Page 11 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)
“It is what it is. You of all people should have grown accustomed to it by now.” I catch some shuffling noises before the woman’s voice rings again. “So? When is it?”
Nathan doesn’t answer.
“What have you—”
“The Novensiles attacked her twice yesterday, wanting her dead.”
A gasp fills the heavy silence following his statement, and I understand my mistake when the door opens suddenly, offering a prime view of Nathan’s stunned face. I imagine it’s a mirror of my own.
“Liv. How are you?”
“Who’re the Novensiles? Do you know who attacked me?”
His jaw locks as suddenly as the door opened. I’m about to double down on him, determined to get answers, when the feminine voice breaks the tension gathering beneath my skin.
“Hi there!”
My gaze slowly moves towards this new person, and I’m not sure what to think of the unicorn vision I’m having.
The woman—girl?—is a bubble of pink contrasted by the grey background of London.
Wearing a pink high-waisted skirt with a very fluffy, very pink crop cardigan, fuchsia platform heels and a tiny matching bag that I’m sure can only hold a phone, she could give Elle Woods a run for her money.
I feel my eyes widen but I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing working in me. Surprisingly, it’s Nathan’s chuckle that sets me free. I send a sheepish smile at the bubblegum woman along with a lame little wave. “Hi,” I croak.
She seems used to the reaction because she only smiles wider, and this time I focus on her features.
Delicate face with piercing green eyes and long blond hair.
She’s lovely. More than lovely. I’m pretty sure centuries ago men would have burned her as a witch, assuming she drank the souls of lost virgins in order to steal their youth and beauty. Yeah, that kind of lovely.
She saunters closer to me—and yes, saunters, because there’s no way in hell I’m calling what she’s doing walking —sending a whiff of a sweet, flowery perfume my way. “I’m Turan,” she says while extending her manicured hand.
What a strange name.
“Liv,” I answer just as Nathan says, “She was just leaving.”
For an uncomfortable second, I think he’s talking about me, but when I look at him he’s only shooting daggers at Turan.
Nope, still not used to that name. Where does it come from?
She’s rather tanned, like she just came back from a fancy holiday on an island somewhere far away, and, like Nathan, she doesn’t have any recognisable accent.
They both sound educated but their words have a lilt like nothing I’ve heard before.
I know women around the globe would smite me for saying so, but the English accent on a man is nothing special.
At least not when you grow up hearing it.
Nathan’s voice, however, tugged me in from the first moment I heard it.
As if pulling on some forgotten thread in me.
I can’t help but wonder where it could lead.
“Are you guys related?”
They both start, but not more than me, for I didn’t mean to ask that.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Nathan answers, sending a strange look to his… cousin? Sister?
They don’t seem willing to expand on the subject, and Turan only sends a tight smile my way. “Same strange, distant family is the best way to describe it.”
“Oookay,” I exhale, and look at them. “So how come you know who wanted to kill me?” What? It’s already awkward as shit, might as well capitalise on it.
“Actually,” says Turan, turning to face Nathan, “I’d like the answer to that myself.”
Running his hand through his hair, Nathan sighs and looks into the distance.
While I observe his muscles flexing under his shirt, I wonder if he’s trying to find a way not to answer my question.
He turns to look at me and takes my hand to lead me to the couch, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Turan that has me entirely puzzled.
His hand is gentle on my skin, yet the reaction it provokes is anything but.
While I drop onto the comfortable cushions, Turan sits down next to me with the grace of a princess.
Nathan chooses to go back to pacing, and if the light wasn’t shining through the tall windows and a newcomer wasn’t warming my side, I’d say no time has passed since last night, when the crackling fire was the only thing lighting the path he wore on the plush white carpet.
Also, who even has a white carpet? And why aren’t there tomato sauce and red wine stains all over it? No, it does not matter. Yes, it does bother me. Immensely. But maybe not as much as who tried to kill me. I think.
Looking at the woman next to me, Nathan says, “Some henchmen came after her yesterday, and though she defended herself remarkably well, it was a close call.”
I feel a lick of pride at his words. I did defend myself well. Although I’m honest enough to admit that without his intervention, that would have meant squat in the end.
Turan turns to give me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“Eh…” I shrug. “I’m used to close calls.”
