Turning to Thanatos, I ask, “Can you tell your servants to leave the kitchen?”
He tilts his head. “Why? Aren’t you hungry?”
“I thought we might do something a little different tonight,” I say.
He stares at me for a long moment, and yep, he definitely thinks he’s going to get boned.
Death must give his servants some wordless instruction because suddenly, every skeleton stops what they’re doing. Putting down stirring spoons and knives and all other manner of utensils, they leave the room at once.
It’s strange, those creatures are nothing more than puppets pulled by magical strings, and yet now that they are gone, the room feels so much more intimate.
Thanatos takes a step towards me, his gaze growing hungry.
Before he can do something that distracts me into christening the kitchen, I put a hand on his chest.
“Wait,” I say breathlessly.
Death’s eyes are heated, and though he pauses, he’s clearly just waiting for me to finish whatever it is I want to say so that he can continue.
And I’m getting awfully distracted by the look in his eyes.
“I wanted to show you something—something about me.” I’m grasping at words, trying to turn my mind away from the thought of his skin pressed against mine, his lips dragging along my flesh— “You want my human secrets,” I say. “And I wanted to show this one to you.”
Thanatos’s eyes gleam.
“It’s not sex,” I feel the need to add.
“Alright,” he says good-naturedly. “You’ll share this secret, I’ll bask in the wonder of your existence, and then I’ll make love to you.”
My God.
He leans a hip against a nearby counter, his wings rustling as he folds his arms. He’s still gazing at me like he could eat me up, and it’s all I can do to concentrate on finding flour and sugar and all the other ingredients I’m going to need. Then, rummaging around, I manage to procure a mixing bowl and some measuring cups and spoons.
Grabbing a wooden cutting board, I bring the items to a bit of counter space that Death’s servants haven’t already made use of.
“What are you doing?” Thanatos asks, nodding at the gathered ingredients. It’s as though he’s never seen his skeletons working with the same items.
I glance over then, a small smile curving the corner of one of my lips up. I’m actually kind of thrilled to be doing this. “I want to cook with you.”
Now some trepidation enters the horseman’s eyes. “What are … we cooking?”
I relax a little, hearing his words. Death might not like food, but he’s willing to do this with me.
I turn back to the cutting board and the gathered ingredients. “My mother liked to call this soul bread.”
Just the thought of her conjures the memory of her brief resurrection.
Whatever you have done to bring me here, you undo it.
I swallow down the pain and guilt I feel.
Death’s brows pinch together. “I know what spirits are, and I know what bread is. I do not know how the two of them meet up.”
“Mom used to tell me that there are certain foods you make with love. You press a bit of your very soul into the ingredients—hence the name. ”
“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.