world,” I say quickly, remembering what happened with my hand. “I think I felt it—”

  “Where I come from,” he growls, the strong reaction taking me by surprise, “is not someplace you will ever know. Do you understand?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. He looks impossibly threatening for someone lounging in a loveseat. “You’re learning everything about me and my world firsthand. It only makes sense I’d want to know a little bit about yours. About the person who’s stuck inside my room with me. I should get to know something about you, shouldn’t I? What it’s like being you?”

  At that, he turns his gaze to the window, letting the silence build. When he responds, it’s quiet. Low. Dangerous. “You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t really want the answers to.”

  “What makes you think you know what I do or don’t want?”

  His eyebrow arches, and he leans forward. Closer. And closer. There’s something daunting about his movements, subtle as they are. Challenging. He doesn’t stop until our faces are inches apart. His heat pours over me from head to toe at the close proximity. So much for me being the one in control.

  “You want to know what it’s like being me? What it’s like to steal a person’s soul?” he murmurs. The black in his eyes dances with the grey like wicked flames for a moment, until all that’s left is a cold, dark void staring into me. When I don’t respond, he continues, “To watch people die, every single second I’m in my world. See their fear when they look at me, when they feel my call. That moment they realize they will do anything, anything, I tell them to. Is that,” he says slowly, “what you want from me?”

  My pulse is racing, my chest rising and falling. He’s so close that our uneven breaths tangle together.

  I’m struck silent for a beat, frozen in place by his words, by his stare, by his essence. “Yes,” I finally whisper back, “that’s what I want.” His gaze drops to my lips, following each movement as I speak. “I want to know the person the universe has me so confused with. I want to know who’s sitting in front of me. That means all of it, the good and the bad.”

  His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they’re colder than ever. “And that’s where you’d be disappointed, Lou. There is no good to be found in Death.”

  Slowly, he backs away from me, until he’s pressed against the loveseat. He turns his head so he’s facing the window to his left.

  “Maybe not in death,” I answer hesitantly, “but there is good to be found in you.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t indicate he’s heard me at all. Still, I continue, “I know there is, because I’ve seen it. It takes good to save a person’s life. And it takes selflessness to do it when you know you shouldn’t. When you don’t know what the outcome for you will be. That night . . . it was the scariest moment of my life. I really thought that was it, that I’d never wake up to see the sun again.”

  Finally, he shifts his head just enough to look at me. And I mean really look at me. His eyes roam freely, lingering on every part they touch. They burn into my eyes, warm my neck, pierce my lips. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I take strange comfort in seeing that the green glint is back again. “Anyway, I didn’t realize what it might be costing you. Just—thank you.”

  His silence torments me in the oddest way. Say something, I inwardly beg. Anything.

  “Are there more of you?” I ask. It’s a desperate, scrambling attempt to fill the void, and it works—my voice snapping his eyes back to mine, holding his gaze there. Unfortunately, it takes the green with it, swirls of black-grey eating up any hint of warmth and replacing his stare with that deadly black ice.

  “Yes.” He stands so gracefully it doesn’t make a sound and distances himself until he reaches the window. He doesn’t turn his back to me this time. Instead, he leans the side of his frame casually against the wall, in a way that looks almost unnatural for his sturdy build.

  “Are they like you?”

  “Our paths never cross.”

  “So how do you know they exist?”

  One dark eyebrow quirks. “Death is an endless game. It takes more than one individual to keep up with the demand.”

  A cold, hard chill slides down my spine. I think back to the night I died. The first time I saw him. So firmly ingrained into my mind, I can remember every detail like I’m still there. Coming closer, floating, steadily closing the gap of blue-black water between us. The edges of his large frame are blurred, almost convincing enough to be a dream.

  “And what—what exactly do you do? W
hen someone dies?”

  If voices had colors, his would be ash—black, smoky remnants of all that’s been lost. “I collect them.”

  I can feel my life wasting away with each second, disconnecting me from my frozen heart. Something’s tugging at me, calling my name. A magnetic force trying to yank me away from my body.

  My heart pounds against my chest, a dull thump ringing through my ears. “Do they always come with you?”

