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I was falling...falling.

A wrath of raw heat on my feet jolted me into awareness. I was hanging halfway off my bed. Panicked, I pulled myself up and swatted at my smoking thick black wool socks, having a vague memory of putting them, and locked eyes with the blazing red eyes of the supernatural creature at the head of my bed.

The culprit.

"Cruentas!" I shouted, shooing away the miniature black stallion. He hurdled over the mountain of blankets and stomped playfully on the blankets towards me. "What are you, my alarm clock?"

Air pushed quickly out of his nostrils in a high-pitched whine that sounded a lot like laughter. Yes, yes he was.

I wiped the sleepiness from my eyes and swung my legs off my bed. Around my waist, was a harness, which held the miniature Book of the Dead, held in a series of strange clasps. I fiddled with it and the clasps wouldn't budge, but the harness could unbuckle. I decided to keep it on. As I took in the dark and modern bedroom, my chest went a little bit heavy as I remembered the events of the night before.

I had locked mouths with perhaps the sexiest–I mean, the most aggravating–being on the planet, and now I had to deal with the awkward "we-totally-madeout-last-night-even-though-we-are-toxic-for -each other" conversation. Not that I ever had that conversation before...

I slid off the bed and explored the room. There was a gorgeous glass wardrobe in the corner of the room, which I couldn't believe I hadn't taken notice to before. A grey wood flooring spread beneath my feet, which color-wise, seemed uncharacteristic to death, but sensation wise, fit his cold, hard nature. Make no mistake; every aspect of furniture and decoration in the room reflected the Grim Reaper. The walls were stripped of color. There was a walk in closet. It was very spacious and empty.

I entered the bathroom slowly because I knew there had to be a mirror waiting inside. After watching demons interact with mirrors one-too many times, I was skeptical of every one I saw. The bathroom was pretty large with a shower and luxurious square bath tub. Although the entire bathroom was so modern and better than a spa, it still held a lifelessness of the rest of Death's guest room. There weren't many colors or decorations. There were a couple samples of shampoos and conditioners lined up at the edge of the tub. Mini hotel lotion, mini hand soap, mini toothpaste, and a mini traveling toothbrush.

Believe me, I was overwhelmed with joy by the beauty of this bathroom, especially when I saw the massive bathtub. But this all just screamed, "You're only here a week, then you're out," and I couldn't ignore it.

I frowned at that thought, realizing I disappointed that he'd given me hotel and traveling products for my stay at the Death Star Hotel. Hotel products were temporary. Disposable. Was that how he thought of me? I mean, I guess I didn't expect to live in his apartment very long, but this was very...assertive.

I shook myself from that train of thoughts. Why did I expect more from him? It wasn't like we were in a relationship. We weren't. In fact, we were more like two characters in a cutting-edge action film where only one character knows what the fuck is going on.

Originally, I'd thought this guest room had more life than my Ikea room at the D & S Towers, but it was turning out to be just as detached and depressing.

A deep sense of sadness sunk into my heels. I sat down on the closed lid of the toilet. I missed my strawberry cream shampoo and conditioner from home. I also missed my kid-like–but still effective– electric toothbrush, which played music when I brushed my teeth. I just missed home in general... When was the next time I'd be home? Could I ever go home again?

I noticed a note in flawless script on the bathroom mirror, which drew me away from my brewing thoughts. I stood up and ripped it off the glass.

Good morning. 

Keep the book near you at all times. I've yet to collect your clothing from your previous bedroom at the D & S Towers. Don't break any of my stuff. My bedroom is off limits. I'll be able to pick up your scent if you've been in there.

That reminds me. You should probably take a shower. And put on those clothes on your dresser. I have one week to train you. Bring your all for me, and you'll be rewarded.

Cheerio,

- D

P.S- It won't happen again.

Unless, of course, it's more...beneficial.

I stared down at the letter, staggered. At first, I was thrown off by the "good morning" bit. It seemed more fitting for Death to say something more morbid. Then, maybe it was just me, but the "reward" part came off as suggestive. And then there was that "It" by the P.S. And "it", of course meant...the kiss we shared the night before.

