Endless Knight (The Arcana Chronicles #2)(70)

“This is you being soft?” My thoughts flickered back to Death looming at the end of that mine, more fearsome than his Grim Reaper tableau. “What would have happened if I’d stumbled on him?”

Instead of answering my question, Death said, “Ogen won’t enter the manor again.”

When he opened his door, I was a total Looky Lou, but he didn’t invite me in. “You’ve got a lot of books.” Scintillating, Eves. “Can I come in for a sec?”

With an aggrieved air, he turned and walked in. Taking that as a “sure,” I followed, shutting the door in Cyclops’s face.

Death sat behind his oversize desk, which was covered with weathered scrolls. From the looks of it, before I’d interrupted he’d been deep in the study of . . . something. Beside the scrolls was a bottle and a shot glass.

Like Jack, Death drank spirits. Unlike Jack, he shot vodka.

Without a word to me, Death rolled up the scrolls. When he didn’t offer me a seat, I took my time exploring. He had two walls of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. I ran a finger over a line of spines, noting the age of the books. All collector’s editions, no doubt. Most of the titles were in foreign languages, what looked like Greek and Latin, some in French.

Dozens of swords hung on one wall. Behind his desk, a bank of Gothic windows arched high—the ones I’d seen him gazing out of.

On either side of the windows stood display cabinets filled with unusual objects. Four kingly scepters lay on one shelf. The same number of crowns was highlighted on another.

Everything about the room screamed wealth and taste. Yet all his possessions were mired in the past, no signs of life. The crowns had once been worn. The swords had once been wielded. Those dusty books had once been unread, untapped, filled with mystery.

Was this the existence Death wanted? The sanctuary he craved? I pictured him sitting here all alone, surveying his lifeless collections. As on the riverbank, I felt a confusing pang of pity. “So you collect swords and books and . . . crowns?”

“Among other things,” he said dismissively.

“No electric lights?” The room was lit with candles. “How can you read like this?”

As if his reply had been dragged from him, he said, “For eons, I’ve read by candlelight. If you must know, it makes the words more . . . alive.”

“Death wants the words to be alive? Cats and dogs living together, huh?” Yet his comment made me look at his room anew. Maybe he didn’t prefer this cold, solitary existence. Maybe he was trapped like this.

Maybe Death wished he could dream in color.

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“To talk.” Before he could kick me out, I sat in one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. I was playing with fire, irritating this man. When his gaze dipped, I drew my robe tight to my neck. Some femme fatale.

Even he frowned at my actions. “As I’ve told you, I will not touch you like that. You’ve nothing to fear from me on that score.”

“But on another score, I’m not so lucky? I guess I should get this out of the way: is tonight the night you kill me?”

He sighed. “Not yet, creature.”

Feeling bolder, I said, “So what are those scrolls about?”

“Chronicles from a past game,” he said. “Details about . . . certain players.”

“Anything you want to share?” At his annoyed expression, I said, “You have all the advantages over the rest of us, don’t you? A fortress, supplies, insight into the game, and hand-picked allies who don’t seem to care that you’ll kill them.”

“Correct on all counts.” He shot his glass, refilling.

He still hadn’t kicked me out. Deep down, did this man crave talking to another? “So what does vodka taste like? I’ve never had it.” At his disbelieving look, I reminded him, “I’m sixteen. I hail from a land of bourbon and beer.”

As if he couldn’t help himself, he rose to collect another glass from a side table, then poured straight vodka.

I stared at the clear liquid he set down in front of me. My mission was seduction; liquor lowered inhibitions, right? When I raised my glass to sip, he shook his head slowly, demonstrating with his own shot how it was meant to be enjoyed. Bottoms up, with an immediate refill.

Giving him a pained smile, I knocked back my glass, coughing at the burn.

“Well?” He poured again.

Throat on fire, I said, “Don’t know how I lived without it. I’ll bet you’ve got bottles and bottles of this stuff—in your bunker beneath the manor.”

Stony stare.

Undeterred, I asked, “How did you know when the Flash would be?”

He sank into his leather chair once more. “The icons on my hand began to fade, and I started to hear the Arcana calls. Those events usually happen just prior to the catastrophe.”

“There’s truly one in each game?”

“They’re are all card-themed. The Black Death was a nod to me. A region-killing volcano was for the Emperor.”

“That’s right,” I said, remembering that card’s powers. The Emperor could create mountains, volcanoes, and earthquakes, his character as hard and unyielding as the Empress was supposed to be soft and lush.

“A shame that you can’t remember your famine tribute.”