Page 57 of Death is My BFF

“Like you?”

Silence.

“Why me? What’s so special about my soul?”

“I won’t convince you to trust me,” he said, disregarding the rest.

“I’m your only option.”

“I don’t know who you are! I don’t know what you are!”

“Deal with it.”

My jaw tightened. “You saved my life to strike a deal with a little girl. You took advantage of me, and for what? What kind of person takes advantage of a child’s fear?” I was breathing hard, burning with fury. “Or hides his face beneath a hood!”

A low growl vibrated his throat and rolled out like a roar. “You owe me your soul, regardless of my character. This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Faith. I will not play nice forever.”

“Oh, great, this is you being ‘nice’!” My arms rose and slumped to my sides. “Well, what’s the plan now? Why are we talking if you’re not going to give me any answers?”

“Good point.” He jabbed a finger at the workbench. “Stay. I’ll be back, eventually.”

“Eventually! You’re just going to leave me in here? Did you not see those things in the alleyway?”

“This warehouse is a safe haven for you.” At that, Death stalked away with long, powerful strides. I struggled to keep up. “I made sure of it.”

“Wait!Wait!”

He blended into the shadows, waning away. I lunged forward and gripped the thick material of his cloak. The fabric filled with heat and shadows lurched from him like hands trying to grab me. I tore my hand free from the cloak, the tendrils of darkness surrounding Death still snapping at me like snakes.

In a blur, Death’s gloved hand shot out and clutched my throat in a vise grip. His massive frame resurfaced from the shadows, and the snakes evaporated.“You stupid girl!”he snarled in a merciless hiss, fingers crushing into my neck. “Never touch me!”

But I couldn’t process a single thought, except the instinct to stay alive. I grabbed onto his wrist to free myself and touched a gap of his uncovered skin.

A sharp jolt of energy went through me. Grief hit me in a cruel wave. The loss, it was endless. I washim. Pain. Crushing, suffocating pain. Everything in my body compacting together, constricting in raw torment and wrathful hunger . . .

Then there was light, beams of sun spreading out in front of my fastened eyelids. The pungent smell of manure and aged straw permeated the humid air. Flowery weeds brushed my cheek as I peeled my eyes open. I sat up and blood drained from my face.

A farm. I was on a farm, but it wasn’t a farm from my century.

The fields were manned by men who wore outdated beige tunics, baggy shirts, and worn-out trousers. They plowed into the dirt as if it was all they knew, melting beneath the sweltering heat of the sun. Past rows and rows of olive trees stood a proud Romanesque villa built of stone, surrounded by various leafy fruit trees, flowers, and shrubbery. Fountains rippled in an exquisite, enchanting garden straight out of a storybook.

Movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. My eyes darted to a boy sitting a mere ten paces away from me. He was squatting under the shade of a blooming tree, which draped over us both with its long, emerald green arms. The boy wore a baggy toga tied at his waist that exposed tan skin. His athletic build suggested he was older at first, though his profile was soft, childlike, marking him around twelve or thirteen. Curly golden ringlets of hair fell into his eyes, concealing them in shade. As I noticed the blade the boy held in his hand, he suddenly turned his head over his shoulder in my direction, those mud-streaked locks curtaining over his features.

Could he see me?

A smooth, feminine voice spoke out in a foreign language from behind me. A young woman looked right through me with gentle emerald eyes, and only then did I know for sure I was invisible in this world. She was around my Aunt Sarah’s age and the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Soft features cradled by unblemished olive-toned skin and mermaid liquid-gold waves cascading to a narrow waist.

This time, when she spoke, I oddly understood her. “I was picking olives for a snack, when I saw you racing down the rows like the farm dogs were nipping at your bottom.”

I twisted around for the strange boy’s response and leapt back.

The boy! It washim! Death! Or, at least, the trick he’d used to approach me as a child. I’d know those mismatched green eyes anywhere. Except this version of him was different, which made me question exactly where I was. His hair, for starters, wasn’t black. His expression wasn’t cold and void of emotion. He’d yet to show any terrifying animalistic characteristics or flash any fangs. And although he scared the crap out of me at first, I currently didn’t have the overwhelming urge to hurl myself behind the woman and use her as a human shield.

His features were boyish, soft, undeveloped, and yet a haunting maturity hardened his expression. Sun damage freckles splattered a Roman nose, and the large vertical scar that slashed across his lighter green eye was pinker than the boy’s scar in the fun house, as if the wound had only recently transpired and mended together to form a permanent mark.

The woman walked through me like a ghost. My mind raced as their conversation continued, pieces to a puzzle falling into place. I’d been here before.I’d seen this before. But how?

The boy took off toward the woods. “Alexandru,” his mother yelled, “Not too late!”

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