Page 33 of In Death's Hands
This strangely makes me feel powerful and alive. I feel my lips stretch in a small smile, and that in itself should scare me. I try to hand it back to him, but he won’t let me. Instead, he drops to one knee and works on the straps keeping the sheath in place, not once opening his mouth. When he seems satisfied, he glances up at me expectantly. Waiting for me to slide the dagger in. All traces of what I glimpsed earlier are utterly gone. I wonder if I imagined it all.
It takes me longer than I want to admit to remove my eyes from him. To drag my mind from the gutter it so happily jumped into once his knee hit the ground. I will my blood to stay far from my cheeks and pray to whoever might listen, hoping the gods I recently met aren’t the ones listening, that he has no idea what the sight is doing to me.
“I don’t know how to use it,” I say, the words barely audible in the big space.
“Hopefully you won’t have to, but I’d rather you have something to defend yourself with should the worst happen.” He gets back to his feet and my breathing becomes easier. He offers me a small smile. “Only worthwhile lesson is: the pointy part goes into the enemy.”
It takes me a second to register that he made a joke, and he seems so unsure about it that I laugh. A shocked gasp is a more accurate description of my reaction, but he seems rather pleased by it nonetheless. It turns my gasp into a softer sort of smile, one his eyes get trapped in like a fly caught in honey.
I look around, wondering what is next. He seems to read me easily enough because he offers his hand to me, palm up. I stare at it until he says, “I’m sure Turan has already delivered mymessage, so I will Fade us to our destination. Donotlet go of my hand.”
I nod and fold my fingers around his big, steady hand. It instantly warms up my cold skin, a strange buzz running all the way up my arm. I don’t have time to ask more questions because he suddenly comes flush against my front, blocking the words in my throat. My entire body breaks into goose bumps, from the shadows wrapping themselves tenderly around us or from his other hand cradling my nape, I’m not sure.
The sunlight disappears and our surroundings fade away. Wind tears at us and I’m glad Nathan’s hold is like iron. Cool and unbreakable. I bury my head in his chest and slowly count my breaths. One, two, three, four. Hold. It only takes two rounds before my feet feel solid ground again and Nathan’s grasp lightens enough to tell me we’re here. Whereverhereis.
I’m about to let go of him to investigate what looks like a cave when the temperature drops to an all-time low. Nathan shouts, and I see the shadows I still haven’t asked him about rush at something behind me. I can’t turn because I’m back in his arms, and he twists us too quickly for me to keep my footing. I go down, taking him with me, and when I focus on his face, it’s one of agony.
Everything quiets too swiftly, and my eyes widen in horror as I finally see his back, and the dark knife protruding from it.
“Oh God oh God oh God.” Nathan is a dead weight on top of me. No! Not dead. Not a dead weight. I try to push him off to examine him more closely but—
“What the fuck?”
I freeze. A man’s voice, and it wasn’t Nathan.
“He’ll know what it’s for,” says another man, voice seething with anger.
I hear footsteps approach, and my panic is a tidal wave ready to drown me. I try to breathe through it, but with Nathan on top of me I can’t get a full breath down. My eyes water at the pressure on my body, in my head as my thoughts swirl. They stabbed Death’s assistant, so what exactly are they going to do to me?
Are they part of the Novensiles? Were they waiting here for us? How did they know we’d be here?
I whimper as I hear more shuffling, and suddenly, I can breathe. The blood rushes to my head and black spots block my vision. Nathan’s body is dragged off mine, and from the thud I hear, dumped rather unceremoniously next to me.
“Hello there,” says the second voice, with a familiar accent I can’t quite place. I blink a few times until I can take in my surroundings, and new opponents, but what I see has my eyes widen as I stay rooted to my spot on the ground. I should get up. I should get the knife Nathan gave me and start swinging. But allI do is stare at the two men facing me with different degrees of curiosity on their faces.
They are wearing only swimming shorts with Hawaiian patterns and leaves on them. Their torsos are sleek and well defined, adorned with many tattoos of waves and turtles and tribal-looking symbols. They look like what I’d imagine Californian surfers to look like. Or maybe Hawaiian people? The taller one, arms bulging as they cross atop his torso, has skin so dark his tattoos look like an inherent part of him, while the other, who is currently bending over me, head cocked to the side like I’m a puzzle he’d love to solve, is as white-skinned as I am. The grin the tall man gives me is akin to that of a predator who’s found a new toy to play with and devour, so I focus on the one closer to me. Which may be a mistake judging by the crinkle in his eyes.
I crawl back a bit to create space between us before finally jumping to my feet. “Who are you?” I look between them again as I put my hand atop the dagger at my thigh. The man closest to me straightens with a heavy sigh, as if inconvenienced by the whole thing. The taller man tracks my movement but doesn’t make a move, a clear sign that he doesn’t take me as a threat. And why would he? Even compared to the smaller man, I am but a frail female. At least in his eyes—but he doesn’t know I’ve kicked men bigger than him down to the mat before. His smile widens as he sees the challenge in my eyes, and my heart throws a fit.
“Who are you?” I ask again, more forcefully.
“I think, sweet thing, the question is who areyou?” answers the man closest to me.
I shake my head, not wanting to waste time on this nonsense. I grab my dagger and point it at them, ignoring the amused glances they throw one another.
Keeping an eye on them, I move to Nathan and touch his face, ignoring how cold it feels. My shaky hands reach for the dagger but stop short. I can’t take it out. I’ve seen on TV that you shouldn’t take it out. But how do I know that’s actually true? I want to curse myself for not being a doctor, but it’s a waste of time. A waste of my thoughts that can’t grasp on to any sort of idea except that I need him to wake up.
“Nathan.”
No response.
The two men keep looking at me, not making any move to attack again.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, my eyes going back and forth between Nathan’s too-pale face and theirs.
“He deserved it,” says the smaller man.
I choke. “No one deservesthat,” I say, feeling entirely hypocritical when I’d have been all too happy to stab my attackers the other night.
