Death's Temporary Home For Lost Souls

Chapter Eighteen: Drawn to Death

"Is that why I can see you?"

"I'm not sure. I'm still trying to figure that out."

I can't help it. I turn to face Death, and it's impossible not to feel awe at his beauty. The hollows of his face are made more pronounced by the gently flickering candles along the windowsill, his full lips slightly parted, the muscles pressed against his t-shirt betraying his silent strength. There is no trace of the monster I'd encountered in the garden: nothing but the illusion of flesh, blood, and bone. So human. So close. And now, it's hard not to think of him as my protector: the executor of my mother's final wish.

"Did she go peacefully?" I ask, my eyes pricking again with stinging tears. I try not to think of her kneeling before Death's true form, as helpless and afraid as Gary was.

Death nods slowly. "She did. I made sure of it."

"Thank you." All at once, it feels as if a massive weight has lifted off of my chest. I blink and turn to avoid Death's studious gaze, surveying the attic more closely. A fully dressed queen bed is pressed against the wall to my right, directly across from a precarious tower of boxes full of junk. Tucked against the farthest wall, close to the lone window peering over the front drive, there's a plush chair in front of an easel prepped with a fresh canvas. I cross over to it, folding my hands behind my back. "So this is where you do it?" I flinch, my face heating up at the poor choice of words, and motion towards the tray of freshly sharpened pencils. "Draw, I mean."

"Yes, this is where I do it." He smirks and walks by, so close to brushing me that I hold my breath, then sinks into the chair. Immediately I notice how much more comfortable he looks, fully in his element in front of the blank canvas. Like this is where he belongs. The slight frown has left his face and the visible tension has melted off of his shoulders, leaving in its wake a lightness that I almost envy. "It's not much, but then again I'm lucky to carve out my own space in this house at all. Lisa is seriously territorial for a child."

I allow myself a small grin. "That she is."

Death stretches out his fingers and picks up one of the many pencils strewn sitting along the easel, then says, "I could use some practice, you know."

"Doesn't seem like it," I mutter, surveying a startlingly realistic portrait of a very old, cranky-looking woman. I half expect her to reach into the room and scold me with a gnarled finger.

"No, I mean..." He clears his throat and pauses, suddenly shy. He nods at me. "Would you do the honors? I've never tried this with a living subject before."

My eyes slowly widen as they glance between Death's ready posture, the canvas, and the little stool across from him.

He wants to draw me.

"Me?" I gasp. He flashes a mischievous grin in response.

"Why not?"

"Well, because. Because..." I flounder for an excuse, everything short of sinking into the floorboards and disappearing forever. "Because it will be awkward. And boring. Silently posing for hours on end? I don't think either of us want that, trust me."

Death's playful gaze narrows, piercing right through all of my excuses. "You're allowed to be comfortable, Cara. And who said anything about silence? A little conversation wouldn't ruin my focus."

I point at him. "You're trying to get me to talk. That's it! You want me to spill the beans on all of my innermost demons."

"Oh, I already knew you had demons, but I'm not sure where beans factor into it." He sets his chin on his fist and blinks, his lips curling in a teasing grin. "Tell me more."