Chapter Nine: The Kiss of Death

I turn around to see how my husband—turned—conquest is taking the news, but he's already walking off, as if he's keen to shed me as quick as he can. He doesn't even spare a glance backwards. I stare daggers at the back of his head, which is a mess of sexy dark hair that I really want to run my fingers through—and God, does that make me even angrier.

I literally died for this dude. How desperate.

My arms are folded in defiance before I can even register I'm doing it. They're folded in the same way I folded them the day our mother left us, and Dad tried to convince us all that she might come back. I fold them the way I did the day I made the decision that hunting Death for answers was my priority— even more than my own life.

And now I fold them once more.

I make a vow: Death will not defeat me.

Death will come crawling to me.

I have to pick up my game because he's not interested in my meek princess act. In fact, he doesn't seem to be interested in a bride at all— which makes me wonder, wasn't this his idea? Why isn't he even trying to engage with me? Did he turn away all the others by not speaking to them?

As I stare, the King is accosted by girls, from teenagers to middle-aged women, hanging on his arms and flattering him. I can hear their laughter, their corny jokes. If I wasn't so intent on learning more about Death, I would have giggled at their awful flirting.

But the King laughs. It sounds oddly cheerful, and not quite what I imagined his laugh to sound like. Kind of...airy.

How can he flirt with those girls so easily, and yet not say a word to me?

Although, no wonder he hasn't picked a Queen. He seems to have a choice of whichever girl he wants, whenever.

I am beginning to think that the King isn't only uninterested, he's actively avoiding me.

Time to pull a better stunt.

One that will grab his attention.

The King sits back on his throne, surrounded by his harem of girls. They hover around him like flies on shit, and the whole scenario makes me want to go over and tear their pretty little hairs from their heads. Including the sexy tousled hair of the King.

What can I do?

I have to get close to him.

But I will not lower myself to compete against those girls.

The music starts again, and suddenly I'm surrounded by a flurry of energetic couples dancing away. I'm soon jostled from the floor, avoiding being stepped on by the bizarre trotting dance these people are performing. I have never danced in my life, and I don't intend on starting.

Instead, an abrupt turn takes me away from the dancers and into the crowds milling by. After stepping through a few talking groups, I'm greeted by the sight of Mercer talking to a statue.

Now this is one hell of an idiot.

He takes a deep gulp from a dark bottle he's holding in his hand. He misses the majority of his mouth, and I wince at the cracking noise as it hits his teeth instead, sloshing orange liquid down his chin. After some coordination difficulties, Mercer finds his mouth and takes a swig.

I wave at him, catching his attention from the statue of the naked man he was conversing with.

'Oh. Ners...Neis...Na...whatever.' Mercer frowns, as if my name truly is bothering him. He gives me a disconcerted look. 'Meet my friend...'

'Your friend is made of marble.'

'Don't be so rude! He's sensitive,' Mercer protests.

'He's really not,' I sigh. 'He's not anything, he's a statue.'

Mercer looks at me, then back at the statue, and then his eyes widen. In particular, he quickly glances down at the naked man's carved genitalia.

'Lord! Who was I talking to before? Where did the gentleman go?'

I don't have the heart to tell him there never was anyone. So, I brush over the subject as though people turn into marble statues on a regular basis. Maybe here in the Underworld, they do.

'What are you drinking?' I ask.

Mercer burps, forgetting about the statue and instead leaning on it. He slides down it, and then rights himself, glaring at the ground for uprooting him.

'A Tart...Tartarus,' Mercer chuckles at a private joke.

I'm not laughing. 'How did you get this drunk, in the space of a few moments?'

To my surprise, Mercer gives me an answer that I can drink to.

'I saw you get sold off as an item by dying.'

I laughed, my smile reaching my eyes. 'Why, thank you, Mercer. I'm beginning to think I'm glad you were killed after all.'

That's too much for drunk Mercer's brain to handle. He looks at me with a confused expression. I steer him sharply to a seat and swap his bottle of "Tartarus"— whatever that is— with a pitcher of water.

'Drink,' I instruct him.

As he slurps, I eye the room for Cerberus. She's over by the food table, still gobbling whatever one of her three jaws can lay a tooth on. I'm impressed, but it's no help.

