Chapter Eight: Death is Much Hotter than We Realised

The masked man is three things.

Lord of the Underworld. Death incarnate.

And my husband.

My first thought after realising this is, 'Why didn't I try blind dates sooner?'

My conscience says, 'I'm married now anyway.'

And my next thought is, 'At least it's this guy!'

Clearing my throat, I copy the bow that the rest of the room is making. I can't make it quite as low as they are— with their noses so deep that they sweep the dust from the floor—but it doesn't matter, anyway. My husband drops his hold, and actually turns away from me.

I blink, halfway into an elaborate bow, heat from the rejection rising to my face.

Did my own husband just ignore me? I brush the thought away as I eye him striding through the middle of the room. The guests fling themselves out of his way as he heads towards the dais, and the throne. The rippling effect only confirms my gut telling me that this man is powerful.

He didn't ignore me on purpose, I persuade myself, he didn't know it was me. That must be it! He treated me like everyone else because we haven't been introduced yet. He can't even see my face.

Even if I am the only one wearing white...

He sits down, and the remainder of the room rises from their bows. The pathway between him and me is still clear, but I am too infuriated to take step. After all, regardless of my real intent, I have died for him.

I can't help but feel jilted. But then, the King says something to Jefferson, who is busy fussing over his Royal Highness, and the elderly man pauses, and coughs.

'The King would like me to welcome his new bride to our kingdom,' Jefferson announces, and I'm gratified that he doesn't require a pun in my introduction. He raises his arm in a gesture towards me, and the crowd spins on their heels, taking in my dress and my features.

Like a cow at market. Moo. How much am I worth?

From the corner of my eye, I spot Mercer by his honey curled hair, wedged between an obese lady and her friend, who had grabbed his arms to engage him in their conversation. I try not to turn and flash him a smirk in front of watching eyes; instead, I lower my eyelashes and curtsey.

'I am honoured to be here,' I say in my most demure voice. I see Mercer's mouth plop open in frank disbelief. 'May I meet my husband?'

I can't believe I have to ask permission to meet him! Arrogant, son of a b—

'Yes, my dear, of corpse! Come here!'

Oh, Lord. He did not just crack that joke at my wedding reception. Did anyone else even notice? Are they just good at pretending not to laugh?

My little feet patter sweetly along the floor, echoing in the silence. My stride is no longer gruff or impatient: I walk like a pure soul blessed to meet her husband at last— that is, with my eyes lowered, my hands clasped in front of my body and my footsteps a whisper. I reach the dais, where I stand a few metres from the throne. The King watches me carefully, a lazy hand propping up his chin, and his long legs stretching towards me. I'm itching to take off his mask.

When my husband simply stares at me, and the silenced deafens, I grow more irritated. Is he always this welcoming his brides?

'Might I look upon your face?' I enquire with forced politeness. Jefferson, at the King's right hand side, laughs heartily.

'You are eager, my dear, very eager! But we have a custom here that you see each other's faces after the ceremony. Come closer; there, that's it.'

Ceremony? I want to ask. My bridal vows seem decades ago, but in reality, I suppose Mr Underworld hasn't bothered to say his. Perhaps that is what the "ceremony" is for.

The room is still silent, watching us with polite interest. It's only when a violinist in the band begins to play a romantic melody do I realise that this is my wedding ceremony, albeit part two.

I want to scoff. How disorganised; my husband hadn't even turned up to the first part.

When Jefferson coughs, I nearly groan out loud. If there was anything strong enough to kill, it was his heart-stopping puns. Surely he isn't going to marry us?

I am relieved when a very, very old woman steps forward. She is so small and stooped that I had mistaken her for an ornament, hidden behind Jefferson. But as soon as she takes me in, I sense a challenge in her stare. Fire lurks behind her icy eyes, and her steel eyebrows pucker as they look me up and down.

She reminds me of a fierce, matriarchal grandmother.

'What is your name, girl?' she asks me. I expected her voice to be frail, but it comes out louder and more commanding than Jefferson's. Her lips form a tight line, straightening the wrinkles across her face.

'Nerissa.'

'Nerissa what?'

