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“We have no use for delicate people up here,” she says stiffly. “They don’t survive very long.
“The River of Shadows will keep us on course, the current is running beneath us.
“You don’t even know me and yet I already get under your skin,” Death says. “Don’t know what that says about me, but I think I like it.
Death’s shadowed face stares down at me. “Look at you fly, little bird.” There’s a hint of awe in his voice. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
You can call me Death. And I will call you mine.”
“Do you not fear me, little bird?” he rasps, his voice a black hand reaching into my soul.
“You might like it in the end. Oh, you’ll fight me on everything, you’ll hate me with all your fury. But you might love to hate me, and that will make all the difference.”
The way he stares at me feels like consumption.
“Like it or not, you’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice thick and husky and brimming of promise. “But if you choose to like it, you might even love it.”
He’s not a God of Virtue and Abstinence. He’s the God of Death.
