Endless Knight(51)

“Wh-what does that mean?” My voice sounded so distant. Exhaustion was overwhelming me, but I struggled to remain conscious.

“Doesn’t this feel familiar, creature? You, injured in my arms, as I ride. Our history repeats itself.” When he removed his spiked glove, tears welled, then streamed from my eyes.

I tried to break free, the effort sending me closer to blacking out. “Don’t touch me!”


His fingers brushed along my cheek, his skin burning hot against mine. He shuddered from the slight touch; I braced for pain. This was it, then.

My eyes rolled back in my head.

Death’s hand inches ever closer to my face. Closer . . .

Contact. This is my end. His skin is surprisingly hot. My lids slide shut. Scarcely conscious, I await more grueling pain.

Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat.

I crack open my eyes.

I feel nothing but the continued agony of his sword. Brows drawn, he yanks off his other glove, laying both hands against my face, then running his palms down my arms.

His starry eyes glow brighter; as if in response, my glyphs shiver, awakening.

Voice gone hoarse, he says, “None of the others survived my touch. No one.” He strokes my cheeks, my neck, my lips.

When was the last time he held a living person this long?

I sense something wicked beginning to seethe inside him. With a lustful gaze, he leans in to press his lips to my bloody ones. I am too stunned to react. His kiss is ardent but unsure, as if he’s never done it before.

Once he draws back, he licks the blood from his lips and groans, “So sweet.”


“I-I don’t understand.” Am I immune to him?

“I am Death—and you are Life. You were made for me alone.” He grips the hilt of his sword, yanking it free from my body. As I scream with pain, he catches me with his other arm. “You will heal.” Under his breath, he says, “You must.”


Cradling me to his chest, he mounts his steed. “I will protect you, and you will forgive me this. I will see you well.”


“L-let me go.”


“Never, creature.” He gazes down at me. The most beautiful male I’ve ever seen. “I will never let you go.”


“Where are you taking me?”


He frowns, as if the answer should be obvious. “To my bed, Empress . . .”


20


DAY 258 A.F.

SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTHEAST


When I woke, I was still on a horse, still held by Death. As in my dream/memory.

But this time, I was astride the saddle, with my back to his front, my cheek resting against his armor. Instead of sizzling desert sands, we rode through pouring rain.

How long had I been out? My broken arm was healed?

That dream of Death merged into my present reality. He could touch my skin! I was the only one he could touch without killing.

And he’d been attracted to me.

Not this time around. My wrists were so securely cuffed together even I couldn’t slice my way out. At some point he must have peeled off my parka and pack, leaving me in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. To keep me cold and weak?

“She wakes,” Death intoned from behind me.

I stiffened, sitting up in the saddle. His voice brought other memories rushing into my consciousness. Oh, God. Ogen had battered the side of the mountain with even more force after we’d emerged. We’d been seconds from dying down there before—how could Jack and Matthew have lived through another wave of quakes? If the mine had collapsed . . .

Matthew, please answer me!

Nothing. Maybe they were trapped. Or just asleep.

Sweetheart, I need to know you’re okay! PLEASE TALK TO ME!

Silence answered. And emptiness—as if the comforting presence I’d felt since before the Flash had been uprooted from me. Even Death’s presence in my head was utterly gone.

Because the switchboard was no more? If Matthew had . . . died, then Jack would have as well. Selena and Finn too? “Y-you killed them.”


“As I always do,” Death said in an amused tone. “Ogen flattened that mountain like a sandcastle.”


Grief engulfing me, I stared down at Death’s spiked gloves. In a voice I barely recognized, I said, “You wear their icons?”


“Apparently I was closest to them. Earning icons that way isn’t as satisfying as a direct kill, but we do what we can.”


Fury began overwhelming my grief. With each of his taunting words, it burned hotter, breath on an ember. My claws began to sharpen. I would slice Death’s marked skin right off his hands—or slay him and earn them.

Death murmured, “Try to tap your powers”—cold steel made contact with my neck—“and I will shove this blade into your temple. I’ll keep you like that, brain-dead, unable to move. Or to die.”


“Sink the blade!” Ogen hissed from our left. Though in a more human form, he still sported those monstrous features. His cloven feet plodded through mud; one of his black horns jutted higher than the other. When he skirted a rising retention pond with a wary expression, he looked younger. Maybe fifteen.

On our right side, Lark spurred her horse to match our pace. “You should make this last, boss,” she told Death. “Torment her a little. You’re gonna have to wait centuries for the next opportunity to cap her ass.” Even in this weather, Lark looked snug and comfortable in her camo coat. “Making her suffer will be so much better—trust me.”