It was a dark room with a single overhead light. It was eerily cold and resembled a small jail cell, except with softer bed sheets and a bathroom with a door. But the room was lonely, and whenever someone came in to visit her, the young woman imprisoned in the room knew that she would be questioned about Faith Williams. Questioned about Death. Questioned about the rumor of the Elder's coming down to earth. The "investigators" were all demons with thick arms and features that were too elongated, voices that were too deep. She was a toy compared to their height and weight. They were all aggressive -- they had to be in order to get anything out of her -- a highly trained hell hound of the Devil.

            It had been two weeks and every "investigator" had left with the same information. Nothing. Nothing, because she had been silent. Some of the men at hit at her. Called her names. Threatened her. It had been about a week, she thought, since she had eaten or drank anything. Demons could survive without food or water longer than humans, but not for too long. And she had no idea if anyone was looking for her. Knowing Death, he had sent people after her even though he knew it would be close to impossible to save her. After years of working with him and the Devil, the woman still couldn't tell if Death liked her or not. She pinned him as someone who didn't like many people to begin with.

            Sighing, the woman curled her legs curled up onto her cot and rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms, rocking slightly back and forth. This had been the longest amount of time she had had by herself in her cell. Were her captors sending another person to ask her questions? Kill her? Was she going to get food?

            The door swung open and two burly men came in dressed in all black. They picked her up by the arms and dragged her to the silver table at the middle of the room. She didn't resist, it wasn't worth it.

            The two burly men left the room. Minutes later, the door swung open again, this time hitting the wall with a deafening crack that startled the young woman.

          "You smell...nice," the Bowman said, pulling a seat back from the steal table where a dirty blonde sat with the light eyes. Clearly he was being sarcastic. She still wore the clothes she had wore when the D & S Tower was under attack, which was crusted with blood and had numerous claw marks. Perhaps, if she walked down the runway the claw marks would be fashionable, not so much the crusty old blood. Taking a shower would mean nakedness in a place that was obviously overpowered be demonic men. Whether she smelled or not, the woman didn't care if it meant staying alive.

            "So it's true, then: you haven't been saying a word." As the Bowman glared at the young woman, she looked down at the reflective silvery surface of the table with a blank expression, her cuffed hands folded over her leather pants and her shoulders hunched forward as a caged animals would at the sight of its captor. Thomas. She hadn't seen him since the first day she was put in the cell.

            After an entire week of absolute silence, the young woman opened up with, "I'm sure you have smelled worse than I do right now, you arrogant pig head, so you can stop scrunching up your nose at me."

            The Bowman slowly grinned. "There's my girl."

            They stared into each other's eyes for a heartbeat, before she quickly showed him her cheek, the muscles of her jaw clenching wildly.

            The bowman leaned forward, a playful smile still on his mouth. Malphas had been extremely pleased that he had brought Marcy back from the gymnasium, maybe she could explain what still baffled his mind. Including that blue, unbelievable power that had come from Faith Willams' hands. "I'm here because the others have failed, if you didn't notice, and if you don't start talking, sweetheart, I'm going to start strangling it out of you," Thomas whispered with an odd cheery tone.

            Marcy's gaze flicked up to Thomas, laughed a little as if he was the most pathetic person he had ever met, then looked back down at the table.

            "It'll be any day now, you know," Thomas said, flashing a mouthful of black fangs. "Any day now, Death will start to believe he is going insane. Because Malphas is a Walker and can travel through the Unknown, he has communicated through the portal and bribed one of the creatures within it to screw with Death. Now, whenever he looks at himself in the mirror, it will be the creature on the other side, mimicking his appearance, mocking him, and driving him towards insanity." Thomas began to speak louder when Marcy still didn't lift her gaze. "Once he gives into his reflection, he'll be trapped in the Unknown again and Faith will be helpless. Genius, isn't it?"

            Nothing. "Marcy, look at me." He put compulsion in his voice, even licked his lips a little. Demons were sexual creatures, surely she would cave in and speak again if he seduced her. "Come on, baby, all I need is for you to tell me a few things and then you can go home."

            Nothing.

            He gnashed his teeth together. "Either tell me what you know about Faith William's demise or I'll strip you, take you to the cot over there, and pin you down while I graphically describe all of the women I've been with since I've become a half-demon. All of the sexy, better women. It's your choice."

            Marcy didn't even flinch. Damn, she was fucking good.

            This was going to drive him insane.

