Page 22 of A Shadow in the Reaping
The rotation of the blade in his hand stops when the serrated edge lodges in the butter through the imprint of my fangs. Something wicked flashes in Ashen's eyes. "If you think that is a disincentive, you're wrong," he says as he cuts a square of butter and deposits it on his toast, waiting for the heat of the bread to melt the edges. He looks at me with a gleam in his eyes, and I can't tell if it's fury or something more dangerous.
I give the Reaper a sweet smile as I pass him my reply.Next time, I guess I'll just have to put it down my pants.
The warm brown of his eyes seems to shimmer in the dim morning light. He gives me a lazy half smile. Ashen leans across the island, holding my gaze. His eyes land on my mouth for a fraction too long and my heart thuds a heavy beat in my chest. "That's not what I thought you meant when you saidmake it cream."
I nearly let out a roaring laugh but I'm scared to make the sound. I almost busted myself the last time I did, when I imagined him reaping donuts. But I do give him a vibrant smile. I can't dampen the delight in my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of something in his that I didn't expect. Something real beneath the performative mask. It's like the ember of truth beneath the smoke that blinds you.
Desire.
And I know, better than anyone, that desire can get you killed.
I mustn't let myself forget. Not my sister's hands as she pushed me from the cliff and into the sea. Not the silver blade through her heart, the hellfire shimmering in the sun. Not the blood that spilled from her hands as she gripped the sword, taking it with her as she fell after me. I can't forget Aglaope. The second I do, I'll be next. And no whisper of desire will stand against the storm of their vengeance if the Reapers find out who I am.
Ashen is no different from the rest of his Realm. He's probably already planning my demise. It might not be his hand on the blade, but it will be his kill. Unless I kill first.
I write a note. I hold his gaze. I lean a little closer and there's only a whisper of space between us. I pass him my message, hiding my fangs behind my smile.
Be careful, Reaper. You're in danger of convincing yourself you know what to do with a woman like me.
I can see every shade of gold and honey in the rich brown depths of his eyes. I can see the ember brighten beneath the smoke. The Reaper can try to hide it, this spark of desire, but I'll still find it. I'll hunt it down. I'll fan it into a flame. And then I think I'll use it.
I think I'll use it to burn them all.
Chapter 12
Black smoke coils in a slow path toward the ceiling. It rises from a wide, flat cauldron resting on a dais in the center of the room. There are stones in the cauldron, black with shimmering seams of gold. There isn't a flame, and yet the smoke billows upward, trapped by the living room above. It flows across the ceiling and hovers among the tops of the brick pillars and arches that hold up the foundations of the house.
The Reaper takes a small, unlit torch from a basket by the door, holding it to the fire of a lamp along the wall. He casts it into the cauldron. Fire roars to life across the stones.
"Let's go," he says, walking toward the dais.
I look around as though there's some magical door to the Shadow Realm that might appear in all the embers spitting from the flame. The Reaper ascends the steps.
There is no door. There's no escape hatch.
The cauldron is the path to the Shadow Realm.
This parachute is a backpack and the backpack is on fucking fire.
I write a note and rip it from the journal, crumple it up, and throw it at the Reaper.
I miss.
It rolls down the interior edge of the cauldron and bursts into flame.
The Reaper turns and looks at me, and the note doesn't matter anymore. He gets the gist of it from my face. Which is:
Fuck you. I'm not getting in a cauldron of fire.
"This is the corridor," he says, pointing to the cauldron as though it's an obvious and perfectly reasonable request to stand in a flame. "Let's go, vampire."
I shake my head. I take a step backward.
"You will not burn," the Reaper says.
Sure, that's easy to say when you're a demon and your name is fuckingAshen. My jaw tightens and I give him a death stare. To demonstrate my point, I rip another piece of paper from my journal and compress it in my fist, then throw it into the fire. Again, it bursts into flame. Ashen looks at it, then at me.
"Okay... I understand your concern, butyouwill not burn. You are an immortal."
