Page 34 of Night of Death and Flowers

His eyes darken as he looks me up and down with a discerning stare, his fingers flexing when he looks at my throat, and I inhale deeply.

My nose scrunches, my lip twitching as decay magic shifts under my skin, clearly aware of Death’s closeness. I hide my hands behind my back, forcing apathy into my expression. What am I supposed to call him? I settle on his name. “You’re Azkiel.”

“You didn’t bow,” he says, more intrigued than angry.

“No.”

His lip curves. “Interesting.”

Gods, that smile is devastating. I close my eyes briefly. What in the Darklands am I thinking, and why do I want to see him smile again?

His lips fall back into a hardline, but as he gazes at me, he seems to mirror my expression. Shadows slide over his face as clouds roll over the moon, and in the flashes of gray, I notice sadness cloaking every shift in his stunning features.

“Why are you sad?” I ask. I can’t breathe under the energy, so palpable I can taste it.

His shoulders tense, shifting his gaze towards the island, as if he’s trying to figure something out. Something I cannot see. After a brief pause, his brow creases, and he exhales a clipped sigh. “I am not.”

My eyes glaze over the bulging contours of his muscles, and I wonder how long he has been back, in his mortal body. I’ve read enough to know the gods are supposed to exist in their ethereal form.

He closes his eyes, the sea spray brandishing us both as a dark wave crashes to shore.

“The dead are angry,” he states, and I look out over the Black Sea.

“If you’re talking about the souls you’ve damned from The Harvests, then yes, I can imagine they are furious. I know I would be.”

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“My friends call me Cali.” I pause. “You can call me Calista.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, and just like that, all the sadness in his expression vanishes. “Calista,” he says, as if he’s tasting my name on his tongue. “Then you may call me your God of Death,” he states, and I clench my jaw so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t break.

Fucking egomaniac.

“My most gracious God of Death,” I drawl, hoping I can use it to my advantage. Because I need to get out of here before he finds out about the magic beneath my skin. I can’t help but wonder if mine calls to him, too.

He casts a glance toward Tenenocti. “Why did you come here? What drew you to the island?” he asks, impatience lacing his words.

“Nothing. I came out here to think,” I lie, venom oozing from every word. I wanted to say that it’s none of his concern, but the rational part of my brain is working today.

My gaze is drawn to his fingertips as they blacken at the ends, and I notice a large silver band around his index finger. As his magic runs under his skin, the skull carved from the metal glimmers. I examine his every movement, fully aware of the historical records detailing the consequences of his touch. “I really must be leaving.”

Dimples curve his cruel, handsome face, smirking as if I have missed some kind of joke.

The muscle in my jaw feathers, and I let out a sharp, scant breath. “What’s so humorous?”

“That you believe you’re leaving.”

My next breath catches in my throat, and I edge away from him. “My family is waiting for me.”

“No,” he says nonchalantly, and I swallow thickly. He closes the distance between us, and I flinch, annoyed that I showed any fear. “You are a wondrous little creature, aren’t you?” He tilts his head, curiosity threading in those ancient eyes. “How is it a mere mortal like yourself came to possess my magic?”

“Your magic?” I ask, feigning cluelessness. He inches forward, my breaths growing uneven as he closes the distance between us.

“The decay magic,” he bites out.

I hold my breath for several seconds, just staring at him, praying this is a dream. Drake is alone now, awaiting a certain execution if I don’t get to him soon.

“Speak, mortal. What is it you know?” He presses.

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