BOOK BLAST: “Death & Maia” by A. C. Jolly
BOOK BLAST
Book Title: Death & Maia
Author and Publisher: A. C. Jolly
Cover Artist: Alyssa Winans
Release Date: April 24, 2025
Tense/POV: first person, present tense, single POV.
Genres: FF Dark Fantasy, Historical, Paranormal
Tropes: Fated mates
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: Approx 35 000 words/184 pages
It is a standalone book and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited and Paperback
Amazon US | Amazon UK | BookShop.org
Can love truly conquer death when mortality stands in the way?
Blurb
A lush, sapphic romantasy.
In the shadowed streets of plague-ridden Athens, Maia lies on the brink of death. When the grim reaper appears to claim her, Maia makes a bold request: a kiss.
Ancient and enigmatic, Lady Death has guided countless souls into the unknowable afterlife. But Maia is different. Her resilience and humour—and that kiss—awaken a desire that Death has never known. What begins as a moment of terrified curiosity deepens into a passion as tender as it is consuming.
Excerpt
There’s death and sheaves of hyacinth beside me in the chamber. The body of the other girl lies on the floor. I can see her in the darkness like a misshapen pale rock in a shallow puddle. I want to swim to her.
I was with her when she died. I didn’t know her name, but I told her mine.
“My name’s Maia,” I said. I don’t think she heard me. Her thin breath was drowned out by the music coming from the street below. A festival, the Anthestreria by the sounds. But I knew that she was still alive, and as long as she lived, I might. My wrists were tied above my head to a bracket on the wall.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’ll wait with you.”
But she drowned to death, or burned, or something. I didn’t know her name.
And now there’s only me, and the party downstairs is finished, and the street outside is quiet. Dawn has come and it finds me dying, too. I was working in a different neighbourhood with the other girl, who was so, so pretty. “Follow me,” I remember saying to a passerby, some young guy with an absent look and fancy laundered clothing. He smelled good. I took the pretty no-name girl by the hand because I wanted her with me, and the guy followed us down a narrow street to a doorway strung with many-coloured ropes.
After that I don’t remember much until the neighbourhood, below us, below our chamber, got fired up with the festival and its lights purred orange on the back wall. And then the music died and the sun rose, just about enough to see the flowers on the step beside the shuttered door, no doubt to cover up the smell of the body of the pretty no-name girl.
It’s hot in the chamber. I sit with my back against the wall, a rag across my stomach. I couldn’t tell you how many days I’ve been here. I’m starting to think that the fires and the music and the shouting in the street may not be festive at all, unless many months have passed since that pretty afternoon with the girl, the guy, the doorway with the many-coloured ropes. Unless the music that I’m hearing is carried to me from a far, far different quarter of this city or the next one over. I think about home. My cabin. I miss it. My tiny little cabin where I keep my only thing, a patterned clay horse figurine, on a stool beside the mattress.
The dim light fades. Maybe it’s another evening. And I’m still not dead. The hyacinth is failing at its job. It’s night again and I can’t remember what it’s like to have arms—well, what it’s like to feel them. They’re not actually tied to a bracket on the wall. That’s just fucking nonsense. They’ve fallen at my sides and don’t move.
The chamber fills with cooking-fire flakes and the music blares. I open my eyes, which rasp with dryness, and black smoke falls from the long, high slit of window at the top of the opposite wall. And if my nose wasn’t telling me otherwise, I’d think it wasn’t smoke at all but a river of perilous dark hair that runs down the wall, sinks down the wall, and starts to fill the chamber, flooding round the body of the pretty no-name girl, and I panic, thinking, Shit, she’s gonna drown!
But she’s dead already.
And this evening Death has come again, for me.
She kneels in front of me, a woman dressed in subtle linens. In her right hand she holds a moist and I assume human heart with fronds of cypress growing out its ventricles. She has the pale face of a barbarian and jet-black hair and dark eyes, not black but glorious brown and shot with other colours, whirling blue and green, each eye a round of deep sky reversed on a field of white moon.
She says, “You may ask something small of me, if it is reasonable.”
And although I’ve never actually heard her voice, I kind of already know it. You would too, if you came from my neighbourhood. And right now, in this moment, I’m determined not to ask her for a thing, but I know that won’t last. She is unspeakably lovely and ancient, and I’ll definitely crumble. But I play it out, anyway. “You took your time,” I say, because the truth is I should have died eight years ago, when a dated version of this fever took my parents and uncles and baby brothers, or five years ago, when my master and his favourite slaves were murdered by his business partner, or just a month ago, when a wild wolf-dog came down the alley and through the empty canteen where I was drinking down my supper.
She smiles briefly and her teeth are white and perfect. That smile makes me sure this is the way she prefers it done. I mean, if I was her, I’d enjoy the rude ones a lot more than the simps.
“My name’s Maia,” I say. “What should I call you, Lady?”
“My name is Death.”
Alright, so now I’m scared. My split lips sting with salt from tears and sweat. And I’m so fucking angry at myself because there’s no point in that, there’s no point in crying, because I have no choice. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” I say, and my breastbone cracks as the breath coils, blooms, inside my body.
“Why promise that?” says Lady Death.
And she’s not holding the cypress heart anymore. Instead, a column of fine red dust drops from the funnel of her hand.
“I wanted to defy you,” I say raggedly. “You know how it goes.”
“I do,” she says. “But why waste time? Remember, you may ask something small of me, if it is reasonable.”
I take a breath.
“A kiss,” I say, because why not. “Is that reasonable?”
“Aye,” says Lady Death, and I suppose she’s granted this same favour a thousand million times before.
She has to come to me because I can’t move. She holds my face in her hands, and they’re warm like fire but do not burn, and her lips meet mine gently, and they’re soft and cool like mist but do not chill. Her tongue tastes of sweet apples, and peppery, exactly what I’d hope for from the wildest, freshest, most inspirited of oils. I keep my eyes shut tight because the final thing I want to see on earth is her mouth as she handed it to me.
I keep my eyes shut tight and say, “Who knew Death would be so beautiful?”
About the Author
I’m a writer from New Zealand, and now live in the UK with my wife. I wrote Death & Maia, which is about a romance between Lady Death and a mortal woman, after watching the TV series Agatha All Along and being a bit disappointed with the (lack of) backstory.
Author Links
