"I don't think curiosity has ever been your...father's primary motivation," Sato said evenly. "A means of ruin, maybe, but that's between him and the apple." She glanced away, her profile unreadable. "Hope is complicated. And fragile. It makes her--it--dangerous, sometimes." Sato's mouth thinned. "That and monstrously exasperating, the murderous little whippet."
"I have lived before. I have existed in cycles...He always kills me."
"Every always is just another first time waiting to happen," the Baku retorted, impatient. "You live, Alexander. Whatever accident, or fate, or lethal malfunction brought you forth, the value of it--of being alive--stands independent. It matters."
Faster than nature or magic, Sato was next to the puppet. She raised one hand, but did not touch the rough, familiar face. Sometimes, Sato thought, the Universe was monstrously unfair.
Even by a monster's standards.
Slowly, oh so slowly, Sato put her hand over Death's lifeless face, fingers spread to web its angles and hollows. With no sign of change in her expression, minute fissures began to radiate from beneath her palm, lines thin as hair running across the shell's face. They multiplied, branched, never thickening but gaining momentum, dribbling down the neck, veining each hand.
Sato's fingers tensed.
And the fissures burst, coming apart like a kicked sandcastle, pale grains raining in an impossibly fine shower, trickling speedily through Sato's now closed fist. Sweetness and spice dusted the air.
She opened her fist to reveal something the size of an earring, sweet and white: a sugar skull. Turning to Alex, dark eyes wry, Sato popped the nugget into her mouth. It made a very satisfying crunch between her teeth.