“Do you feel weird?” Daria asked quietly, gaze fixated on the painting as she spoke.
Death arched a brow. “Like, from the painting?” It was pretty, and the artist was clearly talented, but no, the painting didn’t bring him any emoti—
“No, I don’t think so. I just feel… I think we should go this way,” she declared suddenly, and turned toward the back of the museum.
Concern rooted deep in his chest, and he squeezed his hand around hers before he followed. Her steps weren’t rushed, though she seemed determined. Her long hair was down around her shoulders and blew lightly away from her face as they walked casually. The large room full of artwork on the walls turned into a hallway leading to the next exhibit, but Daria walked right through without stopping.
Death made mental notes of where all the cameras were, certain whatever was happening was the exact opposite of inconspicuous.
The lights brightened just a bit as they entered the last exhibit, and Daria slowed down. Glass boxes sat upon pillars, polite warning signs posted to inform patrons to keep their distance from the displays. A red rope surrounded each pillar, serving as both a boundary and a warning in itself.
“You okay?” Death asked her quietly. Her gaze was tracking around the room, jumping from display to display, though she remained still. They’d paused in front of a random display, so at least they appeared to be interested in it while the guards and cameras looked on.
So many fucking cameras.
The five guards would not help their plan.
“I can’t describe it,” Daria muttered, and turned her head toward him. “It’s like something is calling me. Not with words or a sound, but it’s just a feeling, I guess? I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Then don’t. Just show me,” he replied. Dread curled through him, slithering around his ribs and into his chest.
“Okay,” she breathed.
He followed as she stepped away from the display of some ancient mask, and onto the next.
“I can’t tell exactly where it’s coming from,” she murmured, and moved on from a clay jar.
They circled half of the room, pausing for only a moment at each display before Daria would shake her head and move on. Her hand fell from Death’s, and she reached up to rub at her chest.
His eyes widened, and he pulled her to a stop in front of another glass box. “Daria, it’s your chaos.” He lowered his voice and stared down at her, her eyes widening in realization.
“You’re right. It’s not being violent though, it just… wants my attention—” Her gaze darted to the display they’d stopped in front of, and she released a soft gasp.
“This is it,” she whispered.
Before them, in the glass cage, rested a gold sheath and a wicked looking blade. Curved on the edge, it reminded Death of a xiphos, but smaller. About a foot long from hilt to tip, the blade was curved on each side before tapering off to a sharp point that gleamed in the low lighting. The engravings on the sheath were rubbed away, almost indecipherable. According to the plaque, he was correct. It was a xiphos, a secondary battle sword used by the Greeks. But this one was in pristine condition. It hadn’t ever seen battle.
Daria’s hand dropped to his and squeezed tight. “Something’s wrong,” she announced suddenly.
As soon as she spoke, he felt it. The slight rumble in the ground beneath their feet.
“It’s me,” she said again. “The chaos is—I don’t know.”
Gasps echoed around the room as the other patrons felt the rumble, and what he was beginning to suspect was an earthquake.
“Right now?” he hissed.
“I’m not doing it! It’s doing it itself!” she shot back.
“I thought you learned to control it!”
“No, I learned to trust it! Let’s just… see what happens?”
The rumbles amped up at her last words, and Death turned a droll look in her direction. She shrugged innocently as the room began to shake, the gasps turning into panicked whines, and even a few screams echoed through the large room.
The guards moved in, their walkie-talkies fizzing with static as they yelled directions for everyone to follow.
“Remain calm and leave the room!” the first guard ordered. Another one, stationed at the door, made sure everyone exited in a single file.
They didn’t get the chance. The ground shook even harder, and Death stumbled to the side as a groan echoed through the room, loud and dissonant and inhuman.
The structure of the building groaned, and a crack like lightning pulled his gaze upward. Just above Daria, the ceiling fractured.
“Daria, look out!” he yelled, and leapt to his feet to pull her out of the way.
He didn’t have to.
Plaster and dust rained down on them, and the chunks of the ceiling that fell landed everywhere they needed them to. It shattered the glass of the display, knocking both the blade and the sheath to the floor at their feet.
Around the room, screams and shouts of panic and concern made everything come to life. Death grabbed up the knife and the sheath, tucking both into the back of his waistband and pulling his jacket over them to hide them.
Wide-eyed, Daria glanced from the display to him before they darted into the crowd now almost violently trying to escape the room.
Nerves and adrenaline made his hands shake, so he gripped one of Daria’s to keep her close and hide his own shock.
The entire time they evacuated outside, Death kept imagining a guard tugging on his arm and demanding the return of the artifact, all before cuffing him and holding him for arrest. By the time the warmth of the sunshine hit their faces, he was beyond relieved.
Strangely enough, the rumbles didn’t carry outside, and as conversation and disbelief made its way through the crowd, Death pulled Daria away from the throng and slipped right into another, crossing the street in a group of college students. This time, he didn’t bother clocking the cameras or noticing alleys or exits.
Somehow, they’d already gotten what they’d set out to find.
Once they were safe in their car, Death released a slow breath and laid his forehead on the steering wheel.
“Holy shit,” Daria huffed.
Death rolled his head to the side, and as the adrenaline coursed through his veins subsided, Daria beamed, excitement clear on her face.
“Let me see it,” she said, holding a hand out and impatiently curling her fingers.
Sitting up, Death reached beneath his jacket and pulled out the blade, the gold shining bright as the sunlight reflected off of it.
“That was… convenient?” she muttered.
Shaking his head, Death couldn’t even think of a single word to say. His hands had stopped with the tremors, and before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned across the seat and framed Daria’s face with his hands before kissing her.
Her soft gasp of surprise was swallowed by him as he slotted their lips together. A hand threaded through his hair as she tilted her head, and he sipped from her lips, tasting her remaining fear and excitement all at once. Her lips moved against his, opened, and they deepened the kiss, exploring each other as their adrenaline faded away and they were left only with the spark of arousal flickering between them.
He shifted in his seat, pants growing tighter as he grew harder, and he gentled the kiss, plucking at her lips with his before resting his forehead against hers. They shared the same breath, and her hand fell from his hair to rest on the side of his neck.