Death (The Four Horsemen, #4)

by Laura Thalassa

“Anubis. Yama. Xoltol. Vanth. Charon. Mors. Mara. Azrael—and many, many others.” His eyes flick to mine. “But for you, Thanatos.”

“I’ve got you, Lazarus, my Lazarus,” Thanatos murmurs.

“Death and life, caught in an eternal embrace,” he explains. “They look like lovers,” I whisper. “They are lovers.” His eyes find mine, and I swear they can see straight to my soul.

“I like this, kismet,” he says, “This makes me think very strange, very … human thoughts about you.”

“Why?” I demand, backing up. “Why do this now?” “Because you were designed to be mine. And it’s time I claimed you.”

But the truth is, this is instinct, kismet. I don’t understand why, but I want to be close to you, I want to hold you when you say you are cold.”

Somehow, I fall asleep in Death’s arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Before he can grab it, Famine pulls it back just a little. “This is not actually yours,” the horseman clarifies, because he’s a natural-born dick, “but the woman it does belong to would want you to have it.”

“I want to see the expression your face makes when it’s happy. I don’t know why, but I do. I have seen you angry and hateful and disappointed and sad—so sad—Lazarus. I want to see what stokes the fire in that soul of yours and lights you up from within.”

“The only thing that ever helped me was replaying our interactions,” he admits. “And when those ran out, I imagined your voice and a thousand different conversations I might have with you. I yearned to hear my name fall from your lips. I yearned to see your face. To touch your skin.”

“I was better off before I met you,” he says. “There were few thoughts in my head then besides traveling and vanquishing. I spent no time musing on your eye color, or the savage expression you wear when you’re determined. I never replayed the way your body moved when you fought.”

I can’t help it, I start laughing—I laugh so hard my entire body shakes with it. “It’s really not,” I say, quieting down. His eyes have returned to my face, and despite looking a little queasy, he stares at me like he’s never seen anything like me before. “Do that again,” he says quietly. “Do what?” I ask. “Laugh.”

“The smile you gave me while your lips were on mine—and the other thing, the sound you made just a moment ago.” The moan. Dear lord.

“That I could look at you for a thousand years and never get bored,” he says without missing a beat. “I am used to seeing a person’s essence, not their features, and I have taken the latter for granted.”

I just went down on Death himself. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the crazy laugh that wants to bubble out of me.

“And then, eventually, I wanted to know other things, human things, about you. Things that even now, I struggle to name because everything about living is so very different than dying. I wanted—I still want—to know about you—what brings you joy, what makes you sad. Wilder still, I want to be one of the things that brings you joy.”

I’m not going to muse on the fact that the man won’t eat bread but he’ll gladly eat me.

“Must I bring down the rain and lightning or draw the roots and the dead up from the ground? Or make the earth quake and buildings fall to remind you who I am? I set my sights on you a year ago, but I haven’t fully taken you—not yet. So lay back, kismet, and let me show you what it means to be mine.”

“Life is far more than suffering,” I practically yell at him. “Why do you think we all cling to it so desperately?”

“If it makes you lose that light in your eyes, then no, it would not be worth it. It would never be worth it.”

“I have been waiting for you from the moment I was first formed, long before you ever drew breath.” He takes my hand and presses it over his heart. “You have been here the whole time, even when I thought I didn’t want it, even when I believed love was a curse and a weakness.

I don’t remember myself when I look at the sky.” He takes my hand and tilts his head to face me once more. “I remember myself when I look at you.”