            "Damnit, Marcy!" Thomas banged his fist against the table, his breaths ragged. Ever since his change from a human to a half-demon, Thomas' temper was extremely short.

            "Marcy... please look at me," he tried to sound more gentler and quit gnashing his teeth together at her disobedience. Attempting to control his temper, Thomas bit the inside of his cheek and leaned back in his seat. This was torturous.

            Finally done with it all, Thomas kicked back his chair took a blade out of his pocket. Circling the table, he leaned real close to Marcy until she flinched slightly. Then he grabbed her jaw, jerking her face up to his. Her eyes still resisted his.

             "Stay silent, then," the Bowman whispered huskily into her face, his fingers clenching her jaw harder, knife within her range of vision. "While you sit there with your slutty, filthy outfit on, I'll be carving your precious little face to match mine."

            "Do it."

            Thomas' mouth fell open slightly. "Excuse me?"

            "Do. It." Slowly, Marcy's light eyes met his, and her cuffed hands came up to his arm, smoothing her soft fingers along his thick bicep all the way down to his wrist. His skin was hot, and his hand was starting to shake with provocation. "Do you remember the first gift you gave me when we first started seeing each other?" she wondered softly. "We were alone in your family's yacht. You were upset because of a disagreement with your father. You brought me into one of the bedrooms and gave me a little golden box you had hidden..." Her eyes dropped down to the floor again and her mind went to the golden locket that Thomas had given her. The one that she was admittedly still wearing under her clothes to that day. "Never mind."

            Thomas stilled. That definitely wasn't expected. "I don't remember giving you anything," he quickly lied, his mind also going to the golden locket he had given her. It had been a family heirloom, passed down to his mother, who had told Thomas to give it to someone special. He remembered how excited he had been to give her and laughed to himself. If only Marcy knew how much she had actually meant to him. "And it wouldn't matter if I did. It doesn't change anything between us. You lied to me. I had to find out what you really were after I died, after I was reborn into...this."

            "I know," she said, her eyes filling with tears, "I wish I could have told you. I wanted to tell you everything, but I couldn't risk exposure. Faith couldn't know what I was. And when I found out that you were cheating on me..." She shook her head, laughing as a tear rolled down her cheek. "You really hurt me, Thomas. So I wanted to hurt you back. And I'm sorry if you think that what I did to you is more permanent than what you did to me!"

            Thomas rubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head at himself. "You're still pissed about that, eh?" He watched her expression carefully. She was trying real hard to hide her emotions, but he could tell she was upset. "It was just a hook up, Marcy. She meant nothing to me." Realizing that he sounded genuinely nice, he changed his tone to something more aggressive. "And we weren't even dating--"

            "You were always drunk," she continued, standing up from her seat. Thomas straightened, his knife recoiling to his side, and big body backing away from hers as Marcy stormed towards him. Damn, she was scary when she was mad. And really sexy... "You were always drunk at some party," Marcy began, "you were always doing some sort of drugs, then you would call me after you would try something new, something ridiculous, crying to me to help you, telling me how sorry you were for all of the shit you put me through. You'd call me to pick you up. You'd call me for a booty call. But you never called me to go on a date or to take me out to see a movie. So yeah, we weren't ever dating. And yeah, I'm still pissed about you cheating on me because I can't get over how stupid I was to ever start seeking you. It was me, an hell hound, being stupid over a human boy and constantly stopping the car at three in the morning so that he could throw up whatever pills you had swallowed on the side of the road."

            After her rant, Marcy slapped the Big Bad Bowman physically across the face with both of her cuffed hands, and mentally. It was the slap in the face that he needed. What was he doing with himself, kidnapping a woman and keeping her hostage? He had planned on watching her die after she told him what Malphas wanted to know, when Faith Williams was set to die. Malphas was planning something big, but without knowing what the enemy was planning as well, he was taking a risk that could cost him his own chance at taking over the human realm.

             Thomas stared down at Marcy for the longest time, his anger boiling and his face throbbing from her unforgiving slap. She was the only woman that had could successfully resist his compulsion, his dirty mouth, and his charm. And no matter how he tried to convince himself otherwise, no matter how many women he tried to replace her with, Marcy was the person that he wanted the most. It was unfortunate that she was also the one that he had to get information out of.

            "I miss you," Thomas whispered, shocking even himself with his confession. "I miss you," he said again, louder, "and I want you. I'll always want you. Scratching me on the face won't get rid of me. It'll always be you and me, Marcy."