My eyes jump to the ceiling, where the centre chandelier and surrounding lamps are lit by alchemy. In recent years, scholars have invented a way to light a room without candles or torches. We'd had basic education on it, but I'd bet Mercer might have even had it, being from a wealthy family.

And my idea forms like a brilliant storm, all the clouds and raindrops and lightning coming together. But as soon as my idea rises like a dough, the realisation of the help I need popped every ounce of hope.

Mercer burps again.

Well, I can't ask Cerberus to do it...

'Mercer,' I say, and my tone has become suspiciously nicer. The naïve boy fixes his eyes on me with some difficulty.

'Yeah?'

'I need your help.'

That sobers him up somewhat. 'You do?'

'Please. I need you to find the power for that—' I jerk my thumb in the direction of the chandelier, light flashing into tiny stars from its crystals, '— and make sure it goes off, at least for a few minutes.'

Mercer seems to think about this. I'm worried already.

'Deal,' he says, and I realise that the hand he's wobbling towards my breasts is a handshake, not a lewd gesture. 'But on one condition.'

'What's that?'

'No more laughing at me,' he says, and his eyes are serious.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for how I've treated him. Then I remember that I'm dead, in some sort of hell or limbo, and there's nothing really going for me to be a nice person anymore.

Except the fact I need him. I cross my fingers of my spare hand.

'I promise,' I lie, shaking his wobbling hand. 'Will you go now? Uh...please?'

''Sure...' Mercer puts down the empty pitcher, and staggers to his feet. He hums a tuneless song under his breath. 'Oh I'm dead, dead, dead....in hell, hell, hell...'

He disappears around the dancers, and I find myself wondering if I should send someone as backup.

But no one here will do as I ask. He's the only one I can trust.

So I continue with the plan. I make my way up to the throne once more, stepping through the dancing with pride. I drop the pretence of quiet and innocent. I step up to the throne with a glint in my eye.

A challenge.

The Lord of Death notices me immediately; I see his arm twitch— the one he's leaning on— and his head jerks towards me a fraction.

Got you.

The girl that was waspishly chatting to him notices me also, and her mouth forms a pout. Her mask is an awful imitation of a tiger, and it sets off her ginger curls. The way she leans across the King is almost as if she wishes to take his seat. I'm pleased to see he leans away from her.

I curtsey, elegant and low.

'My name is Nerissa, your highness. I believe we haven't been introduced properly.' 'Then where is your chaperone?' the ginger-haired girl glares at me. She's referring to Mercer, who is supposed to be supporting my helpless self.

'From where I come from, I do not need one.' Virginity isn't exactly prized in a place where it can get you killed.

I hear the girl whisper to her friend beside her. They pull disapproving faces, and I can't tell if it's because I don't have my ward with me, or because my tongue is too sharp.

'You are very forward,' the girl in the tiger mask laughs. 'For a human.'

'I must be direct,' I say, 'if I am to equal in power and authority my husband, the King.'

The whispering ensues.

I take note of the girls that are by the King's side. I can't blame them for their viper-like tendencies; they've been raised in a world where competing against other women is the only feasible option. We're played against each other, as if we have to pick one another off until the survivor takes Death for herself. But he's been receiving brides for hundreds of years, and he hasn't picked any of us.

Not for lack of choice, it seems. The ginger haired girl sits leaning closest, but her brown-haired friend stands over her, watching the distance between the King and her friend a little too closely. On the other side, a black-haired beauty stands poised and donned in an amazing silk gown, hanging low at her front and back. A woman slightly older than us, but no less charismatic, leans against the back of the throne as she chats to the girl beside her, a blonde with a violet dress made of a shimmering waterfall of chiffon.

Towards the sides, more women and men cluster around, all vying for attention, seeking the King's power and his privilege. Yet he sits apart from them, poised and separate, undoubtedly distancing himself from them all.

There's lots of people, which is perfect.

Now, I just need Mercer to do something right for my plan to work.

The King is still gazing at me. I take another step forward.

He beckons me to his empty side.

I smirk.

I continue to step forwards.

'Are you going to let her here, my lord?' Ginger cries.

I change direction, stepping slowly towards Ginger with the air of a predator. A lioness out to hunt. My eyes lock with hers and I see her start to bristle.

'You don't belong here, human!' she hisses the word as though infectious.

Another step. I'm only a metre away. She takes a subconscious step back.

'What,' I drawl, 'are you going to do about it?'

