Jory Strong

Atticus knew the moment he touched the woman that she was the one meant to be his wife. She was the reason he’d suddenly decided on a holiday after centuries of going without one, the reason he’d chosen to vacation among the humans. She was the reason for the elusive worry, the unsettling sensation he’d written off as pre-holiday jitters at the thought of turning over the day-to-day business of Death to his brothers.

The woman who’d careened into his car and left a sizable dent was meant to be his. He could take her now, cast off the shell of flesh he’d lobbied so hard to gain. He could harvest her soul then take her home with him.

He could do it. But he wouldn’t.

No. He didn’t intend to make the same mistakes as his father.

It would be a challenge, and time was limited. At the end of his seven-day holiday he’d lose his corporeal form and until he claimed her as his bride, consummated their marriage physically in order to permanently link their souls, it would be risky. If she died without him nearby to take her home… If she got on a ghostway where he couldn’t follow…

Atticus shivered. For a moment the chill of Death threatened to return to the core of his being and spread outward until she was ice-cold, her heart stopped. The worry about losing her nearly weakened his resolve to give her time, to court her as she deserved to be courted. He’d been lonely for centuries, longed for a companion. To gamble on his future happiness…

He squared his shoulders and saw the vintage Aston Martin out of the corner of his eye. He reminded himself that it was the car of James Bond and Atticus Denali.

“Oh god,” the woman whispered, the husky sound of her voice drawing Atticus’ attention to her lips and scattering his thoughts.

He nearly blurted out the first thing that came to mind, almost told her that in his early days he had often been called a god but these days he was more typically considered an angel and in some cultures had been sainted—though in all honesty he found the mantle of Santa Muerte somewhat disconcerting. Not that it mattered between them of course. He was proud to say he was not only a part of history but a student of it and fully intended to have a marriage based on equality. No, he wouldn’t make a mess of things as Hades had done with Persephone. He wouldn’t alienate her as his father had succeeded in doing initially with his mother.

Atticus opened his mouth to offer the assurances bubbling furiously inside him. He was saved from making a complete fool of himself when he managed to look away from her lips and see that her focus was on the dent in the car. Her “oh god” was a response to it and not to him.

She slowly got to her feet, her dismay and anxiety obvious. He had the urge to take her in his arms, to hold her, to smooth away the distress as easily as the dent could be made to disappear from the car. But before he could utter a word, a large man burst from a nearby house, shaking off an elderly woman who’d apparently been clinging to him.

“I told you to get out of here,” the man yelled, charging toward them.

Atticus stepped forward, shielding his wife-to-be. Sheer amazement struck him when the human arrived fist first and the force of it sent Atticus to the ground.

He was on his feet in an instant, returning the favor, thinking that only a person with a death wish would assault Death himself. But of course, as Atticus felt the uniquely satisfying sensation of flesh connecting with flesh, saw the man stagger backward with the force of the blow, his blow, he was reminded that, in fact, Death was on vacation.

He followed the first punch with a second, driving the man toward the house even as he dodged a beefy fist. Adrenaline surged through Atticus. It was followed by understanding, a clarity regarding combat he hadn’t gained until this moment though he’d been to a million fight scenes to collect the losers and send them on their way.

Exhilarating! There was no other word to describe what he was feeling. The excitement of not only testing his mettle, mano-e-mano, but to be doing so in the service of his lady—it was absolutely astounding!

Atticus grunted, doubling over when his opponent plowed a fist into his gut. The pain of the blow chased more intellectual thoughts away.

He responded with an uppercut that sent the human sprawling, momentarily dazed as blood poured from his lip. Before Atticus could do more, the elderly woman was kneeling, crying, dabbing at the blood with the corner of her apron as she pleaded with the man whose name was apparently Billy, saying over and over again, “Please don’t send me away, Billy.”

The tears and desperate pain in the woman’s voice were like the stab of a knife through Atticus’ heart. The scene was too close to ones he’d witnessed before, especially in the old days, during times of plague and civil war, though the words were different. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t die.

He turned away. His breath caught in his throat when his eyes met the concerned ones of the woman who would soon be his wife. A shiver went through him when she reached for him, her hand brushing dirt and dried grass from his shirt. “Thank you,” she said. “I—”

“It was my pleasure.” He captured her hand. His cock filled, and the sensation of a throbbing erection pressed against his boxers was so novel he wanted to freeze the moment in time and savor it. He wanted to forever capture in his mind the first rush of blood to an organ that now seemed to pulse in time to the beat in his heart. Because while there might be life after death, there was no possibility of life from Death—at least not until a bride was found and claimed—the curse of impotence a penalty for some long ago ancestor’s unrestrained and unfortunate predilection for sacrificed virgins.

Atticus closed his eyes. He mentally divested himself of clothing and tried to imagine what the tightness of his jeans was telling him, to confirm what he’d always hoped was true about himself—that fully aroused he was in fact well-endowed, even when compared to gods like Apollo and Backlum Chaam and Eueucoyotl. But of course there was no way of knowing for sure until he was in a private place with his intended.

He opened his eyes and kissed her palm, rejoiced when he felt her shiver and witnessed the subtle blush stealing into her face. “I am Atticus Denali,” he murmured, unable to resist the impulse to kiss her again, this time in a butterfly caress against the pulse at her wrist.

“I’m Bryn DePalo,” she said.