Nathan clears his throat, and I swear I can feel my skin buzzing, but his cousin/sister/whatever stays hyper-focused on me. It’s a little unnerving. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“That’s the only one you’ll get.”
The instant smile brightening her face is almost blinding. Turning to Nathan, she states, “I like her.”
I frown, not liking being talked about as if I’m not here, but focus on Nathan’s tense body.
“I’m glad.” His voice is dripping sarcasm, and despite everything, my lips twitch slightly.
He seems to catch the movement and his unsettling eyes find mine for a moment.
“The men last night were not simply henchmen. Well, the one who instigated his own death by touching you was, but the other was something else altogether.”
I envelop his sentence in bubble wrap to obsess over and examine in detail later. I have more pressing issues. “And that is…?”
“A member of the Novensiles. At least from what I could tell.” He turns to Turan, and I feel colder suddenly, so I burrow myself deeper into the couch. “He had the same dark fingers as the ones we’ve encountered before, the same robe.”
“What do you mean, dark fingers? Like dark skin?” I don’t remember that detail. Or any, for that matter. The cloaked figure is completely blurred in my mind’s eye, which I suppose comes from the terror I felt. I certainly wasn’t focusing enough to register any sort of feature on the man.
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I’m not talking about the colour of his skin. With the robe he wore and the darkened street, I couldn’t see that. What I saw is fingers the colour of charcoal. Like dead skin.”
My nose wrinkles automatically in disgust. It’s too easy for me to imagine putrid skin around bony fingers.
I can almost smell the decaying flesh. What is more difficult for me to grasp is how someone could have dead fingers nowadays.
Couldn’t they have been treated? And he made it seem like it was a distinctive characteristic of these Novensiles people.
So they have a secret club where only people with damaged fingers can join?
Or worse, they have to burn their fingers as a twisted initiation?
I’m so deeply disturbed by my thoughts that I barely catch Turan’s question. “And, like before, you couldn’t—?”
“No,” Nathan answers quickly, cutting her off.
“So how exactly do you know these people, Nathan?” I see Turan frown but stay focused on the confusing man in front of me.
“Where have you seen them before? And, more importantly, what the fuck is going on?” My patience is wearing thin.
I have put aside a lot of things to process what happened to me, but what I saw just cannot stay locked up anymore. I mean, he was using freaking shadows.
“Whatever do you mean?” asks Turan all too innocently.
“Don’t you start bullshitting me, I’m not an idiot.”
“I never said you were.”
“Then don’t you try and pretend like I imagined everything. You guys are talking about these Novensiles jerks as if they’re a normal part of your day.”
“Trust me, they are not normal,” intervenes Nathan.
“Trust you? Are you serious right now?” He has the good sense to wince.
“You appear in my life, saving me not once but three times in the span of, what? Twenty-four hours? And if that’s not insane enough, you wielded shadows!
Like… they were moving and everything!” My voice is rising and there’s nothing I can do to calm the emotions pouring out of me.
“How is that possible? And how the fuck did you even know about what happened to them ?” Silence is my only answer.
Nathan is fixated on me, seeming to wage an internal battle, and I can see Turan at my side looking at him with shock and maybe a bit of disapproval.
“Who are you?” I whisper, my tone almost pleading. “ What are you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I’ve spent half my life begging people to believe me. Try me.”
Nathan opens his mouth, and in response I hold my breath, bracing myself for what I know will change everything. There’s a flutter in my belly that I could mistake for excitement, but surely I’m wrong. Who’d be excited by their life turning upside down?
“You cannot be serious,” interrupts Turan, jumping to her feet, startling me.
I forgot she was there for a second, so focused was I on Nathan’s mouth and what was about to come out of it.
It seems he did too, for he now looks at her, his face unreadable.
I’m certain an argument is about to start, but he quickly turns back to me and says in the calmest voice possible, “I am Death—”
“Nathan!” Turan cries out.
“—’s assistant,” finishes Nathan.
Silence detonates like a bomb between us, shaking everything loose inside me.
Even Turan seems at a loss for words, closing her mouth in defeat, her shoulders dropping and her body relaxing.
I know I should be scared to be standing in front of a lunatic who believes himself to be Death’s assistant. Am I though? No. No, I am not. Why?
Because I’ve already met his boss.