Page 4 of Fearful (Powerless Trilogy #3.5)

The guard’s boots leave the ground suddenly, and he practically squeals. “The king! I’m here on behalf of the king!”

So this is the Blair who has men fearing for their lives. She is powerful—that much is obvious. But like every other Elite, she has done nothing to deserve this strength. It is borrowed. Stolen.

Death takes a seat on the grass, preparing for the show.

Though, to her dismay, it doesn’t last long.

The Tele—Death so enjoys these silly titles—stands to her feet before setting the guard on his own.

Now reunited with the ground, Lenny runs a gloved hand down his face and fights to find his composure.

There is not an ounce of disdain withheld from Blair’s expression. “You were a foot off the ground.” A slow blink. “If that.”

“Yes, and I was overcome with empathy for those taller than me,” Lenny muses.

Both Death and Blair simply stare at him, thoroughly unimpressed.

He blinks those brown eyes behind that mask, the same ones that unknowingly met Death’s. Flatly, he adds, “I’m joking.”

“Right. Now would you like me to explain why I didn’t laugh?”

“Let me guess.” The guard’s voice is falsely cheerful. “You don’t know how?”

Death’s gaze flicks between them.

“No, because laughter typically accompanies something that is funny ,” Blair retorts with a well-practiced pout.

Lenny sighs in defeat. “All right, let’s just get this over with.” He claps his gloved hands together, as if to brace himself against the words leaving his lips. “Paedyn is back.”

Blair swallows swiftly. Very watchful, Death. “And? Why would I care that the traitor has been caught?”

“Because the king has plans for her. Plans that keep her alive to help Ilya.”

“Again,” the temperamental Tele bites out, “why does this concern me?”

Impulsively, the guard pulls that mask from his face to display an additional dozen freckles. His nose is straight. Jaw strong. Eyes earnest. Death recognizes his need for Blair to see the emotion etched into his features. He is desperate to bridge an honest connection between them.

How very human.

Blair takes a wary step back. Death, disconcerted, feels the urge to do the same.

She can appreciate a baring of one’s emotions, an outright invitation for connection. But Death has earned the right to numbness. She wishes not for unsolicited feelings and the repercussions of them. So, sitting this close to such sentiment makes her tense.

“You know what Paedyn will try to do to you,” Lenny murmurs.

“Yes.” Brown eyes roll behind several strands of lilac hair. “The key word there is ‘try.’?”

Death is thoroughly enthralled. The afterlife is hardly this dramatic.

“Paedyn won’t stop.” There is an urgency in the guard’s gaze. “Especially if you are sharing the same castle. And the king needs to keep you safe.”

“The Slummer is a traitor,” Blair spits. It’s been a lifetime since Death has heard that insult. “Why would she be living lavishly in the castle with—?”

“You will find out soon enough,” Lenny interrupts before swallowing thickly. “All you need to know now is that I… I am to be your personal guard. To protect you from Paedyn.”

A moment of stifling silence passes between them.

Then, a startling cackle bellows from Blair. “Now that…” She snorts. “ That was a joke.”

The guard lets out a weak, uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, you are really not going to find this funny when you realize I’m serious.”

Death considers cracking a smile at such captivating entertainment. She does not, of course. Those are saved for special occasions.

Blair takes a slow step forward, her voice drenched in ice. “You? Protect me? From Paedyn Gray?”

“Whoa.” Lenny lifts his hands again. “Let’s not… throw the messenger through the air with your mind, okay? I’m just doing as I’m told.”

The Tele does look rather frightening in this moment. More so than most find Death to be. But that doesn’t bother the Mother of the Mors—she quite likes to be underestimated. Earning a look of terror from a man is all the more rewarding that way.

No, Death isn’t a monster. She’s just bored.

“And who, exactly, told you this?” Blair snaps.

“Like I said, it was—”

The Tele’s arm is suddenly outstretched, lifting Lenny from the ground yet again. “Was it the sergeant?”

He squirms in her mental grip, growing pale. “Sergeant?” His voice cracks. “Your father’s a general, not—”

“Someone had to convince the king I needed protection from an Ordinary,” Blair seethes. “This is her doing. This is her attempt to embarrass me.”

Death’s head swivels between them.

“What? Look,” the guard pants, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The king doesn’t want her trying to fight you—that’s all. And he thinks I’m the best person to put between the two of you, because Pae won’t hurt me to get to her best friend’s killer.”

An indirect mention of Death. This makes her feel strangely included in the conversation.

Blair’s wrathful gaze grows distant. She wears the look of someone revisiting a memory, a pivotal point in time. Death tilts her head, as she often does when one manages to intrigue her. For she recognizes, more intimately than most, the face of regret.

The Tele’s power (still comical, these entitlements) falters, reuniting Lenny with the ground he so craves.

Little surprises Death in her old age—wonderment is due to a lack of experience, you see.

