Page 25 of In Death's Hands
There’s a vicious pang in my heart, however, when I notice in the right corner a neat pile of cardboard boxes all labelled with “books”, “clothes”, “bathroom” in an elegant script. Even my guitar case is carefully set against the wall. The work of Turan, I’m sure. She’s fast. And missing in action. Maybe she decided that her part was done and returned to her life. I wouldn’t blame her.
Do I wish the same? I should say yes, I know, but I’d be lying. I’d also be lying by answering no. That leaves me approximately knee-deep in shit.
Looking at my whole life, packed up and pushed into the corner of a stranger’s house, I just feel empty. I guess I should stop calling him a stranger when I basically just moved in with him.
Nathan switches his footing next to me and says quietly, “If you prefer the other one, you can stay there.”
“Huh?” Oh, the dignified words coming out of my mouth… “Oh, no. This is fine. More than fine. And I’ve stolen your bed too many times already since I met you.”
“We’ve met before.”
His eyes are so intense on my face, I have to avert my own and look for any interesting detail I can find in the bedroom. Like the lamp on the bedside table. What a lovely wooden lamp. I swallow the lump in my throat and answer him, still observing that damn lamp. “Well, yes. But asking what your order was for a few months doesn’t really count as meeting someone.” Though it had been enough for me to develop a crush. Go figure.
“Right.” His jaw tenses and makes me realise that I’ve stopped my careful observation of the furniture. “Next door is your bathroom,” he adds with a jerk of his head towards the second door I noticed.
“I can’t do this.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“You can take the other bedroom. We can move the boxes in no time.” His voice is way too gentle for someone literally offering me his own bed.
“No. Not this.” I gesture to the space before me. “This,” I repeat, this time with my arms encompassing everything. Him, me, this place. Perhaps the entire world. “I can’t do this. I can’t move in with you. I barely know you. I’m taking over your life. You—”
“What life?” He slips his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and lets his eyes roam all over my face. I feel entirely too exposed.
What does he mean, what life? This life. His life. I’m a wrecking ball.
But before I can sort my thoughts into sentences that make sense, he says, “There is no life for me, Liv. I am but a servant to my master.”
I gulp. “What do you mean?”
His sigh is heavy, bone-weary. “I mean that I exist to serve others. To serve Death in his unending task. This place”—he motions in much the same way I did to the space around us, only less frantically—“is only that. A place. It does not hold any meaning or emotional attachment. Consider it yours if it makes you feel better about staying here.”
I’m going to brush aside the part where he basically offered me his penthouse and focus on the fact that he completely believes what he said. If I didn’t know better—which I don’t—I’d say he’s a slave to Death. Stuck and forced to perform whatever task his master requires of him. I don’t know how to feel about that. Is it even my place to feel anything regarding his heartbreaking admission?
I don’t know. Not that I know much of anything anymore. Which brings me to an essential question. “What’s next?”
He releases a breath and seems relieved to change the subject. Was he afraid I would pry and force feelings and secrets out of his mouth? Maybe, but I also know I’m not ready for whatever he’d be willing to say. I can barely wrap my mind around him, so I am definitely not ready to delve into his… job? Duty? Task? Whatever.
“Next, you sleep. The entire night this time,” he says with a pointed glare, “without running to your death.” My eyes roll so far back I’m afraid they might get stuck up there, but I see the ghost of a smile on his lips and warmth spreads in my chest. “In the morning, we figure out a plan.”
The warmth disappears at once. Right. A plan to find the Fates. Because that’s not totally bonkers or anything. I shake my head, hoping the movement will eject the thoughts swirling inside it right out. No such luck.
I turn back to Nathan, realising that for all he’s done for me, I still haven’t thanked him. “Th—”
“Don’t.” His eyes shutter.
“But…”
He shakes his head and retreats towards the kitchen.
I could go to him, see if I can pry to learn more about him, his world and the insanity that is now trapping me, but I really want to shower. And I don’t think he’d say anything.
I head for my boxes, wishing my thoughts were as neatly sorted. I easily find the one marked “bathroom” and wonder once more where the colourful woman disappeared to. Where does she fit into all this? They said they were sort of related—whatever that meant—and then she called him “brother”.
Could anyone become Death’s assistant? Dread spreads through my limbs as my active imagination decides to create a whole explanation that is all too plausible. Maybe Nathan died, and instead of doing whatever Death does to souls, he kept Nathan’s to work with. As a punishment? It clearly doesn’t seem like a position he relishes, so it couldn’t have been a reward.
Despite the loud warnings in my head, I think back to the night I met him. I remember looking at my broken body, I remember lights flashing around me from the ambulances and police cars. A piece of my heart starts to break further at the memory, the crack quickly drawing me back to the here and now.
I know better than to linger in the past. Than to relieve that day in particular.
