Page 22 of Fearful (Powerless Trilogy #3.5)

“Plagues, you have to be the worst Hyper in Ilya.”

The Imperial cannot currently see the lazy disapproval on Blair’s face with a scarf tied over his eyes, but Death witnesses it clearly from where she sits atop the bed.

“Well, I am but a lowly Mundane,” Lenny mutters dully. “I’m not sure what you expected from this exercise—”

“I expected,” she growls, “an Elite to actually use their power. Now open up your senses.”

The Imperial shifts uncomfortably on the wood floor. “This is a waste of time.”

“Any time with you could be better spent,” the Tele sneers impressively. “Now smell.”

She uncorks a vial. Mara scans the remarkable assortment of spices in Blair’s collection as she orders, “Describe the notes.”

“It’s hard to smell anything past the scarf wrapped around my head,” Lenny mumbles.

This has Blair scowling. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

“It smells like you.”

The Tele blinks. Death is fortunate enough to have a front-row seat as Blair grapples for composure. After straightening her spine and picking at that skin on her left palm, she finally commands, “Then smell harder.”

Lenny sighs in exasperation, unaware how his knowledge of the Tele’s scent has affected her. “Uh…” Even while sitting several feet away, he is able to pull apart each layer of the faint aroma Blair has unleashed. “It’s spicy, but there is a hint of sweetness.”

“Do better.”

“Fine, uh, I’m getting a hint of citrus at the top,” the Imperial ventures. “Then something earthier, like…” He seems to be pushing his power, chasing after that final undertone. “Like wood. Pine.”

Blair actually sounds pleased. “Not bad. It would be a shame if you couldn’t identify the spice that shares your name.”

Frowning, Lenny pulls the scarf from his face. “What was it?”

The sun has long set since they began this odd training (hence why Mara isn’t perched beneath her window), but Death can clearly see Blair’s smug expression as she lifts the vial. “Ginger, obviously.”

“Ha ha.” He shakes his head in defeat. “You know what, calling me by my real name is just as offensive. I’m cursed to be a ‘Lenny,’ and Ma still has the audacity to say she loves me.”

Mara tilts her head at the frigid smile that touches a corner of Blair’s lips. “I’m sure it’s nice to hear, nonetheless.”

Her words seem to sober the Imperial. Not everyone is on the receiving end of such affection. And those who are, Death thinks bitterly, will only end up hurt.

“It is nice,” Lenny says softly.

It looks as though he is about to stumble through some sort of sincerity when Blair returns to her formalities.

“Those are all the spices I have with me,” she informs, gesturing to the hidden chest she retrieved from beneath a floorboard.

Vials are scattered atop the wood beside her crossed legs.

“But tomorrow, you will ask Gail for a dozen more so we can test your smell again. It is your weakest link, and that is saying a lot.”

Lenny ignores the pointed dig to nod instead at the only spice left within the box. “What about that one?”

The Tele’s gaze darts to the confined brown powder. “We aren’t using that one. It’s nutmeg.”

Mara leans in, her interest piqued.

Lenny mirrors Death with a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Do you not like nutmeg or something?”

“Why would I like nutmeg?” she snaps. “Nutmeg is insufferable. And I hate it.”

Death has the strangest feeling that the Tele is no long speaking about a spice.

In fact, if she were to study the exact shade of Lenny’s eyes, Mara might just compare it to a rich sprinkling of nutmeg.

But that is just her opinion, of course.

Perhaps Blair is thinking nothing of the sort.

(Though, Death is rarely wrong about these things.)

“Whoa.” Lenny lifts his palms into the air where she can see them. “Yeah, sure, nutmeg is the worst.”

This seems to satisfy Blair’s sudden surge of anger. With a sigh, she begins placing each vial back into its designated spot within the chest. “You’re improving. It’s good to know you aren’t a complete lost cause.”

The Imperial harrumphs halfheartedly. It has been a week since the future queen set sail for Izram (a kingdom Death frequents in her gathering of souls, though she does not have to brave the Shallows to do so), and they have spent every day since then pushing the Imperial’s power to its fullest.

Mara watches Blair (as does Lenny, both intensely and quite often) hide a piece of her passion beneath that floorboard, stifling the box of spices. And with every passing day, that skin on her palm only grows more mangled.

The Imperial clears his throat. “Why are you helping me again?”

“Don’t ask, or I might change my mind,” she retorts. “Besides, your idea to incorporate fire into my death was surprisingly not stupid.”

