Page 12 of Death is My Ride or Die

Surprisingly, I stepped through security without any questions. Once the guards were finished scanning us, any pleasantness in Ace’s features vanished, shifting to the menacing demeanor of the monster hiding underneath. Death’s illusions had worked. We were in.

Death stalked over to my side.

“Walk,” he said, grasping me by the elbow again.

I tore from his hold once we were a fair distance away. “Relax, alpha male. We’ll get to Devin and all will be well. Grind your teeth any harder and Ace will have to wear dentures.”

“Don’t comfort me, Faith. I’m fine.”

“Sounds like it!”

“I’m piggybacking another man’s fucking body. It’s well within reason to be furious.”

“As long as you don’t take it out on me, buddy.”

As we entered the ballroom, Death pulled me sharply to the side behind a large bouquet of Halloween-themed orange and black dyed flowers. I was just about to tell him off for dragging me around like a dog on a leash when he cupped a hand over my mouth and flattened me against the wall with his body. The pure homicide in his expression sent fear, and maybe a dash of somethingelse, down my spine.

Devin Star strode past us, paused to scan the room, and then continued through the ballroom. On his arm was my aunt Sarah, or at least I assumed it was her since her face wasn’t turned toward me. Her blond hair was piled elegantly on top of her head, and she wore a beautiful, sparkling silver dress. Her toned body and pale skin bore no lacerations or damage caused by the wraiths and the hell hounds in the corn maze.

I started to move toward her, but Death placed a hand on my shoulder and secured me to his side.

“What the hell isLuciferdoing with my aunt?” I whispered.

“Looks like the hell hounds dragged her here to be his date.” Death raked his hand aggravatedly through Ace’s hair. “Damn it, that was my chance. I should have approached him.”

“Now who’s the chicken,buddy?”

He turned on me. “How about you shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you, buddy?” I should have been frightened, but I felt a lick of something unwelcomely close to desire at the tension between us.

Get a grip.

I examined the patterns on his tapestry vest to distract myself from the inconvenient fantasies I was having about him. “What are we going to do now?”

“Sit down and locate Devin after his presentation.” He peered out from behind the flowers and checked if the coast was clear. “Heading to the stage right now will draw unwanted attention to us.”

Unexpectedly, his fingers weaved with mine, and he drew me into the ballroom.

Curtains were draped across the spacious ceiling, and amber lights shimmered behind them. The rest of the room was decorated with elegant Halloween accents, splashes of orange and black, and bouquets with little pumpkins on each table. An enormous chandelier made of countless arms branching out with dazzling crystals and golden lights spread a warm glow along the ceiling and the hardwood floors.

Death selected an empty table and dragged out a chair for me. In front of the seat lay a card written in calligraphy and a black masquerade mask. I pulled the skirt of my gown under me and took my seat as Death sat down next to me.

“Put on the mask,” he ordered, lifting his plain white mask off the table and pressing it to his face. Instantly, the party favor transformed into a unique decoration that matched his suit. Fascinated, I lifted mine to my eyes. As if by magic, the mask clung to my face without any string or ribbon.

Death unfastened his purple suit jacket while his gaze swept the room like an assassin, landing on one table.

Seven men in identical obsidian tuxedos sat there. They had athletic physiques and wore red masquerade masks. Laughing loudly, three of the seven were taking turns tossing hors d’oeuvres into each other’s mouths, baseball-style.

“Friends of yours?”

“I don’t have friends,” Death said. “They’re my subordinates. My seven reapers.”

As they continued to fling food at each other like drunken fraternity brothers, one with a pink Mohawk missed a clump of food and chaotically flipped over his chair in the process. He rolled to his feet in a smooth somersault and played it cool, suavely fixing his hair. Death gripped the back of my chair with a white-knuckled fist and visibly strained to remain in his seat.

“Damn it, Romeo,” he hissed.

“One of your reapers is calledRomeo? With an alias as scary as Death, I would have expected hardcore names for your subordinates. Like Shovelhead, or Cobra. Do you have a reaper named Bubbles?”

Death fiddled with his butter knife on the table. “This is a prestigious event. They’re behaving like a bunch of imbeciles.”

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