Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110034 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
When I wake up, I’m still in the dark and I’m drooling, my face smashed up against the silk pillow. I have no idea what time it is, but the crescent moon has shifted positions in the sky. Some nights the moon moves faster than others so it’s not the best indicator of time, but at any rate, it’s late and Death isn’t back yet.
Am I supposed to just sit on this information by myself? I’m a Goddess, damn it!
I get out of bed, deciding to pay Death a visit. I have no doubt that the Library of the Veils will repel me with all the wards it has going around it, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Maybe I can stand outside it and yell, and he’ll hear me and I can give him the news.
I leave the room and walk through the halls. The candles are flickering from the sconces on the stone walls, lighting up the corridors, and everything is dead quiet. I’d forgotten how eerie it is to wander around Shadow’s End at night. The last time I did this was when I freed Bell, then got caught by Surma, who Death then killed in front of me. That whole thing felt like it happened in another life, and yet here I am in my nightgown, walking soundlessly through the creepy castle, up to no good. At least now I’m queen, and it’s my castle. I belong here more than the old Hanna did.
I go all the way up the stairs to the level where the library is. Already I can feel the strange energy emanating from the room, the massive iron doors feeling especially foreboding without Death by my side.
I throw my shoulders back in mock confidence and walk over to the doors. There is no keyhole and no handle. There are only intricate designs carved down the middle. Last time Death ran his hands over them and the doors opened for him.
I reach out, wanting to do the same whilst also being scared that it might have some sort of protective mechanism, like it will burn my hands off or something.
Before I have a chance to touch the designs, the door hisses, making me step back. It slowly opens revealing Death on the other side.
He’s shirtless, wearing only pants. No shoes.
No gloves.
I stare at his bare hands, the sight so foreign to me.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
He clears his throat but doesn’t say anything. There’s an odd look in his eyes, like he’s not all there.
I notice he’s not letting me inside.
“Sorry to come up here like this,” I go on. “I was warned repeatedly by everyone not to come and disturb you, but I was waiting for you in bed and you never showed and well, I need to talk to you about something.”
He frowns at me. Then smiles. It’s a strange smile, a bit empty. It makes him look ditzy. Then I realize he doesn’t have his usual eye makeup on, so he looks innocent at the same time. Younger.
“Come on in,” he says, his voice hoarse, like he lost it somewhere. He backs up and gestures for me to come in with those bare hands of his.
“You sure?” I ask. “I thought this was some big secret thing.”
He smiles again. “Come on in.”
Is he drunk? High? What’s wrong with him?
I step inside the library, keeping a wide berth from him with his hands as unprotected as they are, and the doors slam shut with a howl of wind. White figures rush in the air toward me, over me, then rebound against the door, as if they were trying to escape and failed.
“Ghosts,” Death says simply. He smiles again.
I smile back, though mine is unsure. “Did you want to put some gloves on? Or is this crucial to whatever magic experiment you’re still doing?”
“Come with me,” he says. His voice is so odd. Raspy, and yet it’s like he’s trying to sound upbeat or something. It does not gel.
He turns and starts walking toward a section of the library that I’ve never been to. I follow, still keeping a safe distance. His ass looks especially fine tonight and I find myself wondering why he doesn’t walk around shirtless more often. His shoulders are a work of fucking art. I’ve always been a sucker for a broad, muscular back.
This wing of the library is so much cozier than the rest, and I can tell it’s the place where the magic happens. There are tons of Turkish-style rugs, velvet tapestries on the walls, lots of candles, jars of herbs, bottles of green or black liquid, old books, bone carvings, crystal skulls. It smells like incense and a thin layer of smoke hangs above my head.
Death stops in front of the back of the room where tall curtains are drawn closed. He beckons me forward with a bare finger, the other hand going to the curtain as if to pull it back.