Death is My BFFLAD Rewritten (Book 2 of the Rewritten Death Chronicles)

Chapter 5: Intrigued

Death dismissed Jerry with a small movement of his hand and grabbed my bicep. "Inhale."

I did and my equilibrium went bye-bye. We dematerialized in a heartbeat and when my feet were grounded, my reality snapped back into place. I sucked in large gulps of much needed oxygen as the room came into focus.

Floor to ceiling tinted windows, thick grey carpeting, black leather furniture, a huge flat screen television, and a desk the size of my bedroom at home, with lush green plants around it (which didn't make much sense because the room barely had any light to let said plants survive). And then there was the clutter amongst all of it. Fast food and candy wrappers were all over his desk and scattered around the room were piles of colorful files that couldn't fit any of the already overflowing filing cabinets.

This was David Star's office. Death's office, I mean. It felt weird that the man with the brown and blonde hair was not here with me.

My gaze hitched to the corner of the office, where Death had pressed a button on the wall. The wall pulled back, revealing a massive closet. He stepped inside and came out with a Chicago Bears jersey and sweatpants clutched in his gloved hand.

"What did you do to me?" I demanded, still able to taste the awful remains of copper in my mouth. My whole body felt charged, almost as strongly as that time Death had given me his blood to heal from Malphas' claw marks. "I feel... different. Stronger. Like that time you gave me your blood to heal Malphas' claw marks, but.... still different."

The towering beast loomed over me. His closeness and devilish smirk chilled me to the bone. "Just a little blood exchange so I can track you down easier. Or something." Before I could reply, he dismissively handed me the jersey and sweatpants. "Put these clothes on, there's blood on you, and I don't want you to get any of it on my precious furniture. You will stay here while I go visit Ace."

"What? Jerry said that Ace requested us, didn't he?"

"Yes, except that us, isn't in control of our abilities, lamp girl. I am."

"Yeah okay," I said sarcastically. "You are not in control of yourself. Especially your fat ego. I'm a part of this now. I want to come with you. You're not going to leave me in this bombsite of an office."

"First of all, there is not one ounce of fat on this luscious bod." He moved even closer to me so that his muscular chest was invading my vision. "Second, Ace is located at club that he owns where there are demons and vampires and creatures that I don't trust you around. Tres, I am leaving you in this bombsite of an office, and you're going to clean said bombsite. The end."

"What happens if you run into Ahrimad?"

"Doubtful. Don't you watch television? He's likely establishing an evil plan in another realm," he answered nonchalantly. "Bye. Don't do anything Faith while I'm gone."

As I fumed with rage, he started to disappear in that famous black mist. I found myself reaching out and grabbing his hand. "Wait!" The mist absorbed back into him and he became fully solid. My breath caught in my throat a moment. "If you're so in control, then you should have no problem giving me a quick test. A chance for me to prove to you that I can defend myself."

Death's hooded head tilted down at our linked hands and a chill slid up my spine. His fingers flexed away from mine and he sharply pulled from my grasp. His voice was dangerously flat and his shoulders tensed, like a viper about to strike. "I'm going to pretend you weren't just holding my god damn hand, baby girl."

"Just take me with you, I can defend myself." Desperately, I added, "I need to get out of this place. You owe me one."

"I owe you nothing, you quibbling little woman," he purred down at me. "You've already proven to me that you can defend yourself. Believe me, I still feel the repercussions from your last defensive presentation..." I puckered my lip out and he lost his train of thought for a fraction of a second. "You try having a decent meal or taking a relaxing piss, after an eighteen year-old brat and her mystical white lantern hands you your balls on a Catholic platter–what are you doing with your lip? What is that? Stop it."