I flush. It is not the question which perturbs me, it is the woman's tone; as if I, by not answering fully, am insolent.

'Nerissa Cora Soteira. Would you like to know my birthday, too?'

My tone, I know, is curt. For one, I do not need to say anything more than Soteira, but my tongue automatically makes a sarcastic reply. I can't help it. When I stare into the face of power, I want to rattle it.

'Nerissa Cora Soteira, you have been selected as the offering towards his highness, King of the Underworld,' the woman says, 'And should he choose you, you will become what no woman ever has; our Little Saint Bride.'

If no girl has ever made it, maybe you should start trying guys? I mean, brides are traditionally women, but meanings change based on need.

Instead of offending the old woman, I feign interest. 'Little Saint Bride?'

What a stupid name. I'm not little. I'm average height. And I'm no saint.

'Although you have been given as a choice of bride for his highness, he is extremely particular about the woman he chooses to marry. Bride candidates sent here are given a month before they must follow the river. In our terms, true afterlife lies beyond the waterfall. You are in between life and death, as you humans might see it.'

I have a month here before they kick me out?

'However, if picked, you will become the official wife of the Underworld, granted eternal life and power equal to his.'

Suddenly, my ears and spirit perk up. Granted power equal to his? That would solve all of my problems, save for the stuck-as-an-eternal-bride part. That's a sharp, sour note in an otherwise too-good-to-be-true scenario.

'In order to stay here and not become a lost soul, you must first eat the ceremonial fruit,' the lady continues on, and I make a conscious effort to look interested. At a glare from the iron lady, I realise I failed.

When the lady claps her hands, helpers shuffle forwards with a familiar white ceramic bowl. So familiar, in fact, that fervent whispering occurs as the group stares at the empty bowl. After thirty seconds of low toned arguing, the woman shuffles back over to me and grabs my wrist, holding my red stained fingers for everyone to see.

'It appears our princess has already eaten the ceremonial fruit,' the old lady announces.

A chuckle flares through the crowd. My cheeks go hot, immediately defensive. Why put food out for guests if it isn't meant to be eaten?

But there comes another laugh— simple, brilliant and earnest— from the direction of the throne. The laughter melts my insides.

We all turn to look at the King, laughing in his chair. But his laughter stops abruptly, as if he checked himself and thought better of showing emotion. He stands as he does so, sauntering towards me with eyes shaded by his mask.

I can feel his eyes roaming my face, almost uncertain how to proceed. Without uttering a sound, he sweeps into a bow with his hand outstretched.

'Will you dance with me?' He asks silently. He is still bowed over, and I stare at the top of his head, full of dark luscious hair that gives me the strangest sense of déjà vu.

Before I can think further, the old lady stands back, and announces our first dance to open the ball. I want to say that I don't want to dance— that I can't dance— but I catch myself staring at the King's slender hands, reaching out to mine. Entranced, my fingers meet his, and I'm surprised at how warm he is. Rather than coldness, as I expected, his fingertips send a blazing warmth up my arm.

He curls his fingers around mine as the orchestra begins a darker piece. It's in a minor key, and the notes often clash before running and leaping in a strange, skeletal kind of dance.

My partner, however, has nothing to worry about; he seems to know exactly what to do. The King wraps his arm against my back, sending a blaze of neurons firing in a rush of sensitivity. My left hand finds itself on his pectorals, appearing almost innocently beyond my comprehension. I can't help (I tell myself) but feel his hard chest beneath his crisp blue suit. When I try to look at the floor, the waistcoat defines his thin midriff, and I'm tempted to touch that smooth plane between his chest and his hips. His left hand grips my right, holding out our arms to our sides as we begin our dance.

Already my neck and chest feel flutteringly warm, but the proximity of the King feels wild. My chest bends to create space so that my breasts aren't so obvious pressed against him. When I look up, he avoids my gaze with expert quickness.

Is it just me that's so flustered? Get it together!

But the more I stare at his jawline, the more I feel as though I know him. There is a sexy stubble line along his chin, temptingly running behind his mask.

As he twirls me, I use the opportunity to talk. 'May I ask your name, your highness?'

