Page 5 of Finders Reapers

“What? You want me to hold your hand? Third door on the left. Go.” His lip curled in distaste.

My stomach curdled with a feeling I didn’t like. It made me feel hot and cold all over—though I should have been thankful for any sort of emotion to pierce the veil, the cocktail of embarrassment and shame was not pleasant. It made me feel sick.

I kept my head high as I skirted around the reception desk, ignoring Rome and the receptionist as I followed her directions into the building.

I glanced back, but Rome and the receptionist paid me no mind. She reached for him, but he grabbed her hand and held it. I shook my head, but it felt more like a twitch.

The floors were sparkling granite, every surface gleamed, and by all rights, the interior of the building looked sleek and high-end.

Every door was white, but none had a number save for the third on the left. It was marked with a large metal three.

I reached up to knock, but my hand passed through the door. Unable to balance, my entire body was sucked through the door until I staggered upright and found myself on the other side.

Brushing my hands down my body, I turned back to the door as if it had wronged me.

Someone cleared their throat. I looked up slowly, finding myself on the receiving end of several glares.

There was a man on the stage. He was dressed in a suit that must have cost a whack and held a microphone. There was an audience. Rows upon rows of people.

Every single one of them was staring at me.

The PowerPoint on the projector showed the words, “You’re dead. What happens next...”

The word dead was distorted, the projection blocked by the presenter's face.

“A latecomer.” He chuckled. “Take a seat; we’re just getting started.”

I shuffled to the last row and sat on the chair nearest the exit, ignoring the pointed stares of the audience.

“As I was saying,” The man continued. “My name is Charon. I’m here to ensure that your journey to hell is as painful as possible.” He sounded British. I liked the accent; it made him seem charming despite his macabre humor.

Some people laughed. Others gasped in horror. Most people had no expression, as if they were waiting for him to laugh and shout,just kidding.

Newsflash. He didn’t.

I studied the man on the stage more closely.

With ginger hair pulled back into a topknot and sporting a tartan tie, he looked like a hipster in marketing, even though his suit was pitch black and tailored like a second skin.

Charon... Charon... Charon.

Where had I heard that name before?

I put my hand up.

“Yes.” He cocked his head to the side with a cold smile. “The latecomer. How can I help you?”

“You’re Charon. The Ferryman,” I stated plainly. I remembered the mythology from when I had dressed up as Persephone last Halloween.

Cody had gone as Hades.

Damn. Cody.

Did he know I was dead?

Charon chuckled. “Yes. I’m the ferryman. I just want to point out to the group all questions can wait until the end.”

I raised my hand again, ignoring him. “How did I die?”

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