Page 134 of Grim
I open the notebook to a piece I vaguely remember writing, my fingers finding the page instantly, as if they too know my time is short. I scan the words, my words. These captured moments of my mind.
I look over to Asher, who stares silently back at me.
I press the notebook closed. And I smile. My palms stay on the cover, grounding me to this reality.
I think of my mother.
Her hands in my hair when I was too feverish tospeak. Her voice, fierce and tired and full of love, even when we fought. The way she stood in doorways, arms crossed but heart open.
The way she told me once, “I’d rather have you for a short time than not at all.”
I didn’t understand what that meant back then.
Now I do.
I swallow the knot rising in my throat and say, more to myself than Asher, “I have to make a phone call.”
Asher raises an eyebrow. “I imagine you do.”
TheShowIsAbouttoBegin
Ihold the door open for Kane as we enter my office—not out of sentiment, mind you, but because I believe in appearances. Manners, decorum, the little rituals that keep the wheels of the cosmos turning smoothly. Just because I am Death Incarnate doesn’t mean I can’t be civilized. The man’s in shackles after all. Let the condemned keep what dignity they can carry.
Kane limps forward like a man walking into his own grave. Shoulders hunched, head down, he has become a ghost of a ghost. Piteous.
I snap my fingers, and the chair drags itself to the center of the room with a low groan. It’s a beautiful Victorian-style chair, a real staple piece in my otherwise modern office. It’s dark red, overstuffed, with a very showy carved back. I like aesthetics, and this one screams my name. The chair slides behind Kane and clips the backs of his knees, forcing him to sit. The smoky grey bindings rethread from his wrists into the arms of the chair, twisting in place like patient vipers. Another pair locks around his ankles—tighter this time.
I walk a slow circle around him, admiring my handiwork.
“‘Man is born free,’” I muse, hands clasped behind my back, “‘and everywhere he is in chains.’”
“Fuck you,” Kane statesflatly.
I let the insult roll off me like a stray breeze. “That’s not very nice, Kane,” I reply, drawing out the words, giving them just enough theatricality to needle him. “I thought you’d appreciate the reference. That’s Jean-Jacques—”
“Rousseau. I know, Daryl. I’m French. And smart.”
“That’s a lot of attitude, coming from a man tied to a chair.” I grace him with a smooth smile.
“Well, I figured my intelligence was one of the reasons you hired me. That and my good looks.”
“Perhaps once upon a time, Kane. Now, look at you.” I don’t disguise the disappointment. “So eager to be more than what you are. A reaper playing the hero in someone else’s tragedy. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
I move behind him slowly, the heels of my shoes clicking against the floor like a clock counting down. “You were designed to guide souls, not fall in love with them. You were built to serve balance, not break it. And yet here you sit—shackled and defiant—because a mortal made you feel something.”
I lean close to his ear, lowering my voice. “She made you forget your place, my friend.”
He doesn’t respond right away, just stares forward. I double back around to look at him. He isn’t looking at me, but through me. It’s that hollow, unblinking stare that only grief sees through. I’ve seen it on the faces of countless mortals. The faces blend together over millennia, but the stare never changes.
“Send me back,” he says finally, his voice cool and slow, almost conversational.
“That almost sounds like a threat, reaper,” I say, brushing my lapel absentmindedly. “And I’d hardly say you’re in a position to be making demands.”
His jaw sets, a smoky fire settles behind his eyes. I see the familiar flicker in his expression—something perilously close to hope. That dangerous glint of belief that things might still be undone, rewritten. Mortals carry it like a disease. Apparently, reapers aren’t immune either.
“The problem with people,” I say, strolling toward the window overlooking the OtherWorld, “isn’t that they die. It’s that they think they should not. That they can somehow circumvent the inevitable. That their end issomehow negotiable.” I roll my head to gaze back at him as he glares at me. “You know how I feel about negotiations, Kane. That look you’re flashing me right now is giving vibes.”
“I’d like to give you the inside of my—”
