As they ate and watched and exchanged small talk, Daria took mental note after mental note of the museum goers. At that time of day, it was mostly college students and a few moms with their toddlers. A crowd they could easily fit into.
Daria took out her phone, paranoid she would get details mixed up, and angled her phone just right, so it would seem as if she were taking a picture of Death. Through the lens, she was capturing camera placement and the street in front of the museum, all framing Death.
As she snapped the shots she thought would help, she couldn’t help but get caught on how perfect Death looked. With his fawn-colored skin and dark hair in the bright sunshine, he looked like some kind of god. His eyes were amethyst in the light, brightened as if lit from within. The dark hair framing his lips and outlining his jaw made her want to cup his face in her hands only for the hair to tickle her palms.
God, he’s attractive. What did I do to deserve this?
Clearing her throat, Daria put her phone in her purse and enjoyed brunch as she was supposed to.
“What do you think it will be like once all this is over?” she asked on their way out. As planned, they were making their way to the bakery and would walk around the block before getting coffee.
“Over? You mean when Pandora’s gone?” he clarified.
“Yeah. What would you do?”
Pain already had his place figured out, and how appropriate—a tattoo artist. She tried to imagine where each of her demons would fit among humans.
Truth clearly belonged in a bakery, but what about the rest of her demons?
She didn’t even blink at the possessive claim. They were hers, and she wouldn’t be letting them go.
“I haven’t really thought about it… much,” Death admitted. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
Daria turned to him, arched a brow, and smiled. “I wouldn’t dare laugh in the face of death,” she teased.
His coral-pink lips turned up in a smile and he shook his head. “I think I want to garden. How I turn that into something that benefits the house, I have no idea. I mean, sure, our lawn will look magnificent, but I want to contribute.”
Letting that answer take root in her mind, she ordered a raspberry and dark chocolate croissant and mulled it over as Death ordered an elderflower syrup and honey baklava. His order made her smile. Appropriate.
Once they were outside, and they’d both taken the first bites of their pastries, Daria couldn’t help but imagine how Truth would react to the desserts. Hers most certainly was delicious.
Making a mental note to bring Truth there on one of their own dates, she turned her gaze to her current… date. She picked up the conversation as they walked down the sidewalk, once again keeping an eye out for anything that might help plan their heist.
“What makes you want to garden?” she inquired seriously. “Would you work at a flower shop arranging flowers, or do the dirty work, like planting and landscaping?” Daria was curious. She could easily see him both in an apron arranging elegant, overflowing bouquets bursting with color, hair half pulled back out of his face, or covered in dirt with a messy bun and a grin on his lips as he dug holes and planned entire gardens.
Death cocked his head to the side and raked his teeth over his bottom lip. “You know what? I’m not sure what makes me want to work with flowers. Maybe it’s the fact that for once I’d be giving life to something instead of front-rowing it to someone’s death. Flowers are bright and innocent and pretty.” His gaze flicked to hers. “Just like you.”
She grinned. “See? Smooth.”
He winked at her. “As for what exactly I’d like, I think both sound great. I feel as if it’d be easier to find a gardener position, yeah?”
Daria shrugged. “With the fancy living wealthy people in Maleston? You could probably find one easily. But I happen to know the owner of the flower shop down the street from the bar. She comes in every Tuesday to tell me about her and her adorable husband.”
Death cocked his head at her. “So you have connections, huh?” he teased.
“I sure do. So after all this is over…”
“And we get everyone back home,” he continued.
“We’ll see what we can do.”
As they rounded a corner, the sun hid behind the buildings and they were shrouded in the shade. Their gazes clashed, and they both slowed down, as if suddenly in sync with each other’s movements. They paused, facing each other, and with people surrounding them, dessert still clutched in one hand, Death leaned down and brushed his lips over hers. Honey sweet and petal soft, he kissed her again, light and barely there, but the pull of his lips was as high inducing as the sugary pastries that flavored their kisses. He was like a drug, and she leaned in to chase the taste before he framed her face with his free hand and held her still. His gaze flickered over hers, and eyes heavy-lidded, she took in every nuance and flare of emotion in his expression.
“Thank you for not laughing,” he said.
“Thank you for being honest,” she countered. Soft, lazy, matching grins curled their lips, and they began walking again, hands clasped. For just a moment, she could pretend that everything was normal.
And for the first time since the curse had been activated, she felt confident that everything would be okay.
DEATH
Daria’s skin was satin soft against his own as they walked down the sidewalk. He replayed that kiss in his mind—the sweetness of her taste, the soft smile that curved her lips even now—and his chest bloomed.
Shaking himself back to the mission at hand, he snapped mental screenshots of the buildings, alleys, cameras, and anything else that would hopefully prove helpful during their heist.
As they rounded the building across the busy street from the museum, Death paused. “Let’s get coffee after instead,” he suggested and tugged on her hand.
She squeezed back and followed him across the street. “You know, I don’t think I’ve been to a museum since I was little, on school trips.”
“Well, I’ve never been to one ever.” At least not in my own body. “I bet you were cute, with a little backpack and—were you a pigtails kind of kid?” he teased.
Daria’s cheeks flushed a pretty soft pink, and she rolled her eyes to play it off. “Maybe.”
“Yep. Bet you were cute as hell,” he continued.
He held the heavy glass and iron door for her, glancing to the camera aimed in his direction before averting his gaze.
Inside, it was quiet, like a doctor’s office, and their steps echoed off the concrete floor as they approached the box office.
“Hello, and welcome to the Brighton Museum of History. What tickets can we interest you in today? Are you here for a tour?”
“No tour today, thank you. Can we just get two general admission?”
The clerk printed off two tickets, took his card—which was really Daria’s, he reminded himself with a grimace—and handed it back all within the span of a few seconds. Then their stubs were ripped off by an ancient guard, wrinkles lining his face and eyes, jowls hanging low even when he smiled.
Even though the museum was busy, college-aged crowds and moms with their kids, it was a quiet, respectful atmosphere. The dim lighting made everything seem intimate, so as they stepped up to the first painting, the spotlight beaming down on both the art and Death and Daria, it felt like they were in their own little space as they stared up at the preserved brush strokes.