Page 29 of Guarded By the Reaper

“You’re my friend,” she said. “I want to see a friendly face when I cross over.”

Her request, so simple yet so profound, unleashed a torrent of emotions within me. I felt rage at the injustice of it all, at the way her life was being stolen from her. I felt a surge of protectiveness, a primal urge to shield her from the inevitable. I felt… grief.

“I can make him pay, you know,” I found myself saying, my voice tight with suppressed fury. “For what he did to you.”

Isabelle shook her head. “There’s no need for that. Norman and I… We’ve made our peace.” She paused, her breath shallow and raspy. “These days, I don’t think about Norman anymore.”

I knew better than to argue. Although a part of me – a dark and vengeful part – craved to unleash its fury upon Norman for his cruelty, I would respect Isabelle’s wishes.

“As you wish, my friend,” I said.

A weak smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Grim. And promise me you’ll look after Janine when I’m gone. She needs someone to watch over her, someone who understands...” Her voice trailed off, her eyelids fluttering closed.

“I promise,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on her pale face. I would keep my word, even if it was the last thing I did.

But as I watched her drift into a restless sleep, a terrifying thought occurred to me. What if my promise to Isabelle conflicted with my feelings for Millie? What if keeping one promise meant breaking the other? Because to save Millie, it was entirely possible I would have to do something completely crazy, something that defied the nature of my own immortality. I could only look after Isabelle’s daughter if I remained the same – eternal, roaming the earth, doing my job as a reaper. Millie was changing me already, though. She was changing my future.

I couldn’t think about this now. I had work to do. I stood up, ran the back of my hand over Isabelle’s cheek in a silent goodbye, then grabbed my scythe from where I’d left it propped against the metal bed frame.

My second destination – the Halls of Death.

***

The Halls of Death were a real pain in the neck. Always cold, always echoing with the whispers of departing souls. I hated coming here. It felt like stepping back into a life I’d rather forget. The place was a labyrinth of endless corridors, each turn leading to another chamber of bureaucratic nonsense. Clerks with vacant eyes shuffled papers, their faces etched with the boredom of eternity. Scribes hunched over glowing tablets,recording names and dates in an endless, morbid census. It was enough to make even a Grim Reaper long for the sweet oblivion of non-existence. Almost.

I navigated the winding passages, my destination the chamber of the Fates. They were the three sisters who held the threads of life in their hands. Powerful beings, even by my standards. Not the kind you wanted to cross, especially if you valued your existence. And right now, I was teetering on the precipice of a decision that could disrupt the cosmic order. Or at least earn me a stern talking-to from Death themselves.

The Fates were more than just mythical figures; they were the cogs in the machinery of life and death. The First Sister spun the threads of existence with her spindle, each one representing a life about to begin. The Second Sister measured them, her fingers deciding the length and breadth of each journey. But it was the Third Sister, the one with the shears, who truly fascinated and terrified me. Her touch was final. She snipped a thread of life, and somewhere in the land of the living, a life ended. Then it was my job to find the severed thread that blew in the wind on earth, follow it to its source, and finish what she’d started. With my scythe, I cut the thread a second time from where it was knotted around the dying human’s – or monster’s – breastbone. Finally, I guided their soul to the door beyond which their afterlife awaited. I never knew what someone’s afterlife looked like. All I knew was that beyond the door, they would find what they needed at that moment.

The air grew colder as I approached the Fates’ chamber. The whispers faded, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. A sense of anticipation, of ancient power, hung heavy in the air. The chamber doors, crafted from obsidian and etched with swirling symbols of life and death, stood slightly ajar, as if beckoning me inside.

I stepped into the chamber with a slow, measured pace, my gaze immediately drawn to the three sisters who were engrossed in their work. The room felt cavernous despite being filled with the weight of their presence. The First Sister sat hunched over a spindle, her fingers moving with the precision of muscle memory as she spun gleaming threads of life. Each one pulsed with a faint light. The Second Sister was just as focused, her hands moving in a rhythm that spoke of millennia of practice as she measured each thread with meticulous care. She murmured to herself, as if counting in a language I could never hope to understand. And there, at the far end, the Third Sister waited, her shears glinting ominously under the dim, otherworldly light, ready to make the final cut.

I could feel their power thrumming in the air. For a moment, I hesitated, just long enough to feel the tension coil in my shoulders as I realized how much was riding on this meeting.

“Ladies,” I finally said, clearing my throat. The echo of my voice sounded like an intrusion in this sacred space. “I need your help.”

Their movements never faltered, but acknowledging my presence shifted the atmosphere. There was a brittle coldness in the air now, colder even than the endless corridors I had just navigated.

“One of my clients made a deal with Ma-Vasha,” I continued. “Is there any way to break it?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. They didn’t stop their work – didn’t even look up at me – but I felt their disapproval like a boulder pressing on my chest. It was the Second Sister who broke the silence.

“The Breathless are not pleased with you, Grim.”

I’d known that but hearing it said out loud still made me feel uncomfortable. Before I could think of a response, the FirstSister spoke, her fingers never pausing as she spun another thread of life with effortless grace.

“You’ve gone rogue,” she said. “Refusing your duties as a reaper to play bodyguard. It’s disgraceful.”

They had a point, but this wasn’t just any bodyguard job.

“Look,” I said, “If you won’t help me, I need to see the Breathless. You’re in charge of appointments with Death, right?”

Still, they worked in unison, an eerie, coordinated dance I found disturbing. The Third Sister lifted her gaze, and I nearly flinched at the sight of her eyes – voids that seemed to suck the light out of the room.

“The Breathless won’t see you,” she said. “They’re too upset.”

I clenched my hand into a fist. “Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, “Then show me Camellia Aster’s thread of life.”

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