Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” Death asks. “Are you sending ravens after all?”
“I’m writing down his address so I can send him some money through the mail. It’s safer than leaving it here in the car. I don’t trust people, or the cops.”
He grunts. “I wouldn’t trust cops either. Inmost is full of the corrupted ones.”
“Right,” I tell him, waving the Sharpie at him. “So keep that in mind when it comes to causing trouble. The more we stay out of their way, the better. I don’t care what country we’re in.”
I place the receipt in my pocket, put the insurance papers back in the glovebox, and finally, place the note on the dash. Then, we leave the car and stride toward the front of the building. Luckily, the lot is fairly empty back here, and no one has seen us who could potentially connect us to the car.
“You’re a good woman, you know that?” Death comments warmly as he grabs my hand and holds it tight.
I look up at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“The fact that you’re going to send the man money for borrowing his car and taking his coat.”
“It’s the least I can do, really,” I say with a shrug. “I know the world is hard and cruel; I don’t want to add to it if I can help it.”
“A true queen,” he murmurs, giving my hand a squeeze.
Damn. He’s giving me butterflies I wasn’t prepared for. There’s something about having a literal god admire you that does something for your self-esteem.
Don’t forget, you’re part god too, I remind myself.
But the funny thing is, even though I’ve never really felt it, the more I’m in this world, the more that being a goddess feels like a fever dream. How can any of that be real?
And this man walking beside me. This God. This King of the Underworld. How can he be real too?
I shake the thoughts from my head. The more I think about the two worlds colliding, the more it will do my head in. I barely understood the movie Inception; I don’t think I’ll start with this.
Hand-in-hand, we walk around the corner of the building. We pass by a couple on the street who look at Tuoni aghast, or at least as aghast as a Finnish person can look, their faces stoic with only a hint of an eyebrow raise.
The overhead bell rings when we walk into the store, and the employee by the cash immediately notices us, giving us a cautious nod.
“Hej,” I call out in my best Finnish accent.
“Hello,” the employer says in English. “Welcome.”
I look over the racks until I spot the men’s section. “There,” I say to Tuoni while I snatch up a basket from the door. “Those are the men’s clothes. You’re going to want to start with the ones labeled with an XL. Or an XXL. Or an XXXL. The more Xs, the better for you.”
“I take it X is good,” he says with a cocky grin.
I nod and slap his shoulder. “Absolutely.”
I watch as he strides off toward the row of clothes, walking every bit like a king or a warrior, before I hurry over to the women’s section. I make quick work of it—I was a champion thrifter back in the Valley—and in Lahti, the prices remain reasonable. It’s not all threadbare fast fashion. I find a pair of fleece-lined leggings and skinny jeans that I can tuck into winter boots, both with long enough inseams for my legs, and then I grab a few sweaters, thermal Henley shirts, a slim black parka with a faux-fur lined hood, plus a pair of sneakers and plaid winter boots lined with shearling. The only other things I really need are bras, socks, and underwear, but since I’m not about to thrift for those, I figure I’ll hit up a department store in Helsinki when I get a chance.
When I’m done piling everything into the basket, I notice Tuoni hasn’t found anything. I walk over to him with my haul, and his eyes widen when he sees it.
“So what they say about women and shopping is true,” he muses.
“And what they say about men and shopping is true too,” I counter. “Can’t even decide on a shirt.”
It’s then I notice one of the employees creeping closer to us, the same way one might approach a skittish foal.
“Can I help you?” the employee says in English.
“Yes, my good mortal,” Death says without a hint of awareness of what he’s saying. “Do you have any furs or pelts, or perhaps a good pair of trousers that might fit a man of godly stature?”
Somehow, I manage to swallow down my laughter, watching as the employee tries to take it all in stride.
“Uh, let me check with the manager,” he says before walking quickly to the back.