The Dark Calling (The Arcana Chronicles #5)(69)

Clenching his fists, he turned his unsettling gaze toward the window again, all but bristling to go hunt her down. Who needed mind-reading when I could read faces so well?

Using ever more power to keep him in line, I daubed the perspiration dotting my upper lip. This study was warm—even formal Gabe had removed his coat—but using my abilities fatigued me.

The Angel turned to me. “What about you, Hanged Man? Are you a killer at heart? Perhaps you took lives even before the game began?”

“Never.” Often. From an early age, I’d recognized the power of treachery. To me betrayal was, I imagined, like flight was to Gabriel.

I soared.

And ending a life was the ultimate betrayal. My lips curled into an irrepressible grin. “I cared only about sacrifice and duty. I helped others,” I said, picturing my first serious girlfriend, a champion athlete. I’d helped her get hooked on opiates, even injecting her as she slept.

By the time she realized what I’d done to her, it was too late. The once-proud girl had lost everything, reduced to selling herself for her next fix. After my first year in medical school, I’d located her, offering my assistance with rehabilitation. By showering her with condescending pity, I helped her turn another corner.

She’d OD’d that same night.

I shuddered with pleasure to recall the betrayed look in her eyes. There was a point at which resentment became poisonous to the body and mind, when bitterness became lethal.

I enabled people to find that point. With my medical background, I’d been like a virus that spread suicide and “accidental” death.

Whenever my victims had gazed up at me with realization in their glazed-over eyes, I’d told them, Never fear me, for I mean no harm.

“Helping others is my calling.” Assuming a troubled expression, I said, “I tried to be there for Evie, but she betrayed me. And yet she walks free, with no repercussions.” Actually, she was knocked up out in the Ash. A special kind of hell, I’d imagine.

Death’s lean frame tensed, his gaze on the window once more.

I wanted him in my alliance, my immortal henchman. Even should I lose him, I would eventually reclaim him—I was certain of it.

These Arcana coveted my guidance. They needed it. Life was better with me. Considering how Death, Gabe, and Lark reacted within my sphere, they would hate it outside.

After the safety and order of this place, how could they not find the Ash jarring and incomprehensible? Much less without my clarity.

If the Reaper didn’t go mad outright, he’d be drawn back. Once I set my hooks, I set them for life.

Still, I had no intention of simply allowing him to walk away. I’d taken precautions to keep them all here.

One night the Reaper had told me, “I will join Lark’s hunt for the Empress.”

“No,” I’d said. “That’s not a good idea.”

In a flash of his old arrogant self, he’d said, “Do you really think you can contain Death, little man?”

Yes, Reaper. Yes, I do.





31


Death





The Hanged Man’s face was clammy, the yellow light behind his head flaring. He was probably straining the limits of his abilities to keep me here.

Amusing. Did he not understand that I remained here by choice? As strategy?

The need to ride out and slay my wife clawed at me inside—I still seethed over her words: our game is no fun if you’re weak—but I leaned on the Hanged Man. I used his power like a tool.

Some might say like a drug.

As the Archangel dealt more cards, I wondered why I had allowed them into my private sanctuary. Perhaps because I’d felt weak when I’d run a hand over this desk—where I’d taken the Empress. Or when I’d gazed at the couch where we’d often read together. Her gentle affection . . .

My gods, I missed her touch. Sex with her had been stratospheric, but her mere touch coupled with a soft look had felled me.

I ran my fingers along the red ribbon in my pocket, some memento from Deveaux that I’d retrieved from her drawer. What does it mean to her? Before I claimed the Empress’s life, I would force her to tell me the significance of this crimson length.

No doubt she and the mortal had resumed their liaison. Though jealousy choked me, I pitied Deveaux. He believed the Empress was kindhearted and good.

I knew the truth.

A week ago, she’d phoned me again, informing me that they’d found a shelter out in the Ash. She’d been alone at the time of the call. She’d sounded at once healthy and lonely, seeming in need of someone to talk to.

“I, uh, don’t get out much here,” she’d admitted.

I’d bitten back the worst of my rancor to keep her on the line, attempting to discover her whereabouts. She’d been calling from some kind of echoing, enclosed area, but I’d also heard waves, wind, music, and people. A settlement on the coast?

In a casual tone, she’d told me Circe had contacted her and revealed the sex of our child. A boy.

What a brilliant ploy on the Empress’s part. Though I wouldn’t have cared whether I’d fathered a boy or a girl—either would have been a delight—her revelation made me imagine scenarios, such as teaching a son all that my father had taught me about being a man.

It made the lie more real.