  The closer he gets, the stronger the pull.

  The way he’s looking at me, it’s like he sees the images playing out in my head. He’s right there with me in that ice-cold lake, flashes of lightening striking down above the water.

  He knows as well as I do what I felt that night—that I already know the answer to my question.

  And I know I will follow him anywhere.

  He answers anyway. “Always.”

  He’s too strong; I’m a tiny puff of smoke going up against a wall of stone.

  I’m barely whispering, barely breathing, when I say, “And then what? What happens to them?”

  His stare stays latched onto mine, an empty void gripping me tight and sucking me dry. Words clear as day yet dark as night, he says, “That’s not my concern.”

  I’m whipped out of the hypnotic memory like a cold bucket of water has been poured over my head. “What?”

  “I unlock the door, summon them through. Take their present, their past. What happens beyond that—like I said, not my concern.”

  “Take their past?” Before he can respond to that, my brows furrow, spine straightening as I sit up in the rocking chair. Grams, Mom, Dad . . . their faces surface, haunting my mind whether I want them to or not. “Wait, aren’t you at least curious? Don’t you want to know where people end up, after everything? If they’re going to be okay?”

  “No.”

  “How . . . How could you not care?”

  “Care?” It’s so subtle, I might not have noticed the way his eyes narrowed if I weren’t paying such close attention. But I am. I don’t miss the clench of his jaw, either. “You forget who I am,” he says quietly, a dangerous hum sailing from his lips to my ears.

  “Don’t ever forget who I am.”

  Chapter 20

  A sting rips through my chest, making me wince. I open my heavy eyes, but it’s all a blur. A fuzzy hand pops into view, fingers pressing something white onto my wound. I groan, then tilt my chin down to see the gash. The thick shard of glass has already been removed, skin sealed up with raw stitches. It’s a grisly sight but better than I could have hoped for without proper hospital care.

  “There, there,” a gentle voice coos. The tension in my body eases as I remember where I am. The shed. Our neighbor’s land.

  “Tommy,” I murmur, my voice wrangled as I try to lift my head.

  “Shh.” The hand guides me back down. I manage to turn, just enough to see the boy lying beside me. Tommy’s bare waist is wrapped in white cloth, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling in his deep sleep.

  He’s okay.

  We’re okay.

  For now . . .

  When I begin to stir, it takes me all of three seconds to remember I didn’t fall asleep alone. My eyes pop open, body stiff even as I slowly realize he’s not here. He can’t be. His warmth has completely evaporated, the naked chill from outside sweeping in through the cracked window and blowing lightly through my hair. I bolt upright in the bed. I can’t resist scanning the room, just in case I’m wrong. But of course, I’m not.

  He’s gone.

  Not a single shred of evidence proves he was ever here in the first place.

  And yet, I feel . . . different.

  When I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and stand, blood rushes to my head in a single, hard-hitting wave. I sway, pressing a hand to the mattress for stability. My heart, it doesn’t feel right. There are no solid and timed thumps. Instead it flutters, like the swift wings of a tiny hummingbird in my chest. I’m careful when I walk to the bathroom, trying to keep my body steady even as my mind sways.

  Something is off.

  I’m drained. Weak. I’ve never been on a boat before, but I imagine this is what seasickness feels like. Trying to balance on a ship that rocks beneath your feet.

  I splash cold water on my face, my neck, then look up. My reflection tells me I look as horrible as I feel. Drained of color, skin clammy, eyes heavy-lidded, I look like a ghost. Ugh. I must be getting sick. I never get sick. Not since I was young, anyway.

  A ringing sounds from the nightstand, prompting me to groan. Just the thought of walking back across the room in this condition makes me want to hurl. When the high-pitched noise doesn’t relent, I force my legs to move, one step at a time.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.” With my head spinning the way it is, it takes me a moment to place the male voice.

  “Bobby?”

  “Yeah.” There’s a pause, then his tone softens. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m—” I reach up to rub my temples as another wave of dizziness hits. I can’t suppress my moan. “I’ve been better. Wait—what time is it?”

  “Ten to twelve.”