The masked man looks at me but does not reply. His grip on my back gets tighter.

'My king,' I speak louder this time, 'We can hardly get to know one another without talking.'

Unless you, the virgin-requester, prefers other methods of acquaintance.

Still, he doesn't answer. His brooding silence remains a mystery.

The music dips low, and the decrease in noise is filled by the swishing of my skirt, curling around mine and my partner's feet. Around us, I can feel the eyes of hundreds of people watching, their faces covered by bright masks and outlandish clothing. They pass in a strange blur, on the periphery of my vision. Everything is in focus on the man in front of me.

I feel every movement; the way his hand smoothly fits against the inlet of my back, and his strong yet gentle hold. His face, like his silence, is as closed off to me as a wall. He is a silver mask, literally and figuratively, curving down his face and revealing half his lips. Maddeningly, they're curved into a small smile and an image of my lips against his invades my head. I push the picture from my mind, but I remain watching. I watch as they twitch, as if he's trying hard not to let them move.

Why? I am desperate to ask. Why hide yourself?

Unlike me, you have nothing to fear.

Do you?

The music begins to rise again, creeping slowly now. We are dancing faster with each bar; he draws me in close, and then he's pushing me away, before pulling me back again.

And I try to start conversation once more. Of all the years spent training physically, I should have worked on my charm after all. I'm as tempting as stale bread.

'I'm glad I'm finally here. I never thought we'd make it. Thank goodness Mercer, my ward, was there to save me!'

Although we did survive, it was thanks to my genius, not that surfer boy.

The King's lips twitch again, and I imagine that he's fighting away a smile, although there's nothing funny about what I said.

Is he laughing at me?

He won't meet my eyes, and he laughs when I speak. What else could he be doing but thinking himself above me?

Damn this man...I'M the one that's supposed to be playing hard-to-get.

Infuriated, I decide to step up my game and throw him a curve ball.

'Why are you so shy, my King?' the hand on his chest moves to caress over his collarbone, feeling the hard bone contrasting against muscle. 'After all, we've met before.'

Met on the night you took my brother's life. Wearing the same suit and silver mask.

That gets a reaction. The King pauses dancing, his eyes finally dropping to meet my own. They're a marvellous colour of ice and deep oceans. But as I look into them, I read confusion there. The hope in my chest that had bloomed trickles away.

'You don't remember?' I whisper.

Hell knows why, but that statement makes him relax; his shoulders sag and he pulls me back into the waltz, making me spin faster than my whirling thoughts.

This man makes no sense. Why can't I read him? He should be putty in my hands by now!

After everything, I am not granted an answer by his majesty. Instead, as the music ends and I fall in his arms out of breath, he puts a hand to my cheek, thanking me for the dance.

I blink, caught off guard and utterly not used to attention and affection.

He pulls me back upright, and I feel woozy.

Oh no, I must be out of my mind.

My heart thuds in an erratic rhythm. I can't calm it. I can't stop it. And I want to curse myself for being distracted with the one person I need to keep my wits around.

The old woman appears once more.

'With the conclusion of their first dance, the bride has exactly one month to this day to make the King her own!'

What?

Make him mine?

'Their act of intercourse will form a bond that will grant her eternal life and power over death.'

Marriage and consummation, I can understand...but this game? I feel slightly sick. I have a time limit to save my life.

I drop the King's hand, as if I was burned. Perhaps mentally I am.

But, I tell myself, this is what I wanted. This is what I came here for; to find a way to defeat the necromancer that was bringing back spirits like my brother. I had accepted that I would not be living for my own happiness. All I have to do is seduce the King, and my wish will be granted.

There is no room for love, especially not when he learns the truth of my seduction.

I take the King's hand once more in mine. Although tentative at first, his fingers curl around mine and nestle together, like two missing pieces brought back together.

No room for love.

So why do I feel so disappointed?

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A/N: hiii! So, this update took a lot longer than I'd hoped. For the most part I've had writer's block on how to introduce Death's character, so I hope this is okay. What do you think of the King? What are your thoughts? PLEASEEE let me know and if you liked, press the star!!!!!

Larissa xx