Watching his form, so resigned in the slush and snow, was pitiful. There was no sympathy from the trickster, only a quiet understanding. His tone did not strike her as an insult, and she remained unruffled as he continued.

Voo-doo? she echoed flatly. I am Melinoë, daughter of Hades, King of the Underworld. As I said, I am the guider of souls.

Perhaps he was more muddled than she had first assumed.

You are not dead. Merely… elsewhere. This land is called Mythris. It is neither here nor there. At least, not by her experience or understanding. You suffer because you live. Most mortals are pleased by that.

When the stranger questioned her many inquiries, she could not help the dry chuckle that slipped free.

I like to observe the living. You are peculiar. My curiosity is piqued. The statement was delivered plainly, without malice or warmth.

As he sat up, she watched him with neutral eyes, taking in the grimace etched across his face and the clear resentment he bore for his circumstances.

Eel, she repeated. Her tail flicked idly behind her. How odd. I have never understood why you mortals choose such strange names for yourselves.

She held his gaze without hesitation, neither intimidated nor unsettled. She had witnessed far more gruesome sights than the injuries marring his face.