Page 10 of Night of Death and Flowers

His breath hitches, and he grabs my arm before we can go any further. I cast a brief glance at his hand, where the tattoos come to life, swirling against his skin. Like others in Astraea’s coven with illusion magic, his emotions and desires take form through art. Appearing on the top of his hand, a painting materializes of us inching closer, as if we might kiss at any moment. I see myself through his eyes.

My wavy, long hair dances in the breeze, threads of silver speckled within the brown, and Drake lifts a finger, brushing back a few stray chestnut-colored strands. My glacier-blue gaze fixates on him, my hand on his chest. I can only imagine how it would really feel as I watch the moment play out, his arms tightening around my waist, then gliding down to my wide hips, fisting the fabric of my dress as he towers over me, at least a foot higher than my five-foot-two stature.

As he catches sight of the inked scene, he promptly pulls his sleeve down.

I avert my gaze, then look around at the stretches of cobblestone surrounding the building, shadowed by graywar trees carpeting the entrance with skeletal leaves. Their low branches reach out, casting shadows over pale tombs housing the dead. Among those graves, a well-known presence draws my attention. Deep in slumber, the creature that haunts my dreams rests in its natural feline-looking form, surrounded by dancing wisps of darkness.

“There’s a phovus.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“The elders must have sent the creature to guard the church.” I tread carefully over the path and our hushed whispers carry into the night. I gaze around as the familiar tingle of death sparks through my body. The memory paints in my mind as I grow closer to the creature, recalling the one that almost killed me—its predatory eyes finding me in the forest.

“It’s sleeping,” I say with a shudder, balling my fists. Drake hesitates, but I push forward. I won’t let fear paralyze me. Facing challenges head on is the only way to survive in this world. “Let’s go.”

It’s rare the elders would use one and ridiculous that the elder coven thinks they can tame one. Phovi are predators, serving only one being, and the God of Death hasn’t been seen in forever. They are supposed to stay in the Darklands, but some walk in our world. I’m not sure if they escaped, or are spies sent here by Death.

Decay magic sizzles under my skin upon thinking of him, like a dull ache that never fully goes away.

Death’s coven practices his magic, but while he has many powers for them to harness, no one I know has inherited the type of magic I possess. As far as I am aware, I am the first.

The sharp scrape of a match against the stone wall pulls me from my thoughts, and a warm, reddish glow replaces the darkness as Drake lights the candles.

Before us, the statue of the God of Death—Azkiel—stands close to seven feet tall, its surface decorated with the small, engraved names of the sacrifices chosen from the last Harvest. Every decade, the names fade right before the next twelve are chosen to compete, as if the possibility of becoming an elder is a prize worth dying for.

I always catch my breath every time I see Death’s likeness. Hatred swallows my ability to keep my magic at bay, and in the presence of the statue, containing Azkiel’s magic, the decay seeps into my fingers.

“Trying to win a staring contest with a statue, Wildflower?” Drake whispers, and I snap my eyes shut, then shake my hands as if I can somehow will the magic away. Quickly, I shove my hands into my pockets, until the burning sensation subsides from my hands, notifying me the power of Death’s Touch has dissipated.

“No,” I say with a clipped laugh.

Drake gazes at the burning red candles before glancing up at the ancient passages carved into the stone walls, adorned with portraits of gods. Their ethereal eyes watch us from their frames, each one appearing deceptively mortal.

“Are you certain about this?” Drake asks while his hand glides over the short, dark stubble on his sharp jawline. Once again, several of his tattoos move, depicting terrifying inked images of the Phovus flying over his defined muscles. It chases us in every scene, and in one, I am dead.

I point at the art covering his arms and ask, “Can you at least pretend we have a chance?”

“I do. It’s you I’m worried about,” he teases, but in many of the animated illustrations, I am protecting him.

“You’re hilarious,” I drawl, my tone thick with sarcasm. “Seriously. I’d love to see your ability to paint pretty pictures up against a Phovus.”

He glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes alight with menace. “Oh, yeah? What are you going to do? Wish it to death?” he asks, although we both know my powers are far worse than that—just one touch and he will be ash on the ground.

Until now, I’ve only killed the occasional plant with my touch, but I imagine it does the same thing to people. I have no desire to find out. “I’ll wish you to death in a minute,” I mumble under my breath, and he smirks.

I stare at the altar in front of the statue, decorated with clay symbols. Candlelight flickers as we step closer.

I fix a piercing stare on the carved face of the God of Death and grimace. Even being close to his statue—infused with his magic—has me on edge.

Like him, I am nothing but decay and death. I was supposed to become a healer, like the rest of my family. My stomach turns as I look at his deceptively angelic, marbled features, proving that some monsters wear the most handsome of disguises. “Let’s tear the bastard down,” I say, my fists balled at my side. I brush my chestnut hair away from my face, draping it over my shoulder. I regret not putting it in a braid tonight. “It’s just a shame it’s not the actual god.”

Drake murmurs, “I love it when you’re murderous.”

I almost smile, but I stop myself. Admittedly, my hatred for the God of Death far outweighs Drake’s anger at the gods. In reality, I don’t hate them all, although I don’t like any of the six siblings fated to rule over Dahryst. However, there is something about Azkiel. When I think of him, a wound carved in the crevices of my chest rips open.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he says as he grabs the dagger from the table. “Ready?”

“Do it.”

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