Step.

'Have you jumped from a cliff to be with this man?'

Step.

'Have you let yourself drown so you could be beside him?'

Pause.

'I thought not.'

I'm stood in Ginger's spot by the King. I smile sweetly, indicating that I'm happy where I am. Ginger realises that by stepping away, she has unwittingly let me in. Her mouth opens to argue when the lights flicker.

Thank heavens! Mercer has done it!

There's a hush rising, voices questioning. The chandelier dims, lights flashing.

And then they go off entirely.

Screams and shouts rise, and the noise of people panicking over the pitch-black darkness erupt. My senses, however, are honed on the darkness in front of me, where I know Death, King of the Underworld, is sitting in confusion. He might move soon, if I don't first. I grip the armrest of the throne, conscious of my nervousness now that the time is here.

Do it, Nerissa! Now!

I move around the throne, as stealthy as a pickpocket, and steal into the King's personal space. I reach for his body, running my hands up along his chest and then to his neck, and finally, running my fingers over his lips.

My heart hammers in panic.

Do it! Do it!

I lean in, trying not to tremble.

When my lips meet Death's, his are already slightly parted.

I'm struck by the warmth and largeness of his lips beneath mine, soft but strong and sensual. Our kiss is a whisper at first, and I feel him tense in shock of the surprise, but then he presses forwards, his lips seeking more, pressing harder. My hands reach to his face, sliding underneath his mask, tracing the outline I find there.

Such amazing cheekbones!

I can feel his breath hitching. But what's worse? Mine is too.

He grabs me, and pulls me closer— I stagger, and end up straddling him on the throne. But we're still kissing, our mouths colliding more strongly. Instead of calculated advances, my chest is thrumming erratically.

I can feel his nose— his mask— brushing my face. My hands roam further up as he kisses down my jaw, my neck, and as I run my fingers through his hair, his mask clatters off. We both ignore it, our mouths seeking each other once more. His hands are on my waist, encompassing me entirely. He kisses me, and I kiss him— and I'm lost.

His tongue reaches mine.

It's warm and sends a jolt, right from my throat to my pelvis.

And, to my surprise, I make a small noise— like a gasp.

This isn't supposed to happen! I'm supposed to be calm!

'Who are you?'

His voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. He's so close that I feel every letter formed by his breath on my face, an intoxicating indicator to resume kissing him senseless. The question of who I am is exactly what I was hoping for. He'll be wondering if it's me, but he won't be certain. I'll be an alluring mystery. But for some reason, it makes my heart sink.

His voice is melodic, low and husky. It matches his hair, which is definitely as good to touch as I'd imagined. But more than that is the sense that I know that voice.

I jump off the King of the Underworld's lap, swaying backwards into my position. I stagger, my legs a little shakier than I'd planned. The sounds around me return to my ears; people are talking and shouting, but no longer in panic. I hover by the throne, where I can hear the girls screeching to one another, afraid of the dark.

I just kissed the King in a room full of people.

Not just kissed— breath-robbing, heart hammering, tongue kind of kiss.

The lights flicker back on, and a cheer goes up.

I look up, pretending like everyone else that I'd had a tense few minutes.

Well, I did— just not the same "tense", I think with a wry smile. Mine was more sexual.

Ginger is still with her brown-haired friend, but suspicion laces her gaze. She's looking past me, at the King, with an odd stare. So, I turn to face the man I'd met only earlier, who I'd danced with once and who I knew from experience was a fantastic kisser, ready to give him a coy smile and the suggestion that his mystery woman might be his potential wife.

Instead my heart falls from my chest.

On the plus side, my plan worked. The King sits with the most dazed expression on his face, his fingers still touching his lips and cradling his broken mask in his other hand. And when he glances upwards, he looks straight at me, a question in his eyes.

What I'm not prepared for is the beautiful, rugged face of Hadrian.

A/N....Dun dun duuuun! After having absolutely no inspiration on how to reveal Hadrian's identity to Nerissa, it came to me right as I was going to bed (and now, I'm up super late for my practice OSCE tomorrow. Yay...)

What do you think?? Did you like the kiss scene? I'm not used to writing kiss scenes (Despite me being a "romance" writer!). So let me know what you thought went well, and of course anything to improve on.

Pleeeeease comment and voteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Lots of love, Larissa xxxx