Page 154 of Grim
“Helper?”
“ALPer, as in AfterLife Processing.”
“ALPer?” I repeat. “What do I need ALP with?”
She doesn’t blink at my attempt at levity. “Despair. Mostly.”
Zandra clicks her pen and begins scribbling on a form. “Here you will be given your status ranking, placement, and temporary assignment. Once assigned to your designated sector, you will begin your tenure for Death’s Door, LLC. At the end of your term, you may be relocated and cleared from additional service, or your contract may be extended.”
The fog begins to clear from my mind as visions from my recent past return. A beautiful man with a dark soul that matched his dark suit. Spirits and stories and adventures. My house, my heart, my home.
“Kane,” I whisper, then lock eyes with the clerk. “Where is Kane?”
Zandra’s pen pauses. She peers over her glasses with a tilt of her head. “Who is Kane, lady?”
“He was my reaper.”He was my love. The sensation sparks in the center of my chest, but I do not voice that truth now. “He is supposed to be with me,” I offer instead.
“No one belongs to anyone else in the OtherWorld. It’s just you and eternity now.” Zandra eyes the sheet in front of her. “Also, says here your reaper was an Asher Bennett. Cause of death: heart failure from a genetic condition. Poetic passing, smooth soul extraction.”
“No.” I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. “No, that’s wrong. I need to see him. Kane Deveraux. Please, you have to help me.”
“No one can help you now, Rue. No one can help any of us. Not anymore.”
There is an eerie darkness to Zandra’s declaration. They are the first words she’s spoken with anythingresembling emotion or feeling. And the haunting sentiment sends a chill rushing down my spine.
She continues, scanning the sheet in front of her, “According to your paperwork, you will be assigned to …” She trails off, picking the paper up and bringing it closer to her face. “Huh. That can’t be right. I’ve never seen that before,” she mumbles to herself.
“What? What’s not right? What is it?”
“Your account has been flagged.” Zandra squints as she looks over the papers, and my stomach twists. “Your file’s been marked ‘Classified’. No assignment issued.Directive: escort subject to Main Office for evaluation.”
I stare at her, dread creeping over me. “To see Big D?” I ask, the rest of my memories from my final mortal days flooding back.
Zandra looks up again. Her mouth opens. Closes. “How do you know we call him that?”
An odd sense of confidence replaces the cold in my back, and I arch my shoulders as I stare straight at my curly-haired ALPer. “I’ve been here before, Z. Now show me to the boss’s office.”
She studies me, her expression finally cracking into something resembling emotion. Bewilderment maybe. Or caution.
“I need the big stamp,” she mutters, rifling through a tray of ink pads and oversize labels. Her hand lands on a red one the size of a dinner plate.
A loudchunksound echoes off the steel table as the red ink slams onto the page. The word ‘Assigned’ splattered atop the black ink.
Zandra shoves the paper aside and nods toward the far corner of the room. “Door’s over there. You’ll know it when you see it.”
And I do.
Now that it’s been pointed out, I can’t unsee it—a tall, oval archway that shimmers like the surface of water trapped in a mirror. It hums, just low enough to feel in my molars. The air around it smells floral and toxic.
I take one last look at Zandra. She doesn’t smile, nor does she wave.
“Good luck,” she says flatly. “You’ll need it.”
Then she’s gone again—absorbed back into her fortress of red tape and resignation.
I walk toward the door.
I don’t look back.
