Page 2 of The Grim, Me, and The Reaper Makes Three

“Well, darling,” the figure practically purred, taking a few slow steps toward her. At his side, the dog matched him pace for pace. “People around here call us the Grim Reaper.”

Tati shook her head, like that one futile action could clear the fog that felt like it had moved from the air around her into her mind. “What is happening right now?”

The cloak shifted, and two pale, long-fingered hands adorned in silver rings clasped together. “Well it is quite simple, really. You are dead, and we are here to do our job.”

Tati laughed. She laughed and laughed, because what else was she supposed to do? Some British guy in a cloak who talked to his dog was trying to tell her that she wasdead? Yeah. Fuck that.

“I can’t be dead.” She shook her head again, resolute, trying to find the conviction to believe her words. “Nope. Not possible.”

The figure was quiet for a prolonged moment. “Unfortunately, it does not quite work like that.”

Tati took a deep, shaky breath, taking a moment to look down at herself. She felt ridiculous now in the dainty silver wings and the pale green dress that barely reached the tops of her thighs. She’d curled her hair, put on a fucking tiara, and even applied silver eyeliner across her upper lash line.

All of that work for a blind date on Halloween. All of that work for some guy named Devon who was supposed to be dressed like Captain Hook.

She was supposed to start dating again. She was finally supposed to quit her job now that she’d saved enough to buy the corner property on South Street and Ordell that she’d had hereye on for years. She was supposed to live now. She was thirty, flirty, and she was supposed to be fuckingthriving.

Not dead. There was no room for “being dead” in her plan.

“Okay,” she said, smoothing her hands down the front of her tiny dress. “So obviously you’re taking this Grim Reaper thing very seriously. But I’m over it. I’m sure you have somewhere else you want to be, so let’s all move on and try to enjoy the rest of the evening. Sound good?”

The cloaked figure let out a noise that sounded like a frustrated sigh. With those long, pale fingers, he reached up and pushed back the hood, finally revealing his face.

Oh. That was aface.

Pale alabaster skin, pronounced cheekbones, a soft mouth with lips turned down in a frown. Dark brows and lashes that framed eyes so dark that Tati felt she could get lost in them. His hair was an inky black that seemed to absorb the hazy light of the street lamps, and it was combed neatly over to one side of his head.

It was the kind of face that reminded Tati of early 20th century aristocrats clinging to their thrones. There was a harshness to this strange, cloaked man’s face, that was so at odds with the symmetrical beauty of his features.

The man stared at her with those dark, hooded eyes, shaking his head. “I am afraid we cannot do that, darling.” He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the already-dim light faded, leaving only enough to barely illuminate his features, which looked like they were cast in black and white.

Tati’s stomach dropped. That wasn’t…well, it shouldn’t be possible, but then again, everything that had happened since she found herself sitting in the middle of the empty road had been odd. And here was this man, claiming to be the Grim Reaper, informing her that she was actually dead.

Her mind raced. “Okay then,” she said, the tremble in her voice betraying her growing unease. “Since obviously you’ve got some sort of supernatural powers thing going on,” she said, waving a hand at him, “Then you should be able to bring me back. Make me alive again.”

The man let out a sigh and turned to face the dog.

Tati screamed.

The dog wasn’t a dog anymore. The dog was now another man, this one shorter and broader and so much hairier than the other that for a moment she imagined that they were the before and after photos of a razor ad campaign.

The dog-man shook himself in a way that was distinctly dog-like. “You are terrible at this,” the dog-man said, his voice rough and graveled.

The cloak-man cuffed the other man on the back of the head, to which the dog-man let out a growl. “You just frightened her!”

Tati looked between the two men, shaking her head. “I’m done. Fucking done. You’ve had your creepy fun and —”

Her words cut off when the dog-man stepped up in front of her. While shorter than the other, he still loomed over Tati, his broad shoulders and wide girth intimidating in a completely different way. He wore dark pants and what looked like a dark leather jacket. His chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a bun low on the back of his head, and a short but shapely beard of the same color covered the lower half of his broad face. His eyes — his eyes were golden, just as they’d been when he’d stood on four legs and was covered in fur.

What in the actual fuck was happening?

“We have gone about this the wrong way,” the dog-man said, his expression kind. “I take it that you are needing some sort of verification of the fact that you really are dead?”

Wordlessly, Tati nodded.

The dog-man looked like he expected that response. “Great. I will take care of that.”

And before Tati could get her mouth to form words, the air around them shifted.

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