Page 20 of Grim
“Don’t see someone like you every day,” she says, voice steadier now.
“I hear that a lot,” I sigh. “Usually right before the screaming.”
She doesn’t scream.
“I died,” she says slowly. “I felt it. I wasgone. And now I’m … not?” Her voice trembles with confusion.
I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is I don’thave an explanation. I don’t know what happens to a person whose body perishes without a reaper on hand to shepherd the soul. Uncharted territory for both of us. I can’t let her know that though.
“Look, Mayday,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose so hard that it would bruise if I still had the ability. “Your heart tried to clock out early. We don’t do incomplete stories.”
“You must be mistaken,” she states and I can practically see her mind racing to connect the dots. “I have a heart condition, ARVD. We knew this would happen eventually.”
“And it will happen eventually,” I reply, probably a little more stoically than necessary. “But this isn’t that. Something else stopped your heart just now. A broken heart, I’d guess by all the funereal crying you’ve been doing.”
“That can’t be right,” she mumbles, blinking.
“Don’t interrupt. The reports are never wrong.” I sigh through my teeth as I try to construct this. “My bosses have a real flair for drama, but what theydon’thave is patience. They spend eternity spinning everyone’s threads into this big cosmic tapestry, and when someone starts pulling on loose threads—well, let’s just say things get tangled. Chronology slips. Realities buckle. People start remembering parallel timelines, and it becomes an absolute PR nightmare.”
She tilts her head like I just started speaking another language. “Spinning threads. Tapestries. Is this a joke?”
“No, and stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I just sprouted a second head.”
She lifts one perfectly judgmental brow. “You’re the one who wason top of mein a graveyard. Tongue down my throat, no less.”
“That was CPR,” I deadpan. “And if I recall, it saved your tragically short life, so maybe dial back the outrage.”
She crosses her arms and scoffs, “So, how did you even know I was out here?”
“Because,” I say slowly, dragging the word out like a lit cigarette, “I was the one assigned to your case.”
The look she gives me could curdle blood. “Repeat that.”
“I have been assigned to you.” I enunciate, as if perhaps the temporary crossover affected her hearing. “As in separate your soul from your body, escort you to the OtherWorld, toss you into the great cosmic filing cabinet. You were dead. The problem is, you weren’tsupposedto be. And that”—I wave a hand at the situation like a magician performing the world’s saddest trick—“is a violation.”
Her eyes narrow. “Punishable by you?”
“No,” I grit, already regretting this conversation. Why didn’t I just follow through with proper protocol? “Death is upper management, the final decision maker. I’m a middle-tier executive. Logistics. Paperwork. Corporeal separation and spiritual delivery.”
I lean against a headstone and pull out my flask, letting the burn run straight down my throat.
Her stare sharpens. “If you’re here to steal my soul—”
“I don’tstealanything, Mayday,” I snap, offended. “I’m not a thief. I’m a courier with a clipboard and a deadline. I escort. I transition. When I’m feeling gentlemanly, I hold the door.”
“But you brought me back,” she says. And the shift in her tone—gentler now—catches me off guard. There’s no bite. No sarcasm. Just confusion. “Why?”
Because I was tired of being a scalpel when I could be a stitch.
What I say instead is a bit of a shifting of the truth. “Because you jumped the queue. And line jumping pisses off the Weaver Sisters. Trust me, you donotwant them in a bad mood. Fate may start cutting threads.”
She swallows. “So, when am I supposed to die?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I reply automatically, eyes fixed on the rusted cemetery gate like salvation might be hiding behind it. She waits. So, I add, “When mortals know their expiration date, they start acting like every moment is a ticking bomb. They burn too brightly. They try too hard. Or worse, they don’t try at all.”
