Page 2 of Guarded By the Reaper

He nodded, eyes gleaming. “Dead animals. Arranged in patterns. Ritualistic.”

My grip tightened on the scythe. Dead animals. There was only one… No. I wouldn’t think about her, not here, not now.

“Two weeks, Grim,” Norman pressed. “Fourteen days to babysit a scared little rich girl, and then you’re free. Big fat bonus at the end, think of what you could do with that.”

“Think of what I could do with that?” I echoed.

It was almost funny, the way these humans thought money could fix anything, buy them anything, even time. Money couldn’t buy back his wife’s health, could it? Money couldn’t change the fact that he was a soulless husk of a man who’d traded love for comfort.

“Yeah,” he said, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside me. “Think about it.” He gestured towards the door. “She’s waiting in the conference room down the hall. Maybe you two can work something out.”

The thought of talking to her, the one who’d summoned that… thing, sent a shiver down my spine. There was no way I was going to do it.

“I’m not going to talk to her,” I said. “Find yourself another bodyguard.”

He sighed. “You haven’t even met her, Grim. Give the woman a chance. Fourteen days, that’s all she needs.”

Pity, I thought. He was asking me to babysit a dead woman walking because... what? She could pay? Pathetic. I turned towards the door, scythe bumping against the doorframe.

“Suit yourself then, Grim,” Norman said. “But you’ll regret this.”

I didn’t bother answering him. Regret was for the living.

The door slammed shut with a resounding boom, shaking the framed diplomas on his walls. I stalked down the hallway and towards the stairwell that led to the roof.

The MSA building was all glass and steel, a monument to human arrogance. I hated it. Hated the way the sunlight glinted off the polished floors, the sterile silence broken only by the click of heels and the muffled drone of conversations that meant nothing. I made my way to the roof access door, my boots thudding against the concrete stairs. The roof was my escape, the only place I felt even remotely at peace in this concrete jungle.

The door swung open with a groan, and a blast of cold air hit me, carrying with it the scent of rain and the faint, metallic tang of the city below. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with unshed rain, and the wind whipped at my cloak, tugging at the darkness that clung to me like a shroud. It was a good day to fly. Maybe a good day to disappear.

I walked briskly towards the edge of the roof, my boots crunching on the gravel, spread my arms, feeling the wind pulling at my cloak, lifting me.

“Wait!”

A hand grabbed the hem of my cloak, and it was as if the fabric was an extension of my body, because I felt the intruder’s fingers dig into it and pull. I froze, a jolt of surprise, of something akin to fear, shooting through me.

My cloak shifted, began to slip down my back, exposing the raw flesh and bone beneath. Panic flared, hot and bright, forthe briefest of moments, but I tamped it down, forcing myself to remain still. I’d spent decades mastering the art of stillness, of blending into the shadows, and I wouldn’t let some… some what?

Who dared to approach me like this? Invade my personal space, grab me like I was... like I was...

Whoever it was, they pulled at my cloak again, and this time... it truly slipped off.

Slowly, I turned.

Chapter Two

Millie

I couldn’t believe I just did that.

Chased after a Grim Reaper, of all monsters.

My heart hammered against my ribs. My mother had always said it was never good to act rashly – “think before you leap.” I should’ve listened. But then, if I’d stopped to think, I never would’ve run after him.

What had I been thinking? Or rather, what part of my brain – the one that usually whispered sensible suggestions like, “use the proper fork” and “don’t wear white after Labor Day” – had taken a sudden leave of absence? Because yanking the cloak off a creature who looked like he’d walked straight out of a nightmare was most definitely not in my wheelhouse.

Even without the cloak, he was imposing. Taller than I’d expected, maybe six-foot-four or five, all lean muscle and bone. His exposed skeleton, a macabre mosaic, was in parts covered by patches of marred flesh. It was as if someone had taken a blowtorch to him and then tried to put him back together with melted wax. The thought made me nauseous.

And his eyes. Or rather, where his eyes should’ve been. Just two black pits, like holes punched into reality. I hadn’t noticed them when I saw him leave his handler’s office, not with the hood casting shadows over his face.

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