Page 119 of Grim
Rue does not seem completely satisfied with my rationale. I can see the rebellion mounting behind her eyes. She’s not the type to go quietly, even when she should—especially when she should.
“So,” I continue, “what you need, milady, is a proper drink. Let’s go find you something to wash down that bitter taste I can see swirling around in your mouth.”
I offer Rue my arm and begin to scan the room for a libation station that could accommodate Rue’s mortal tastes.
We don’t make it far. A cold gust brushes over us, though there’s no wind. And they appear—the Weaver Sisters—whose gazes snake their way over every inch of Rue’s body.
They do more than simply tower over Rue as they take her in. They hover and undulate. Their limbs weightless and bending at angles that ignore the laws of flesh and gravity. Their silhouettes blur at the edges, like half-drawn ink sketches that never fully dried.
“There she is, sis,” Fate sings to Time, her icy eyes slicing Rue in half. “Oh, look at that little dress, what do you think?”
“Not much to think about it honestly,” Time cuts, causing a prickling sensation in my neck. “She can only work with what she has I suppose—which is very little.”
“I certainly don’t see what Kane seems to.” Fate doubles down.
Rue catches my eye, perhaps wondering if I’ve said anything to them.
I meet her eyes, trying to tell her without speaking,No, I haven’t said anything.
“All I see is a meddlesome little brat,” Time hums, “who thinks she’s entitled to tinker with the very seams of the universe.”
Rue speaks up for the first time. “I’m sorry. Have I done something to upset you?”
The Sisters cackle with derisive laughter.
“Upset? Hardly.” Fate scoffs.
“A little speck like you can’t upset us. You have, however, become a bit of a rough edge in desperate need of smoothing out,” Time continues. “After all, we do not care much for you awakening old cases and finding new endings to stories we finished writing ages ago.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Rue’s confusion is evident.
“We are the authors of mortal tales, miss,” Fate says, voice like a blade unsheathing. “Not you.”
“When we writeThe End,” Time adds, “it stays ended.”
“Not an invitation for you to come along and pen some bleeding-heart epilogue.”
“Lost souls are not meant to be found, Rue.”
Awareness dawns on Rue’s face. Her lips part as she quietly says, “Claire Simone.”
Fate smiles like a shark. “Exactly, Rue.”
“She made her choice,” Time snaps. “She wanted to stay. Those decisions are final.”
Rue bristles before raising her chin, defiant as ever. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Their laughter returns—harsher this time. Less amused, more unkind. “No, mypet,” Fate sneers, “they do not. That’s not how life or death works.”
“Everyone must play by the same rules, mortal,” Time echoes.
“Our rules.”
“Or everything descends into madness.”
“And we can’t have that. That’s far too messy.”
I see it then. The fire behind Rue’s mask. It licks up the back of her spine and curls around her fists. I know what comes next, and I have to stop her.