            Always. Marcy thought back to the golden heart locket at her neck, the words beyond its small clasp, engraved inside the core of the necklace. Always.

            Unable to control her emotions, Marcy quickly retreated to the bathroom and shut the door, sobbing, her face pale and horrified in the mirror over the sink. He still wanted her. He still wanted her. No, he was toying with her. There was no way he had had a change of heart this quickly. He didn't even have a heart, as far as she was concerned.

            She could feel Thomas' presence on the opposite side of the door, which made her sob more. "I'm not telling you or anyone else anything about Lucifer and Death's plans, no matter what you say or do to me, so just do us both a favor and leave me--"

            Thomas unlocked the door with a set of keys in his hand, slammed it closed, leaving the two of them in the bathroom. Thomas looked down at the end of the heart shaped locket that Marcy had taken out from under her clothes and swiftly took off his shirt, tossing it to the side. She stared at his deliciously sculpted chest from across the small bathroom, then moved her gaze upwards towards his sin worthy grin and golden hair. Marcy instinctively moistened her lips with her tongue, and slowly took off her own shirt with shaky hands. They had done this many times before, but that had been so long ago and they were both worried in their own way that something would go wrong. Thomas' ocean blue eyes dropped to her breasts as he undid his belt, stepped out of his pants, and kicked them to the side, leaving only his briefs.

            Marcy stepped out of her leather pants, her cheeks reddening, and hesitated before she undressed anymore. Thomas couldn't stop raking his gaze over her body. What was she doing? Marcy stood in front of him with scabby wounds and blood stained skin in only her underwear and bra. Of course he wasn't actually attracted to her right now. Right?

            Thomas let out a low grown, his mouth lifting up into a small animalistic snarl. "You have five seconds to undress and get in the shower or I'm taking you on the sink."

             Wow. Marcy forgot to breath.

            ***

            I walked out of my dressing room with a ridiculous neon green and pink dress from the 80's, goofy glasses that were unbelievably large compared to my head, and go-go boots that almost reached the tops of my thighs. Marcy and I used to do this all the time. Go to the nearest, cleanest vintage store and dress up in ridiculous clothes. After begging and begging, Death finally gave in and agreed to play dress up.

            Round one consisted of me in a red and white checkered dress and pigtails, whereas Death had a toga, a knock off gladiator helmet, and a bunch of golden bangles that I had to bend like you wouldn't believe to get on his big wrist. We ended up buying all of them because he snapped them off by "accident". Since our character had to have an accent, Death thickened his already slightly foreign tongue and playfully whispered dirty things into my ear in Latin as Bruce the Gladiator. Soon, the room was a thousand degrees hotter and we were laughing our heads off at the irony of his Roman outfit, and the fact that I looked like a freaking picnic blanket with pigtails.

            Before he took off his Bruce the Gladiator outfit, I dared him to stand in the middle of the store and recite a made up story about Bruce the Gladiator in Latin. He was furious that I had made him do that, mostly embarassed. It wasn't that he didn't want to do it, he did. It was the fact that a little boy ran away from his mom in the store, kicked Death in the shin, and said-- I kid you not, "Your dress makes you look like a potato!" He whined, saying it actually hurt and he would have a bruise. Bull.

            After picking out new outfits and running into the stall to get changed, I posed in front of a large mirror my hand up in the air and kissy lips, took a picture with Death's phone, set it as his cell background and profile picture on Facebook, then went to his dressing stall and knocked on the door.

            "Allo, Bruce the Gladiator?" I said in my best German accent, giggling.

            The door unlocked. "I am no longer masculine," Death said dryly, "and what the heck accent was that?

            "We're supposed to be characters, Death. I'm a German go-go dancer that makes her money stripping at a local establishment called Go-go All Night Long. You can't see the awesomeness that is me locked up in your stall."

            I entered the stall and I threw my hand over my mouth with dramatic gasp. The bright blue sweater he wore was so thick and fluffy that his arms couldn't lay flat at his sides, and the pants that I picked out were neon yellow and tight, somewhat matching my dress. What had me in practical hysterics was the clip on rainbow earring on his left ear and the floppy purple hat that I wouldn't have thought in a million years he would have tried on for me.

            "Oh good Lord," I said, then collapsed to the ground in tears. "You look like...you look like..."

