Endless Knight(65)

No armor! He was dressed all in black—button-down, leather pants, and boots. No helmet covered his blond hair; it was longish, grazing his jawline, creating a perfect frame for his chiseled features.

Naturally he could pull off leather pants and long hair. He looked like a normal gorgeous young man, who was at home here amidst all this wealth. Like the heir to a fortune. Highborn.

And still, my first impulse was to stab him with a table knife. But I knew he was too fast for me to ever get the drop on him.

Without looking up, he said, “I go without armor in my own home, creature. Especially since there are no threats to contend with.” Arrogance rolled off him in waves, nettling me. He was the hostage-taker. The jailor. The reigning victor over a defeated foe.

At the very least, I needed to slap him, my mission seeming farther and farther away. Ignoring me, he turned the page. Why would he be interested in old news?

“Reading an outdated newspaper, Death? How expectedly retro of you.”


Lark said, “He reads anything and everything. He’s already memorized all the books here . . .” She trailed off at his glower.

I noted this chilly exchange. Information was there for the taking. It was time to bite back bile and cozy up to Lark.

When she padded over to a sideboard topped with silver warming pans, I followed to find scrambled eggs, french toast, and, yes, bacon. I picked up the pitcher beside the coffee pot. Fresh cream. They had a dairy cow? “This is quite a spread.”


“We’re not without resources here,” Death said from behind his paper. “We have luxuries—and the means to protect them.”


“Does Ogen do the cooking?” I grabbed a plate. Fine china. Only the best.

Lark speared french toast with a serving fork. “Not quite. We have a human servant. You’ll never see him if you don’t go looking for him.”


I turned to Death. “Then where is El Diablo? If he sits upon Lucifer’s knee, shouldn’t he be at Death’s right hand?”


“He lives in the guardhouse,” Lark muttered. “Not allowed in the manor.”


I gave Death a sympathetic look. “Housebreaking ogres is such a bitch, am I right?”


Finally he glanced up, pinning me with his uncanny amber gaze. “By your demeanor, I can assume you’ve been contacted by the Fool. Perhaps all in your alliance survived?”


“Every last one.”


Lark’s plate dropped, shattering. Cyclops lunged forward to scarf up the food—and the pieces of china. Crunch, crunch.

“Sorry, boss,” Lark said. “Still tired from the trip.”


This was interesting. “Finn lived,” I said analyzing her expression. “His leg’s healing.”


She shrugged, but I could see her relief. So the feelings had gone both ways. Then why would Lark betray the boy she cared for? Maybe Death was coercing her.

I turned back to the food. In the last serving dish was fruit: melon, pineapple, strawberries. When I sensed the energy and potential in those tiny seeds, my head swung around to Death. “These are fresh.”


“As I said, we have luxuries. My home shames any other.”


God, the smugness! “Gas generators for lights? Running water? Big deal. Selena’s house had more electricity than Joules—and a swimming pool. I don’t suppose you have one?”


He waved a negligent hand. “Fauna will show it to you later.”


They had a freaking pool. “How are you growing food? Where’s the garden? It can’t be outside.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you using indoor sunlamps?” I’d bet a sunlamp could give me the strength I needed to “chew off my own arm.” Which would be preferable to seducing this conceited man.

“Suffice it to say that we don’t use Empress blood.”


“Show me the garden.”


He gave me an incredulous look. “Never. All you need to know is that we’re equipped to pass a comfortable apocalypse.”


“Until you kill us all.”


He inclined his head. “As I always do.”


I gazed at Lark. She was cool with this? Without a word, she headed to the opposite end of the table. She stared at her plate.

Testing Matthew’s theory—proximity, seduction, freedom—I sat directly beside the Reaper. He lowered his paper to frown at me.

When we’d been out on the road, he’d smelled of rain and steel. Now I perceived his innate scent: masculine, underscored with hints of sandalwood and pine.

Which was heavenly to a girl like me.

“What do you want?”


At his question, I blinked to attention, remembering why I was here, remembering that I hated this man. “Whose icon is that?” I pointed to the small markings on his right hand. The image beside Calanthe’s looked like miniature scales. “Who else did you kill? I’m guessing it must be Spite.”


“You don’t recognize it? You remember even less than I thought.”


“Wouldn’t you know exactly what I remembered since you were able to read my mind for weeks?”


“I could. However, that did not mean I wanted to be in your thoughts every second of the day. I had a game to play, and I could endure only so many banal and tedious musings.”