Page 14 of Grim
Daryl. That’s his real name. Not Death, Doom, or Damien. No, no. Just Daryl. And if you ever call him that to his face, make sure you’ve already picked your replacement because your second death won’t be as pleasant as your first.
Since his promotion to the position of Death, D doesn’twork crossovers anymore. He’s too important, he claims. More like too busy trying to look busy, but, hey, he took over the top spot, so we play by his rules.
This conversation is probably going to require my undivided attention, and while the living can’t see me, I can still hear them, so I decide to head to the roof.
I step into the service elevator and take it up. It’s not a gentle ride. This rickety box jerks me to the top like I’ve been hooked and reeled by a novice fisherman.Transporting would have been much smoother, but that’s reserved for trips between worlds and case arrivals. Once I’m here, it’s mortal means of conveyance for this guy.
After several shuddering seconds, I find myself on the rooftop of Ms. Sinclair’s high-rise building.
The moment I’m alone, I press the flame-red Call button on my phone’s display.
It doesn’t ring. It never rings.
He always answers instantaneously.
He’s always there, waiting.
“Kane.”
My name isn’t spoken; it’ssummoned. Death’s voice isn’t loud; it doesn’t need to be. It pours through the line like chilled syrup, seeping beneath the surface of my skin.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
The profanity doesn’t dull the gravitas. If anything, it’s worse. Casual authority is the most dangerous kind.
“I called as quickly as I could,” I state. “And respectfully, sir, you don’t have to sign every messageBig D. I know who you are.”
“I’ll do whatever I want, Kane. And you will do whatever I ask. Now, where are you?”
“Just finished with the Sinclair case. Or rather, she finished herself.” I sigh, jaw tight. “She didn’t cross. Your message cut into the last sliver of her window.”
“So, you lost another one?”
I wince. It isn’t a question.
“Married to the job, boss,” I answer coolly. “Now she gets to spend eternity wandering the carpeted halls of the Titan Media headquarters as a uniquely vengeful, spreadsheet-obsessed ghost.”
A coiled silence springs out between us.
“Unbelievable.” The word drops like a gavel. Not yelled or barked. Just delivered. “You would think after the mandatory seminar I just held about better reaper/reapee relations, you would’ve had this one in the bag.”
“No one was tearing this woman from this place.”
Big D exhales slowly, like the world’s about to end and he’s been through it before. “Your ARVD case has gone into transition early. Unrelated to her condition, but still a heart issue. But that’s not the point. The point is you need to get your ass over there and extract the soul before you lose two souls in one day. Deliver her to AfterLife Processing yourself if you have to. That’s your job. Collection.”
I nod barely. “Understood.”
He keeps going. He always does. “I hate this atrocious era. Technology has turned into a curse. Ghost hunters, spirit videos, EMF readings posted to social media—it’s a circus. The moment a soul lingers too long, someone snaps a video. The footage gets filtered, slowed down, and then goes viral. It was all fun and games when the cat was in the vase. Now, the living are starting to ask questions they have no business asking. That’s when the Weaver Sisters get twitchy. And when they get twitchy, I get calls. I hate calls, Kane.”
I say nothing. Not because I agree, but because I’ve learned it’s less work to let him wear himself out.
He continues with that smooth, suffocating timbre only Death can pull off. “Your job is containment. Not curiosity. It’s really not difficult, Kane.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose—harder than necessary.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got it. You can count on me,” I state before disconnecting the call.
It’s a lie—maybe. Or maybe not.
