“Does anything from the realm grow in the garden?”
The unicorn does a shrug of sorts, briefly lifting its bat wings and showcasing the row of exposed ribs below. There is magic here, of course. Death has made the land especially fertile and Pyry has been enchanted to become the perfect cook. But when it comes to using magic, it’s best to use it sparingly, especially when it comes to food and drink. Magically induced food has zero nutritional value. Over time, it may actually diminish the use of magic in the consumer.
“Interesting,” I muse, reaching out and touching the leaves of the snowbeans growing on the nearest vine.
Here, let me give you a tour, the unicorn says. We walk along the flowers and plants and Sarvi starts pointing items out with its horn, explaining what they are and where they come from. Meanwhile, butterflies continue to fly to and fro, much to my delight.
One of them even lands on the tip of Sarvi’s iron horn, slowly fluttering its wings which glow blue and pink.
This is a moon butterfly, Sarvi informs me. They only live during a full moon, so you’ll see them fly around for a couple of days on either side of the celestial event, then they die.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly. “It’s so beautiful.”
Sarvi suddenly waves its horn, causing the butterfly to take flight. Then the unicorn lunges forward, teeth bared, and snatches the butterfly out of the air, swallowing it down whole.
Beautiful and delicious, Sarvi says.
My eyes go wide. I guess Death did tell me that the unicorns could be nasty.
Sarvi chuckles, noting my expression. They’re a delicacy. More so than the bloodmoths, but you should be thankful I enjoy eating those as well.
“Do I want to know why they’re called bloodmoths?” I ask warily.
They’re like oversized mosquitos, Sarvi explains. And they swell up with blood as they feast. But I happen to love blood, so they make a tasty little snack.
The unicorn licks its lips with its black tongue and I try not to cringe.
Eventually Sarvi goes back to tending to some of the vegetables, while I lean against the stone wall that surrounds the garden and close my eyes to the sun, breathing in deep, and trying to forget all this talk about blood-sucking moths.
I hate to say it but, when it’s like this outside, I almost like it here. The relentless moody weather would get to me, but when the sun is out, it feels invigorating, and head-clearing. And for once, I’m not trying to use my clear head to try and plot my escape.
Then the air changes, a gust of cold along with the sun, and I know that Death is in the garden, too.
A thrill runs through me before I even open my eyes.
“There you are,” Death says to me, and I look over to see him appear at the garden entrance. His face falls in the dim shadow of the castle towers, exaggerating the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the strong cut of his jaw. His beard is thicker now, somehow making him even more manly, as if that were possible. A breeze picks up, tussling his long dark hair that’s loose around his shoulders, and rays of sunlight make his visible runes gleam.
Our eyes meet and he smiles at me. He fucking smiles and I’m suddenly struck dumb by how handsome he is. It’s not just that I’ve spent so long not knowing what he looks like, that he’s actually fucked me good while being completely unknowable, it’s that he truly is gorgeous. A real, true God. And this is the first time I’ve seen him outside, a light that is sometimes unforgiving and yet here he shines. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, not just as the God of Death who has taken to my bed every night, but as something more.
But then guilt drives into my heart at that thought. The idea that I could be more to him. That’s what I’ve wanted, that’s part of the plan, and yet for once I don’t want to think of the plan. I just want to be here, feeling the adoration in his eyes, and the affection in his smile. I know how rare it is, rarer than the aurora stone.
“I like this look on you,” he murmurs as he comes over to me, his tall, wide body looming over mine. He gently reaches out and runs his gloved thumb over my chin. Today he’s wearing gloves made of black feathers and his touch is soft and seductive and my eyes flutter closed. I absently wonder if the gloves are made from the swan I murdered.
I swallow, my throat feeling thick. “What look?”
“This one.” He gestures to the air around me with his other hand. “The sight of you outside here in the garden, in the fresh sea air. I don’t think you’ve ever looked so lovely, little bird.”