"Beneficial." I ground out the word like I got a piss poor tip as a full time waitress at a luxurious clubhouse.

Was he freaking serious? It wouldn't happen again unless it was beneficial? Beneficial?! What did that even mean? Oh, who was I kidding? I might have only went as far as first base–maybe second, whatever the hell second was, but I was no virginal card board box.

As I came to my conclusion, I virginal mind went into a mini panic.

Oh, god. He wanted me to touch his...thing!

I thought back to the D & S ball that I'd been at weeks before. After Death had finally returned to his body, he'd been completely naked. I mean it totally hadn't been a respectable moment to look at that, I know. I tried to suppress the moment for other reasons, actually. Death was so drained of energy at the time, sick, deprived of souls, so starving that his skin clung to his bones. It was terrifying, and honestly, sad. But, I digress; the reasoning for my reflection on that day was for crueler reasons. For on that day, there was one area that I glanced upon that had not, nor would it ever, shrink, on the Angel of Death...

Crimson washed up my neck to my face in a warm wave.

So the next time our mouths sucked the life out of each other's, he expected some more action. Like my hands climbing up those sinfully sculpted muscular legs and undoing the button of his leather pants...

The audacity! The audacity to put that in a note! If he thought I was ever going to make things more beneficial... Even if we tried anything–not that I wanted to–he would probably accidently eat my face off with those daggers for teeth. Or–or...whoops!–slurp up my soul instead of coping a feel of my boob!

Well...I mean, technically, he hadn't killed me via kiss. Yet. And despite his cruelness, Death had never forced himself on me. Oddly enough, I couldn't imagine Death amounting to anything that abhorrent.

Beneficial was starting not to seem that bad, all things considering. He was extremely hot, too...

"NO!" I shouted at myself and smacked my forehead. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! Get your hormones under control, woman! He's a crazy, soul-eating, arrogant bastard! And, he's, like, old. What the hell!"

I looked back down at his repulsive note and flipped it over.

P.P.S- Last night your ass felt much fatter in my hands than I remember. Now I know where some of your curves went during your last round of training. Nice.

I crumbled the note into a ball and threw it across the bathroom.

That was when I saw my hair in the mirror. It was not only knotted, but when I touched the back of it, I remembered Trixie had cut off a chunk of it with her blade, so now my hair was an uneven mess. I held my hair at shoulder length and breathed slowly out of my nostrils.

After years of cutting my own long straight jet-black hair once a year, I now was going to have to Mulan my hair to shoulder length. I pulled the bathroom cabinet mirror open and sure enough, Death had left hair stylist scissors in the ghost town that was bathroom. Which means, of course, he noticed. And was too cheap to get me a hairstylist.

"Oh, boy," I sighed, pulling the scissors out.

Thirty minutes of tears later, it was time to get clean.

After a hot bath, with the Book of the Dead as my neck pillow on the edge of the tub (it needed a wash, anyway), I was ready to face whatever terrible endeavors Death had for me.

When I exited the bathroom, I found a tiny leather outfit set and laid out on the dresser in the guest bedroom. There was a belt and different harnesses for my back and thighs with areas for weapons. Skinny leather pants and a black corset with long sleeves. This outfit looked like something that would put emphasis on my boobs and butt. It also looked like a walking chaffing disaster. It looked like...

"I'm not about to look like his girl version." I shook my head at the little garment and set it back down on the dresser. He'd been generous in giving me a bra and panties, which I noticed had little skulls on it. I definitely had a set like this at home. "Wait a damn minute..."

These were mine! Death had stolen them!

Livid and cursing under my breath, I slipped on the undergarments and boots, as well as the baggy clothes I'd worn to bed. I hooked the Book of the Dead back around my waist, feeling a sense of comforting warmth radiating off of it as I gave it an affectionate pat.

Nothing like befriending an ancient book of literature that every evil supernatural creature desires...

