“You see, Nella, the fact is that Diego here had time. Plenty of time to call for help. Plenty of time to get an ambulance. But he didn’t. He stood there and watched. For over thirty minutes, he watched his father writhe on the floor, clutching his chest, begging for help. He had plenty of time. If he had, his dad would be here today instead of rotting in that little cemetery.”
Nella paled, spinning toward Diego, brow furrowed in horror. “Is this true?”
“Given his childhood, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Death patted Diego roughly on the back and threw an arm around his shoulder as if they were old friends. “But back to your original question. Who am I? Like Nella, I havesomany names. Hades, Kali, Anubis—Gamab is my favorite. You little humans have created so many words to describe who I am. As if you could even begin to understand. But you, my dear Diego, you may call me Death.”
With that, he unfurled himself. He expanded, the enormity of him spread across the room as his skin stretched, writhing and rippling, twisting in on itself. The faces of the damned pressed up through his skin, eyes sunken, their mouths contorted into open screams, their torment reverberating off the walls, catching them all in a tornado of sound. She fell to her knees, dropping the folio, the white pages fluttering like birds, as she covered her ears, eyes wide in horror.
Diego skittered back, clutching his head. He dropped the bag, and the contents spewed out, rolling across the floor, the broken wine bottle crashing open as its contents splattered out like blood.
Death allowed a few seconds more to pass before he came to himself. The noise faded, ebbing away until the only sounds were Nella’s and Diego’s labored breathing and the sizzle of burning steaks. Death shrank into himself and lounged against the counter, surveying the damage and their reactions, the fear plain on both their faces. He reveled in it. Nella had forgotten who he was and what he was capable of.
Diego slowly grasped for the counter to steady himself. He made no move to help Nella. He backed away until he bumped into the doorframe, bracing himself against it.
“It’s been nice, Diego, but you should leave now while you can.” Death’s tone was final.
Diego glanced at Nella one last time, then turned and left, crunching through the glass and wood.
Nella’s tears poured freely as the front door slammed shut behind him.
Death helped her stand, but she shook at his touch, leaning away. She needed time, Death knew. She’d see the favor he’d done for her—the time he’d saved her. His true nature would have emerged eventually. He had been wholly unworthy, and he had shown her that.
Nella snapped. With a roar, she launched herself at him, hands clawing. “Why would you do that!” She scratched at him, doing whatever she could to hurt him. She went for his eyes and ripped at his clothes. Death didn’t move against her.
This was anger. This was pain.
When her hands did not affect him, she broke away and started smashing things, whipping the plates and knives at him, trying her best to do him harm. She raged, the wave of her anger rolling over him, and he let her until she broke, the last plate crashing harmlessly to his left as she collapsed, the anger ebbing away like ripples in a stream, her sobs steady.
He wrapped his arms around her limp body, but she rejected him. “Get away from me! You had no right to do that!” She struggled against him, writhing, doing all she could to get away.
He simply held her.
He held her until she’d quieted, hiccuping.
“Are you finished?”
She pushed against him but sagged at the effort, her anger finally spent. She lay in his arms as he rocked her like a small child being comforted after a tantrum.
“I can’t ...” She struggled to take a clear breath. “I can’t keep doing this.” Her words were quiet and clear.
He paused, shocked by the admission. He hadn’t gone that far, had he? “Are you sure you mean that?”
The silence drew out. “I’m just so tired.”
And she looked it—her face pale and drawn, short curls in disarray, her body limp. She sat crumpled, like a marionette cut loose from its strings.
Something moved in him then, slow and heavy. Guilt, maybe. Or something close enough to recognize.
Perhaps it had been too far.
“Even with Winston?” he asked, quiet but firm. Their game had gone on too long for anything less than certainty.
She turned sharply, her mouth tightening—but said nothing. Then she looked away, with the smallest shake of the head.
Relief, thin and unfamiliar, stirred in him.
He stooped and picked up the folio, plucking the white pages from among the debris, anticipating her words and what she’d prepared for him.
“Perhaps today got out of hand.” She said nothing as he bent, cupping her cheek in his hand, forcing her to look up. “When you calm down, you’ll see the clarity of it all. And then you’ll give me your decision. But for now, all of this”—he motioned to the destruction around him—“is over.” She stared at him, expression flat and listless.