(Death is looking forward to such impending disaster.)

“Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me,” the Tele snaps. “I am simply repaying a debt.”

“Right,” Lenny agrees sarcastically. “Not an ounce of goodness in your heart, huh?”

Blair’s gaze is now sternly set on his. “I’m not sure what is in my heart. It’s likely hollow.”

Mara considers this. Her heart no longer beats at all, so she feels unfit to form a proper opinion. This rarely happens, seeing that drawing correct conclusions is her favorite pastime.

The Imperial’s consideration is followed by a lazy shrug. “All the more space to hold the things you love.”

Blair struggles not to gape at his words. Something suspiciously close to awe falls over her features before it is quickly smothered with indifference. “That was unsurprisingly stupid.”

At this point in the night, Death kindly leaves them to their boredom.

She strides out into the hall with a foreign feeling of excitement tangling in her stomach.

Yes, Mara is looking forward to learning how to live this evening.

But her veiled zeal has nothing to do with the king’s company, of course.

He is waiting for her in the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder. Kitt’s hair is a disheveled collection of golden strands that displays his frustration in the path his fingers have continually combed. His green gaze meets Mara in the doorway, warming at the sight of her.

That rarely happens when one lays eyes on Death. Quite the opposite tends to occur, actually. For this reason, she can hardly help the shadow of a smile that creeps across her stiff features.

“Are you ready for your lesson on living?” he says by way of greeting.

In truth, Mara has been waiting all week since their conversation in the gardens.

But the king is understandably busy, what with running a kingdom and slowly dying, so Death graciously gave him some space.

Or so he thinks. She has, of course, observed him from afar since the very beginning.

His meetings with the Scholars, nonsense with the Healers, and most interestingly, his dinners with Paedyn Gray.

None of this matters, Death reassures herself. It cannot.

This may come as a shock, considering how levelheaded and stoic Mara is, but she has been known to become rather obsessive.

But that is not this.

Entertainment, remember?

“I am ready,” Mara answers honestly. She strides into the kitchen, taking her place beside him. “What will I be learning?”

Kitt grins as he pulls a bag of flour from the cupboard clinging to the wall above. His hands are stained with ink. “Creation—in its simplest form, obviously. I thought we could attempt to bake something.”

Slightly ironic, considering the Tele that had been exclusively trapped in her room until Paedyn’s departure, but Death is not opposed to the idea. “Attempt?”

“If we manage to make something edible”—the king shakes his head—“I’ll consider this a success.”

Mara watches as Kitt gathers an assortment of ingredients. He sets them on the counter, never slowing for a single second. Death notes the dark circles beneath his eyes, the stretching of his skin atop sharp cheekbones. Yes, his blue soul is dimming with every passing day.

“Do the Healers still have you taking their useless herbs?” Mara asks evenly.

Kitt glances over at her. “They do. But I like to think they help a little bit.”

At the king’s direction, Mara dumps flour into a bowl. “They don’t. Healers no longer know how to heal without their borrowed power.”

“How do you know so much about Ilya?” Kitt asks skeptically.

“How do you know so little about your own kingdom?”

It’s as though he cannot help but chuckle. “You speak your mind. I appreciate that.”

“Death does not have time to waste.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” he returns. “It’s still so strange that you are here. A physical being.”

Mara stands idly beside the king as he cracks an egg into the bowl, adding several shells to the other ingredients. She really is not much help. “We can be honest with each other, Kitt,” she says evenly, the use of his name somehow intoxicating. “What surprises you the most is Death being a woman.”

“Maybe at first.” His tired eyes meet Mara’s. “Only because I expected such brutality from a man.”

“I am not a killer.” Her correction is clipped.

A crease forms between the king’s brows. “But you are… Death.”

“I am the absence of Life,” Mara says simply. “Just as darkness is merely a lack of light. I only collect souls when Life decides to let them go.”

Kitt stops his struggled stirring to stare at her. “So, you’re saying it is Life that kills?”

“It is Life that gives up, not Death that takes away. Though, it is my reputation that suffers.” Mara drags her finger through a dusting of flour atop the counter. “No matter. Humans need someone to blame. I don’t mind being their villain.”

The king shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t seem fair.”

There this king goes again, understanding Death.

“It is not fair,” she agrees simply. “But I’m quite good at retribution, if I so desire.”

A heartbeat later (Kitt’s, of course), and Death is already moving on from the morbid topic. “So, what is it we are attempting to bake?”