I left the bathroom and headed towards the bedroom door, which probably certainly into the rest of Death's apartment and was locked the night before. When I tried it, the door gave way and opened with a tiny creak to a long hallway.

Maybe it was my imagination, but Death's cologne loitered the air, as if he were in front of me in spirit, beckoning me further out of the room. There was a hallway into an open space that was so dimly lit, I could only see outlines of shapes. Everything was quiet and it was freezing cold. My now short hair was quickly drying, but froze like icicles against my scalp.

Was Death keeping his favorite victims preserved and lying around his apartment like a meat locker for kicks-and-giggles?

At this point, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Cruentas, who had been occupied with his tennis ball he'd manifested, galloped ahead of me out of the bedroom and towards the ominous darkness. He looked back and shook his tail, as if to say, "Follow me!"

I thought of the enigmatic supernatural being who owned this apartment. Death never said I couldn't explore his apartment, and my door was purposely unlocked. He wanted me to explore. I imagined there would be traps all over the place, like bear traps or those nets that sit on the ground and–BAM!– snatch you right up when you step on them. If this was some sort of weird test....

I edged forward out of the room. Something similar to fear crept up my spine, but I ignored it. With each step, I grew more uncertain. Once I met the end of the short hallway, I found a light dimmer and slowly moved up it up. The most impressive apartment peeled away from the darkness before me, leaving my jaw unhinged. It was an open concept apartment that was the size of ten apartments, with high ceilings and visible floors past two spiraling modern staircases to my far left and right.

The apartment was, of course, dominated by black. Black marble black flooring, black massive couches in front of a flat screen television and a black marble fireplace the size of my bedroom at home. Lights hung like pendants over a dining table and the wrap around counter kitchen was breathtaking. Unlike my guest rom, were actually decorations out here, like paintings and lush plants and small trees that were fake but could have fooled me. I felt like I was on the best episode of House Hunters.

As I tiptoed around the apartment, I found myself trying to find little things that it was lived in. After all, I'd seen Death's office when he played the part of "David Star," and this apartment was way too clean for him to have been living in it. Still, when I pressed a panel by the fireplace, I laughed as I found Dance Dance Revolution and other videogames games perfectly lined up and in alphabetical order. I pressed another panel and found soft black throw blankets neatly folded.

Why did Death keep his apartment clean and not his office? It was such a trivial question amongst the millions of questions I had about him.

His refrigerator was stacked!

As I stared at the beautiful edible contents before me, another realization hit me. I was all by myself, in Death's apartment, while he was out doing who knew what, for however much time. Until then, I was able to do whatever I wanted...

If I was Ferris Bueller in this situation, Death was definitely principal Rooney. Or maybe I was the kid in Home Alone and instead of criminals; flesh eating demons were about to attack me...

Shit. Was Death's apartment demon and supernatural–proof?

I shrugged that thought off, before I panicked and hid in the tub in my guest bathroom.

I guess you could say I didn't realize how much I needed "me time" until it began. The the next two hours consisted of me eating nearly everything in Death's fridge, sliding along the marble floor and crashing into things with his hover board, blasting music on his stereo system, and practicing my dangerous moves on Dance Dance Revolution until I had pit stains. I almost beat his high score...

As I tried to figure out more to do, I realized that Cruentas was nowhere to be seen. Deciding I still wanted to adventure around Death's apartment, and possibly find Cruentas' cute mini horse body scampering around somewhere, I followed one of the spiral staircases up to a enormous book room that had me grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, hell yeah. I was Belle from Beauty and the Beast. The shelves were stuffed to the brim with books, most of which had bookmarks and notes written in the margins. Most of the books were in class cases. Carefully, and looking over my shoulder, I pulled one of books out of the cases. It was a copy of The Adventure's of Tom Sawyer that looked older than dirt.