  Holy crap. I haven’t slept in like this since the first week I’d arrived here. Of course, I’d also completely forgotten Bobby’s taking me to lunch today. At just the thought of food my stomach punishes me, instantly twisting. “Shit. Bobby . . .”

  “What do you need?” He asks without hesitation, and it takes me by surprise. Now there’s a question I haven’t heard from him in a long time. “Tylenol? My mom says a heating pad on her back always helps. I can run down to the local—”

  “What? Oh . . .” Right, my supposed cramps from last night. I’m going to hell for all my lies. And I know just the guy to drag me there. “No, it’s not that. Think I must have caught something. I probably just need to sleep it off.”

  “Listen, I’m downstairs in the lobby—”

  My groan cuts him off. “I’m so sorry, Bobby. I should’ve called—”

  “Jesus, will you stop interruptin’ me for a second?” I hear the amusement in his voice and nod, even though he can’t see me. “Thank you. Now get your ass back in bed. I’m gonna pick up some things for you, ’kay? I’ll be up in about fifteen minutes.”

  My legs feel like they’re about to give out. I plop onto the bed with a long sigh, phone still pressed to my ear. As wonderful as it sounds to be taken care of right now, having Bobby locked in my room with me is a bad idea for too many reasons to count. “No, you really don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. Just give me a few hours to sleep and I’ll call you later to reschedule.”

  A low, exasperated breath sounds from the other end of the phone, but Bobby’s tone is gentle when he speaks. “You’re sick, Lou, and I’m standin’ in your lobby with an hour to kill. It’s not a difficult choice, all right?”

  I’m silent, my skin getting clammier by the second. My throat is parched, but the thought of getting up to grab a bottle of water is exhausting.

  “Lou . . .” He’s even quieter now, a waver in his voice that says he’s desperate for me to understand. “How am I ever gonna make up for all my wrongs if you don’t let me in when it counts?”

  I take in a long, deep breath. It reminds me of the night he took me to dinner, when he’d stated something similar. He might still feel things for me that I’ve lost for him, but he’s also just a guy trying to make things right and get his life together.

  “Okay.” It comes out like a whisper, partially because I don’t know if it’s the right choice and partially because I’m too drained to manage anything else.

  Bobby made good on his word, spending over half an hour at my bedside. A cool wet cloth on my forehead, a glass of fresh water to my lips, a thermometer in his hand, and the comforting scent of chicken noodle soup filling my nostrils. He even gives me a fever reducer when it’s time for him to leave.

  Lifting the washcloth to touch the palm of his hand to my forehead, he mumb
les, “Damn, I really don’t think I should leave you alone like this. If I didn’t have to get to the city—”

  “Sick people stay home alone all the time.” I groan, not bothering to open my eyes.

  “No, I know, just—” He lets out a low sigh. “Claire’s downstairs. I’ll fill her in before I leave, make sure she checks up on you.”

  I grunt out a weak, “Thank you,” and feel his shadow loom over me as he stands, before cool lips softly touch my cheek. It’s comfortable, friendly, and I’m already drifting to sleep as the door clicks shut behind him.

  I don’t know how long it’s been by the time I start stirring again, but I’m freaking freezing when I do. The covers aren’t serving their purpose. Chills run up and down my body like a million ants made of ice. I squeeze the comforter, curling into it seeking heat.

  But I feel none.

  Out of the corner of my eye, blurred and foggy, I think I see someone sitting in a chair beside me. Dark hair, dark eyes. I feel him, the tease of a hot breeze floating just out of reach. He’s warm, so warm. If I could just get a little closer. I reach toward him, but the second my skin leaves the shelter of blankets, another wave of shivers rolls through me, making me wince and pull back.

  I just need to get closer, I tell myself as my eyes fade back into a cloud of darkness. His heat. His warmth. Just . . . a little . . . closer.

  Mmm. I burrow my head into the pocket of warmth beside me. God, it feels good. The chills haven’t totally let go of me yet, and my mind is somewhere between weak and loopy, like I’ve been drugged. But the more I rub against the solid, soothing heat pressing into my side, the more relief I feel.