            "A hipster blueberry!" he hissed. "I don't like it. It's itchy. I'm itchy. I'm really, really itchy. I don't like it." Death was so visibly repulsed by the knit sweater he was wearing that if I didn't know any better, I would have said he was internally laser beaming the sweater with his eyes. "Can I take it off?" he whined.

            "We have to take pictures!" I laughed out.

            "I don't like it," he repeated for the third time, shaking his head and starting to push me from the stall.

            "It's a casual sweater," I said, still laughing and gripping his blue fluffiness, "you said I could pick anything out and you would wear it!"

            "I thought it would be a t-shirt or something reasonable, not a goddamn blueberry hipster sweater and skinny jeans that are crushing my balls." Death narrowed his green eyes at me in the reflection of the mirror, his eyes glowing with rage.

            My gaze grazed the lower portion of his body and I started laughing all over again.

            At the sound of giggling girls probably doing the similar thing as us in the other stall, Death growled out lowly, "I look like a fucking blueberry."

            I put my thump and pointer finger under my chin, then formed a box with my fingers and analyzed his outfit from a Director's viewpoint. "I picked out a medium so it wouldn't fit," I admitted, then burst out  laughing again.

            With lightening speed, I whipped out Death's cell phone that I had stolen out of his pocket, snapped a few pictures of him frowning in his blueberry sweater, and attempted to send it to every one of his contacts. But unfortunately, my secretive act was ruined by the obnoxious flash.

            "Delete it!" Death roared, rushing towards me. I sped out of the stall screaming and laughing towards the center of the store, when Death gripped me around the waist and hauled me over his shoulder. Giggling like a hyena, I ripped off Death's clipped on earring as he twirled me around in circles like a wrestler and smacked me down onto a giant bean bag chair back in his dressing room.

            I was so amused by his thick sweater and floppy hat that I was crying.

            "Blueberry: one." Death flexed his muscles in the mirror, jokingly putting his foot on my stomach, pinning me to the bean bag. "Go-go Dancer: zero--" Abruptly, he dropped his arms and stared at his reflection in an odd way.

            I wiped at my amused tears. "What's wrong, blueberry?"

            "I....I don't know. I could have sworn that I saw..." Death tilted his head at the mirror, then quickly turned around as if expecting someone would be there. His face had paled significantly. "Nothing. I'm just tired. Yeah, I'm..." He tilted his head again at the mirror. "Tired."

            "Are we...are we still going to go eat?" This feels like a date, it feels...natural.

            Death grinned. "Yes. Go get dressed, picnic blanket slash go-go dancer, I'm starved."

            Once outside his stall, I realized, with a smile, that I had his rainbow clip on earring in my hand and started to walk back to his door. "Hey Gladiator, you forgot your rainbow clip!"

             At first, there was no response. I pressed my ear against the door. "Why don't you just give into your needs?" Death's voice hissed from the other side of the door. I jerked away from the door, my heart in my throat. Was someone else in there with him?

            "Death?" I whispered, looking side to side. There was nobody outside the stall and low pop music pulsed through the vintage store. There was no reply of him talking to another person. I jiggled the handle of his stall a little bit harder, debating whether to start kicking it down.

            "It's only a matter of time before you give in," Death hissed again.

            I banged on the door. "Death?" Panic had risen in my throat. "Death?" I dropped to the ground. From underneath the door, I could see that Death was half-naked, standing in front of a mirror. The blond patch on the back of his head was the same size as always, unchanging. Death's expression was blank and eyes were unblinking, looking straight at his reflection. As I observed his bizarre behavior, Death's eyes jerked down to me and he glared at me in the mirror. There was something off about his eyes. They were hard and cold-- hungry, even, and I found myself trapped within their depths.

            A smile that came off as cruel morphed along Death's features. "Becoming a Peeping Tom are we, little reaper?"

            Without saying anything back, I returned to my own stall and pressed myself against the door, wondering what the hell had just happened. The mark on my stomach and over my eyebrow was throbbing in an odd way, and my hands clenched and unclenched with uneasiness.

            "Death is changing, Faith. The power you emitted against him has changed him already. He will want more."

            He will want more.

            He will want more.

            He will want more.

            "It's only a matter of time before you give in."

            "Great," I muttered. Death's mother had been right, he was changing. And it wasn't just physically, it was mentally. He had started talking to his own reflection. He said he had tasted nothing like my soul. He was starved? Just how badly did he crave what was inside of me?

             Soon, I was almost certain that Death would have no control over himself. And that meant only one thing.

            My time was running out.

           * * * 

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