Although the writing was sometimes smudged or faded, I began recognized Death's handwriting in these glass casebooks. It appeared here and there in the margins. And, to my amazement, the actual author themselves had signed most of classic. At first, I wondered if Death had bought the classics signed online, but as I looked at the names the author's were addressing, I started to find a clear pattern. David. David. David. David. David. Each author had addressed a David something.

"Too. Freaking. Cool." Not only was Death a huge book worms like I used to be, but he'd lived through these author's lives.... And...took them away from them?

This wasn't just an unnerving reminder of just how timeworn Death was; it was also a reminder of what he was. Had the author's signed his book before their death? Sometimes, I was so used to his presence that found myself forgetting what Death's nature truly was. What he his multiple clones were doing all over the world, and what his reapers were doing. Killing. Taking souls.

On the bottom row of one his shelves were identical black leather bound journals. They weren't stacked sideways, so that more could fit on the space of the shelf. I felt oddly drawn to them. I picked the first one up and sat cross-legged on the floor. Everything inside the journal was handwritten in another language, and again, it was in Death's pattern of script. This didn't feel right...

At my hip, the Book of the Dead grew warm. And the letters on the pages of the journal before me started to shift around, just like they had with the Book of the Dead. Suddenly, I could read the text in this journal. I am cursed to live were the first disturbing words of the journal.

I couldn't bring myself to read any further. I hung on those words and my chest felt heavy, weighted down by world, as if I had written them myself. As soon as I could interpret the journal, it was as if a roll of emotions had pounded into me from all directions and it was paralyzing. I fought it. I fought it back, and the more I resisted, the more it hurt. My hand. The pain was centering into my left hand. I looked down at my left hand, the one not holding the book, which was uncontrollably shuddering. Intricate markings had begun etch themselves into my hand. As I stared at that hand with wide eyes, stream of hot liquid began to stream from my nose.

Whatever was going on, I fought it. I tore through it, shut the journal, and lunged forward put it back on the shelf and away from me. The emotions within me began to strangely dissipate and to my astonishment, there were no intricate markings on my left hand.

I looked back at that journal on the shelf and somehow, understood exactly what had just happened because I'd felt it before. That journal had stirred the awareness of some sort of bridge between Death and I. And he'd definitely felt that stir, too.

My heart was racing so hard that I saw black splotches in my vision.

As I stood up, my mouth felt cotton dry. I wiped at the blood dripping from my nose. Stupid. Now Death probably knew I tried to read a special journal, or at least that I tried to strengthen that weird connection between us.

That was enough adventuring in Death's apartment for a lifetime.

I headed back towards the spiral staircase with the intention to go to the first floor and back to my bedroom as quickly as possible. But as my hands touched the glass banister next to the staircase, Cruentas appeared out of thin air behind me, racing towards me. He huffed out a whine and circled around me with his tennis ball in his mouth.

I was so shaken up that I just stared at him for a moment. He looked up at me with those frightening but cute as button red eyes, as if he knew I was distressed.

"Where do you go when you disappear like that?" I asked gently, feigning the façade that I wasn't freaking out on the inside.

Cruentas whined loudly.

Laughing, I bent down to pet Cruentas' head, and suddenly... he lunged forward and took off somewhere and I with him. The world spun...and I was thrown into oblivion....

My shoulder hit hard concrete and white-hot pain exploded in my arm. My surroundings had shifted somewhere damper and colder than Death's apartment. A spacious warehouse with holes in the filthy glass ceiling that let rain pour in. The smell of mold and rust filled my nostrils. Instead of crying out from the pain in my arm, I bit down hard on my lip and drew blood. And maybe it was a good thing I didn't scream, too. Because when I rolled over, away from the puddle, I realized the puddle I'd been lying in was not water. It was warm, thick, and had a coppery smell.

Blood.

There was a weapon laying in the middle of blood next to me. A hunting knife.

I had no time to think. My heart was a jammed trigger on an automatic machine gun. A thunderous roar echoed somewhere in the warehouse, chilling me to the bone. But despite that roar, something else had caught my full attention, first.

The thing that had just moved in my peripheral vision. 

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