Page 15 of The Grim, Me, and The Reaper Makes Three

There was a familiar flash of brown, and then William was transformed. On large paws, he padded over to Atticus and nudged his jaw with his wet snout. Atticus indulged in a smile, reaching a hand up to scratch behind his ear. “Rest well, my love,” Atticus murmured.

William walked back over to Tatiana, collapsing with a huff beside her, adjusting his furry body so that his back was pressed against her side. Atticus felt an ache in his chest at the fond smile on her face as she looked down at William in his canine form.

With a snap of his fingers, Atticus summoned pillows and a thick, soft quilt. He tucked one under Tatiana’s head before stretching out beside her, pressing his body against her back and then pulling the covering over them.

He felt the moment when she relaxed against him, her muscles going soft, her naked body fitting perfectly against his front.

And the final thought before sleep claimed him was a feeling that, perhaps, this woman was supposed to be there between them.

6

TATIANA

Apparently death did nothing to curb the sensation of hunger, because Tati was fucking famished.

She’d woken up with the long, lean body of Atticus pressed against her back, and William, still in his dog form, curled up on top of the thick blanket beside her.

It had taken her a moment to piece together the night before, and when she had…fuckif her skin hadn’t heated at the memory of what it had been like to share them.

She hadn’t died a virgin – no, she’d had her fair share of intimate relationships. Butnothingcompared to what she’d experienced. The contrast between the two men, the way that William had descended into peaceful surrender at Atticus’ hand, the way that both of them had approached her body with nothing but eagerness, drawing more pleasure out of her than she’d ever experienced.

She’d carefully climbed out from between them, slipping on William’s discarded white pirate shirt. The hem reached her mid-thigh — good enough.

And now she stood in the most stunning kitchen she’d ever seen with a singular mission: making herself somethingto eat.

The kitchen in the dark, gothic monstrosity where these two men lived was something that was too good for the earth. It was too efficient, too beautiful, to have been created by the limitations of the mortal mind.

She rummaged through the cabinets, finding every cooking utensil she could possibly imagine, but nothing in the way of ingredients. Frowning, she wracked her brain, trying to think of where two dead men would keep flour.

When a bag of flour appeared on the counter in front of her, she had to blink twice. Hesitantly, she poked at it. Yes, it was real, and yes, unless she was mistaken, it had appeared out of thin air.

She focused her mind on a particular Irish butter that she was fond of baking with and–

“Fuck yes!” Tati grinned at the paper-wrapped bundle on the counter, and spent the next minute working her way systematically through each ingredient that she needed.

Once the items were all assembled, the familiar dance began.

Tati could still remember the first time she’d ever tasted pie. It was her mom’s homemade chicken pot pie with a flaky crust, and she’d decided then, as a four year old, that pie was the best food in the whole wide world.

Every year for her birthday she’d requested lemon pie. She’d gotten to crumble the graham crackers for the crust, beating the plastic bag with a rolling pin to the beat of whatever ABBA song was blasting from the old boombox in the kitchen. Money was tight, so the indulgence of having pie for her birthday always felt special.

Later, when Tati got a job at the front desk of the local Jewish Community Center, she’d take four dollars from her paycheck every Friday and treat herself to a slice of banana cream pie from Sally’s Diner.

The cook, an old man named Russell, must have noticed her wistful staring as they rolled out the pie crust, because one day they offered her a job as an apprentice baker. The pay had been shit, but she’d managed to work around school and her other job, piecing together a few hours a week of learning the craft of pie baking.

Of course, then college graduation came and it was time to dive into her full time career in sales. But there was a dream lingering on the fringes of her life: opening a bakery entirely devoted to pie. Savory and sweet pies for all occasions. She’d even picked out a name –Slice of Life, and she’d sketched the letters out in the margins of meeting agendas, trying out different font combinations.

Now, she prepped two pie dishes with a flaky crust and then moved onto the fillings. One would be a pork sausage, wild mushroom, and root vegetable pie, while the other would be a classic blueberry.

This was the dream, she thought, her hands busy and her mind perfectly at ease. She hummed absently, letting herself imagine that this might have been her life had she not died.

When both pies were settled in the hot oven, she busied herself tidying up. Her stomach growled, and she popped a handful of extra blueberries into her mouth.Fuck, these Afterworld blueberries were delicious. She wondered where they were grown.Were there dead farmers here?

She wandered aimlessly from the kitchen into the atrium. Her eyes trailed over the ornate grand staircase with painted gold accents, the dark walls, and the bronze statue of what looked like a wingless angel tucked into a corner. There was something impersonal about it all, like whoever had decorated it had taken their inspiration from the set design of Bram Stoker’sDracula.

It certainly didn’t look like a space that reflected the tastes of the two men she’d spent the night with. There was none of William’s wildness, none of Atticus’ scholarly refinement.

There was nothing about the structure that felt like a home.

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