Page 69 of Death is My Ride or Die

Three floors down from Death’s penthouse, Leo and I got off the elevator. We walked down a sleek hallway with windows looking out onto the city on one side and simplistic modern art on the other before stopping at a door. Leo opened it and ushered me inside. We entered a cozy, masculine apartment with worn-out couches and beanbag chairs, a pool table, a dartboard, and a pinball machine. Against one wall was a long bar with drinks being mixed by a bartender. Rock music played through extra-bass speakers, but not at a volume where people couldn’t hear one another talking. Along another wall was a popcorn machine and a table laden with food: sandwiches, pizza, various chips like Doritos and Cheetos, candy, sodas, and water . . .

There were only six men in the room. All of them were attractive, imposing, mysterious. They wore outfits ranging from casual to elegant, and each of them had vibrant, different-colored eyes.

There was a connection linking them. I’d felt it the moment I’d entered the room. A palpable, deadly energy radiated off these seven men. Beneath their pretty façades were cold-blooded killers.

“Faith,” Leo began, “these are my brothers.”

“Pleasure to meet you, love.” A grinning man with a pink Mohawk sauntered over. “I’m Romeo. We’re the Seven Sins, but there’s an eighth one just for looking at you, you exquisite little treat.”

“And a ninth for when I wedge my foot up your ass,” I said.

“Wowza.” Pink Mohawk backed up a step, and a few of the reapers heckled in amusement. “You’re dangerous. I think I’m in heat.”

“Romeo’s sin is obviously lust,” Leo said. “I won’t be letting him within six feet of you. You might catch something with an itch.” He motioned to the man stuffing a sandwich down his gullet. “That’s Gunner.”

“Gluttony?” I guessed.

“’Hat would be me,” Gunner said around a mouthful of food. “Nice ’o mee’ you.” He reached for a handful of Red Vine licorice, but the bowl was snatched away by a tattooed arm.

The thief with the tattoos sported gelled-back black hair. Real Mafia-esque. He tore at the Red Vines with his teeth and snarled like an animal. “I’m Wolf.” He held out the licorice like a saliva-drenched bouquet, and when he grinned, his canines were unnaturally sharper than the rest of his teeth. “You want some?”

“That’s okay.” I laughed.

“Keep your valuables away from that one.” My attention was drawn to a gray-eyed reaper with ebony skin and a baritone voice. When he stood up, he towered over the others. His dark hair was shaved close to his head like a soldier’s, and I could see an intricate black mark on his bicep. Death had a similar tattoo in the same spot. Now that I thought about it, Wolf’s tattoos reminded me of Death’s as well.

“Denim,” the reaper said, and then a polite smile softened his severe face. “Pride.”

“Nice to meet you, Denim,” I said, returning the smile. “You guys part of a motorcycle gang with these badass names?”

Denim gave a great, unexpected chuckle. “Funny. Death mentioned that you were eccentric.”

“You’re saying it like a compliment, but you know damn well he meant it as an insult,” chimed in another reaper. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his sandy-brown hair was combed in a prim style. He sat back on a brown leather couch with his feet crossed at the ankles.

“That’s Flash,” Denim said when the reaper didn’t introduce himself. “Sloth. In Latin, Sloth means ‘lack of care — in the world, in themselves, in others.’”

The reapers all grunted in agreement, evidently teasing Flash. He flipped the room off, and it made me laugh at how sibling-like these guys acted.

“It is not just lack of care but resentment that curses me,” Flash elucidated, sloshing the drink in his glass thoughtfully. “I’m multi-layered, complex. The Roman poet Virgil described me as ‘the effect of an insufficient amount of love.’” He looked out into the distance with a somber expression and sniffed. “I’m misunderstood, really—”

“Get your head out of your arse!” barked a thick Irish accent. “Nobody cares.”

“That would be Blade,” Leo said with a sigh, motioning to the guy sitting at a table with a whetstone, sharpening a knife. “Wrath, if you couldn’t tell.”

Blade narrowed his eyes at us before returning to his knife.

“Lovely group,” I muttered. “Lust, Gluttony, Pride, Avarice, Wrath, Sloth . . . ” My eyes swept the reapers at each sin and then landed on Leo, who was watching me very peculiarly with those amber eyes illuminating like an owl’s. “You’re Envy.”

“I must be,” Leo replied, “because I’m jealous how quickly my brothers were able to make you smile.”

My face grew hot.

“Suaaave,” Romeo sang sarcastically.

Leo rubbed the back of his neck. “I think that’s enough with the introductions. Who else wants some bland human food?”

The next two hours were the most fun that I’d had in a while. I ate my fill of sandwiches, chips, and root beer. I kicked Leo and Romeo’s butts inDisco Rebel, since they had all the versions on the PlayStation in the den, and I almost got the new high score. After my victory, there was ice cream cake.

Gunner came forward, his light-green eyes shy as Wolf and Flash clapped him on the shoulder and encouraged him to stand in front of the cake.

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