But when the guard strides toward Blair, even Death could not have predicted this sudden spur of boldness.

He halts mere inches from the king’s assignment, their bodies close.

Blair lifts her chin, singeing him with a scathing look.

Lenny does his best to mirror her sentiment.

Death is certain the trees will never believe her.

The anger on the guard’s face looks foreign, as though he hardly knows how to express the emotion.

“Believe it or not”—he laughs humorlessly—“there is nothing I’d like less than spending time with you.

But the king is ordering you to remain in your room until he says otherwise, and because of my closeness to Paedyn, I’m unlucky enough to guard you from her. ”

Impossibly, Blair’s gaze narrows further. “You were her assigned Imperial.”

Death files the word away for future use. She hadn’t realized guards now require a fancier title. Ilya so loves to invent importance.

Lenny nods, confirming the Tele’s statement.

Calmly—worryingly so—Blair asks, “And what is your power?”

“That’s your first question?” The Imperial shakes his head (it is a fun word, Death supposes). “Not, I don’t know, what my name is, or—”

“I don’t give a damn what your name is, gingersnap,” Blair taunts. “What is your power?”

Lenny sighs. “I’m a Hyper.”

“A Hyper…” Her echo of disbelief is followed by a scoff. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t actually need protection from an Ordinary, otherwise, I’d be dead.”

Death feels a bit left out now. She is hardly well-versed in Elite abilities, though power is familiar, relative. No, it’s the accompanying pomposity that is foreign to Death. Such strength is not for humans to name.

“Hilarious.” Lenny’s tone suggests otherwise. “Now, let’s get you to your room before—”

“How do I know you’re not just saying all of this?” Blair snaps.

The Imperial she so endearingly deemed “gingersnap” gestures to himself in exasperation. “Do I look like I’m enjoying this?”

Blair bristles, but her snide tone hardly falters. “Well, then, maybe I should just put you out of your misery, hmm?”

Death inches closer when the Tele lifts a hand, readying to rain down her (this possession is used loosely) power on the Imperial.

But Lenny only tilts his head, ever so slightly.

He seems to be intrigued by something. Death’s own curiosity is reflected within his gaze.

“No…,” the alleged Hyper says slowly. “You don’t want to kill me. ”

Hmm.

Death will have to disagree. It seems, to the adept embodiment of demise, that the Tele has every intention of ridding herself of him. But humans are confusing creatures. Perhaps Death has misread the situation (doubtful, but she isn’t opposed to being proven wrong).

Blair opens her mouth, expecting words to form.

Her declared gingersnap only shrugs. “Maybe you really are human.”

Death ponders this quietly, stoically—as she does most things.

(Though, she could just as easily skip alongside a strolling pair of lovers, shed a tear for the souls she collects, laugh at the punch line of an overheard joke.

But Death does not see the point in parading her emotions, for there is no one to partake in them with her.

It is better to feel nothing than it is to feel everything alone.) Is this what makes one human, the valuing of another life?

The acknowledgment of worth, of beauty, of something to live for? Death can no longer remember.

Proof of Blair’s humanity is only a glimpse away for a creature as powerful as Death. Curiously, she parts that spiritual curtain, peeking behind it into a different plane entirely. Lenny’s soul glows golden while Blair’s swirls a murky green.

Death blinks.

She might have even gasped, though no one bore witness to prove it.

Slowly, Death stands to her feet. Walks a tight perimeter around the glowering pair. No longer listens to a word they are saying.

There is nothing at all but this moment in which two souls—opposite in every way—reach for each other.

Death steps closer still to the phenomenon. If she had any need for breath, it would tickle their skin with her proximity. Her gaze narrows on the stretching strands of each soul. They ebb and flow like a timid tide, emerald meeting gold in a moment long predestined.

Their souls aren’t quite enlaced like the fate of lovers, but not entirely detached like those destined to remain strangers.

They are something else entirely. A bond of their choosing.

Death grows as still as her name implies.

It’s not their mingling of souls that startles her—no, she is quite familiar with the concept. These two mortals, she determines, could not be more wrong for each other. Because Death has witnessed— suffered —the intertwining of souls. This couldn’t possibly be something so sacred.

For that reason, Death decides to see what becomes of these indecisive souls. She could almost laugh at their unfortunate pairing. Fate certainly has a sense of humor, drawing them together.

If nothing else, this will be, undoubtedly, entertaining.

“… strangle you in your sleep,” Blair is threatening when Death retakes her seat with a sigh. It seems the Tele has conceded to the king’s orders, albeit furiously.

Lenny smiles, and it’s impressively void of all emotion. “That would be a kindness, which means you won’t actually do it.”

Death leans back on her palms, watching them bicker.

If those truly meant for each other could not survive the fateful intertwining of their souls, she thinks bitterly, these two will surely tear each other apart.

She is not heartless, Death.

Not quite.

The broken organ just no longer beats.