Page 5 of Guarded By the Reaper

We reached Norman’s office, and I pushed the door open without knocking. He looked up from his desk, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Grim? Ms. Aster? Did I miss something?”

I ignored him and stalked towards his desk, my scythe dragging behind me, leaving a deep gash in the plush carpet.

“Contract,” I said. “Now.”

He blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I felt a flicker of amusement at his expense. It was a petty thing, but even a reaper had to take his pleasures where he could find them.

“Grim, I… I don’t understand,” he stammered. “You said… you said you weren’t interested.”

“Plans change, Normie. It’s called free will, something you humans pride yourselves on.”

Ms. Aster, or Millie as she wanted to be called, stepped into the office and stood behind me.

“He’ll take the job,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her words. She pulled out a credit card from her designer purse. “I can pay now.”

Norman just stared at her, then at me, then back at her. Finally, his gaze settled on the credit card. A slow smile spread across his face. The face of a predator.

“Excellent,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter.

He pulled out a contract from his desk drawer and handed it to me. I scanned it quickly. Standard MSA bodyguard agreement. Two weeks. Full protection. Ridiculously high fee. I signed it.

After signing and paying, and with a copy of the contract in her hand, Millie informed me, “I need to get back home now. I’ve been gone too long.”

“Then let’s go.”

She headed towards the elevators, and I hesitated for a moment. She pressed the button and turned to look at me, and I opened my mouth to tell her how I preferred to teleport or fly off the rooftop to wherever I needed, but then changed my mind and closed it. She’d probably come here in her car, and even though the thought of cramming myself into that metal box filled me with a particular brand of dread, I supposed it would have to do.

Besides, something told me Millie Aster wasn’t the type to appreciate a good teleportation.

The elevator was small and cramped, and I had to hold my scythe at an awkward angle to make it fit. The air was thick with the scent of her perfume, something floral and light, a stark contrast to the ever-present aroma of doom that clung to me.

The doors slid open, and she led me towards the parking garage.

“After you, Grim,” she said, gesturing towards a sleek black Bentley that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

She held the passenger door open for me. “In you go.” She grabbed the scythe from me before I could protest. “I’ll help you with this.” Her gesture shocked me into letting go of my scythe, something I never did.

She shoved it in the back, and I resisted the urge to ask her to be careful with it. It wasn’t as if a reaper without a scythe was useless – okay, maybe I was – but it was an extension of myself, a part of me that had been with me for longer than I cared to remember.

I folded myself into the leather seat, my cloak practically filling the entire space. The scent of leather and pine air freshener filled my nostrils, a peculiar combination that reminded me vaguely of Norman’s office.

“You drive yourself?” I asked, my voice echoing strangely in the confined space. “I thought heiresses had staff.”

She started the engine, and the car purred to life. “You’ll understand soon enough,” she said, maneuvering the car out of the parking space with practiced ease.

The Bentley was all sleek lines and enough horsepower to make me feel a jolt where my heart should’ve been. It was the kind of car that screamed, “Look at me, I have more money than sense.” Not that Ms. Aster struck me as the type to flaunt it, not like the other humans I’d had the misfortune of protecting. But still, the car felt excessive. A gilded cage on four wheels.

“It’s about a twenty-minute drive, depending on traffic,” she said, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“Delightful,” I muttered, sinking further into the leather seat. My cloak, as always, had a mind of its own, spreading out like a ravenous beast devouring its prey. I tried to tuck it in, keep it contained, but it was a losing battle. It was like trying to reason with a tornado.

In less than twenty-minutes – thank God! – we pulled up to a pair of wrought-iron gates that wouldn’t have looked out of placeguarding a graveyard. Or maybe a palace. They were flanked by towering stone pillars topped with ornate carvings that looked like something straight out of a gothic novel.

She punched in a code, and the gates swung open, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured lawns. The house itself was a sprawling Tudor mansion that seemed to stretch on forever, all gables and chimneys and lead-glass windows that shimmered in the fading light.

It was obscene.

---