Endless Knight(83)

Which reminded me of the first time we’d met Lark, when I’d asked Matthew about her. Good. Bad. Good . . . Decoder-ring talk. She’d briefly been my ally, then my enemy. Was she to be my ally once more?

She headed toward the door. “I’ll see you later.”


Alone, I recalled a time before the Flash when my mom’s invitation to an old-boys’-network meeting had gotten “lost in the mail.” As the sole female farmer in our parish, she’d been spitting mad. I’d tried to tell her it was their loss, that they didn’t matter. She’d held up her hand and said, “Sometimes you just need to be mad or sad, Evie. Sometimes you just need to let it happen. But put a cap on it, then get back to happy.”


Could I claw my way out of this depression, getting back to happy? Or at least in the realm of . . . ?

The first step was blocking out painful thoughts. Just as I’d done in school, I would refuse to think about hurtful things. Basically anything to do with Jack. He was in my past and needed to stay there. Matthew as well.

The two of them equaled pain.

That afternoon, I pulled on a red sports bra and the tennis skirt, combing my hair into a ponytail. I grabbed a towel, opened the door wide for Cyclops, then set out.

I found Lark in the spacious gym with her other wolves, music going. She trained in front of the mirrors, punching dummies. “Hey, look who’s joining the land of the living,” she said.

“So says the girl who lives in Death’s house.”


Cyclops trotted past me, sniffing his comrades’ butts in greeting.

“Wanna get started?” In a fake bubbly tone, she said, “Ready, set, go, team!”


“Yeah.” I tossed down my towel. “It was just like that.”


“Show me some moves.”


The floor had a thin layer of padding, so I did an easy roundoff. Another. I worked up to a back handspring. Lark laughed when I did a series of exaggerated pirouettes. God, I’d missed this. I could hardly believe I was using my muscles for something other than fleeing or fighting.

The barbed cuff wasn’t fun as my bicep moved, but I’d grown so used to that pain, I wouldn’t let it get in the way of my enjoyment.

As I danced, I realized I could claw my way out of this despair. All I had to do was keep my mind off the ally who’d betrayed me, and the boy who’d broken my heart.

I began sweating, pleased that I hadn’t lost much flexibility. To test myself, I lifted my leg behind me, grabbing my ankle for a standing split.

Death chose that moment to stride by, doing a jaw-slackened double take before moving on. Yet then he eased back to lean against the doorframe—with his eyes full of . . . undisguised lust.

In my bra and skirt, I had everything covered; but as usual, I felt bare as he looked at me. I hadn’t even felt this naked with Jack, who’d actually seen me without clothes. Don’t think about him!

I kept stretching, refusing to let Death ruin this. “Never seen a girl warming up before?”


“Not one I wouldn’t kill with my touch,” he said in that raspy voice.

“Oh. Speaking of which, is today the day you’re going to gank me?”


“Not yet, creature.” When his starry eyes glowed, I barely stifled a gasp at my reaction. Just from his look, my glyphs had begun stirring.

Which made him scrub a shaking palm over his mouth.

“My Gawd”—Lark fanned herself—“sexual tension, much? Get a manor, kids.”


Death shot Lark a scornful look, then strode away.

In a lower tone, she said, “What’d I tell you, Evie? You’re a lock for the next Mrs. Death. You planned to wreck the entire game? Bet that’d do it.”


I wanted to roll my eyes, but I couldn’t quite take them off that doorway.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be back. And when he is,” Lark continued, all excited, “I’m gonna get scarce and let nature take over. . . .”


Well into the night, I awoke, panting for breath, my glyphs illuminating the room. I’d had another sensual dream of Death, felt like I was aching for him.

I could all but feel his lips on mine, could all but feel my lips—on his body.

I didn’t understand it. He still wanted me dead, still hated me.

How could I dream of kissing him, when he dreamed of killing me?

36


DAY 314 A.F.

“I might be immortal, but I’m still a red-blooded male,” Death had told me out on the road. Every day for the last week, he’d proved it.

The first couple of days, he’d made sure he passed the gym whenever I was down there, poking his head in for a look. The third day, he’d entered, taken a seat on a bench, then pretended to read from a fading newspaper. Now he came every day—while Lark remained as scarce as promised.

He always acted so reluctant, so grudging, as if he’d been dragged by his spurs into the same space as me. But his lustful looks followed my every move, tension emanating from him.

Lark was right. The attraction between us sparked like electricity.

While my emotions had been leveling out, his seemed to be approaching some kind of troubling fever-pitch. In the training yard, his practice had intensified to a brutal degree. No longer was I seeing precise movements and harnessed aggression. No longer did that weird feeling of satisfaction slip up on me.