Page 169 of Till Death

He pointed a long finger toward Orin, who stopped screaming for merely a second, warm eyes flashing to me.

“Please,” he trembled, reaching a hand toward me. “Send her home.”

His screams began again. He gripped his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Death’s cackle reverberated off walls so dark, I could not see them at all. “Why would I do that when we could have so much fun together? We can break that stubborn will, together. I have been waiting so long for this day. Dance, Deyanira, and I will make it stop.”

I flinched. Giving in was too easy. It’s not what he truly wanted. And if I caved, even though every single thing in my body wanted to free my husband from his torture, I knew Death wouldn’t stop there. So again, I refused. Shaking my head, though a tear fell, and my breaths ceased.

“Not even one teeny, tiny sway for your husband’s sanity? I think you’ve been lied to, son. I don’t think she loves you at all.”

Orin roared, fighting whatever monster consumed him as he pulled himself to his feet, staring at his father, though every black vein showed and every muscle grew taut. “You know nothing of love.”

His father jerked at those words, the surprise of Orin’s conviction to stand and fight evident within his wide eyes. But the shock was there and gone in a flash. Mirth melted into fury at the challenge from his son before a group of people that were meant to hold only fear. Never hope. And in that moment, Orin was hope. He was everything his father could never be. And that was a huge problem.

A set of stairs appeared, and Death took them, one by one, eyes never leaving his son as he prowled forward. The cage flew to pieces, golden shards of metal flying everywhere. They stood toe to toe for only a moment before Death reached out and placed his thumb to Orin’s forehead, taking him to his knees.

“Good boy,” he said. “But I’m afraid we have a problem. You see, we must remind everyone who you are. What you are. And why you can never be anything more than that.”

He spun, his dark cloak flaring behind him as he took several steps away. Orin pinned his eyes on me. I could see the fight at first, the struggle to defeat his father’s darkness. But it lasted only a second before he shifted to pure anger, then absolute rage as he ran across the stage, snatched me by my throat, and lifted me from the ground, his beautiful, brutal face void of any recognition.

I tried to grab his hand to send him my power, but he was quick, and I wasn’t prepared for him move, to slam me into the ground so fucking hard the air was stolen from my lungs and the wooden planks of the stage shattered below me.

A stabbing pain seared my side, and I couldn’t gasp over his grip. There was not an ounce of mercy in his eyes. He was gone. I squeezed the hand holding me, scrambling to loosen the fingers that crushed my neck.

“Son,” Death said, so calm it felt like a violation to this rancid world.

Orin released me, staring down as I turned to the side that hadn’t been impaled by a massive splinter of wood and coughed, the sound becoming a choke as whatever damage he’d done to my esophagus refused the air to pass. I closed my eyes, the tears on my cheeks my only companions as I fought for a breath.

The rattled sound was a small but mighty win against Death.

Orin grabbed my arm, lifting me from the ground as his fingers closed around the board that stuck out from my side. There was a single flash of empathy before he yanked, freeing me of the wood but sending me back to my knees, blinding white pain claiming me.

For several moments, there was nothing beyond the agony of the splinters left in my body and the torn flesh at my side.

But that sickening peace found in pain was ripped away with Death’s next words. “Tell me why you chose to have those flowers placed on your back. Who put them there?”

I gulped down air, the world reforming around me. On my hands and knees before Death’s entire court, I vomited.

Before I could think of a passable lie, Death had taken Orin’s place above me. He crouched, waiting as the shadows he commanded settled along the stage like fog on a lake, taking away the bile, the blood, the splinters and repairing the wood. He leaned forward, careful not to touch me as he whispered in my ear. “Tell me about the flowers,” he hissed. “Where did you get the markings?”

I didn’t even consider responding.

Shadows snatched my hair and yanked my head back so hard I saw stars. “Tell me or I will make you wish you were never born.”

“Too late,” I spat.

“Son,” he crooned. “What do you know of these marks on your lovely wife’s back?”

Orin’s answer was numb, forced. “One for each life she’s taken.”

“And their origin?”

He lifted a stiff shoulder.

“A game, then,” Death announced to the crowd. “A parade, if you will.”

He paced along the edge of the stage, hands clasped behind his back. A few waves of his power and Orin was back in a new birdcage, this one adorned with golden skulls along the top. Death’s shadows grew from the floor, winding around my ankles like shackles before snaking up my body, a violation that churned my stomach. The shadows slipped up my arms, forcing them to spread wide. He twirled a finger, and they twisted, tightening, pinching the skin until I hissed. He’d made sure I stared directly at Orin, not to the audience held in captivated awe by their jailer’s show.

“Dey,” Orin whispered, darkness gone but full of fear, brows knit together. “I’m here. I’m with you.”