I wake in an unfamiliar bed. An unfamiliar, empty bed.
It’s insane how wrong that empty part feels. I’ve only been sleeping with the horseman for a week—and I use sleeping in the loosest, most sexualized context—but already I’ve gotten used to Death being close.
Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, stifling a yawn. At some point last night, the horseman found us a house.
All around me, books are everywhere. On bookshelves, on top of bookshelves, stacked in piles next to bookshelves.
Someone really likes to read.
Liked to read. They’re no longer around to enjoy their massive collection.
I swing out of bed only to notice my boots waiting for me nearby.
Death removed my boots—and he tucked me into bed—and this must have all happened only minutes after he killed the home’s previous owner. I frown at the conflicted emotions I feel.
Taking a deep breath, I pull on my shoes and leave the room.
“Death?” I call out, heading down the hall. I force myself to not gaze at the family sketches hanging on the walls or the cross-stitched artwork hanging alongside them. I don’t want to feel anything for these strangers whose lives came to a tragic end.
“Lazarus,” Death says just as I enter the living room. He’s lounging on a gray couch, his back against an armrest, his wings draped over the side. His armor is off, just as it was last night, and the sleeves of his black shirt have been pushed up to his elbows. Most interestingly of all, he has one of this house’s many, many books in his hand.
“Why did you not start with this human secret?” he says, holding a paperback novel up. I can’t read the title, but by the cover it looks like a murder mystery. “These are utterly amazing,” he says.
“You know how to read?” I ask dumbly. Not everyone these days does.
“Of course,” he responds, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. But apparently, even though he can read, he’s never done so until now.
My brows pull together, even as I begin to smile. “Is that what you did all night while I slept?”
“It was either that, or …” His eyes grow hooded.
Or do the one thing we’ve been doing nonstop. Even now, at his look, it all reignites.
Death sets the book on a nearby glass coffee table and rises to his feet. He looks like a predator—a lethal, beautiful predator.
“How I want to whisk you back to that bed,” the horseman says, his form massive and looming. “But you must be hungry, and I want you to have energy for the things I plan on doing to you.”
Heat flushes my face. “Thanatos,” I whisper.
Beyond us, I can hear the scrape of bone and the clatter of silverware coming from what must be the kitchen. My stomach twists. Death’s servants are just one more reminder of all the death that surrounds us. There are bones and books and sketches, and somewhere on this property there’s a grave with fresh bodies piled in it, but there is no one else alive—no one besides me and Thanatos.
The horseman narrows his eyes at my mouth. “You say my name like that when you’re admonishing me. Tell me, Laz, do you not want my tongue to lave your pussy or my mouth to suck on your clit? Should I stop talking about how I wish to drive into your tight sheath until your breasts bounce and you’re moaning my name? And while I’m at it, should I not mention how erotic it feels to have your feet press against my wings as I thrust into you?”
I don’t think I can breathe.
“Humans don’t talk to each other this way,” I murmur. At least, no one has ever spoken to me this way.
“Good,” Thanatos says, cupping my face. “I don’t particularly enjoy your kind’s arbitrary rules anyway—nor their penchant for dancing with their words.” He smiles a little nefariously, though his eyes are serious. “Most of all, I don’t want you to confuse me for some mortal man. I, Death, have chosen you. And you have chosen me.”
Chapter 52
U. S. Route 290, Central Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I stare at the world around me from atop Death’s steed, the two of us on the road once more. There’s dead grass and clusters of trees and some rusted cars off to either side of us. Every so often we pass a trading post or a farmhouse or a boarded up building that’s long since lost its use.
No birds chirp, no bugs buzz. Even the air is still. It’s all as quiet as the grave. That’s how it’s been since Thanatos took me captive, and yet sometimes the wrongness of that silence creeps up on me all over again.