Page 50 of Grim
“Or in this case, afterlife,” I mumble.
“Don’t shoot the messenger.” He speaks over me.
“Or in this case, the reaper.” My ire for Kane bubbles back to the surface.
“Grim. Reaper,” the young ghost coos on a light laugh, seemingly unfazed by his own doomed lot in life. “The concept of a scythe-wielding skeleton of death originated during the Black Death in Europe, when robed figuresbegan appearing in art meant to depict the savage destruction of a third of the population.”
“Weren’t you alive during the Black Death?”
“No. My story begins many years later, during a second epidemic in France in the 1600s. I’m notthatold!”
“Well, either way, I think that’s a fitting name for your melancholic moodiness,Grim.”
“We’re not doling out nicknames when this poor child hasn’t even been given the honor ofonename. Really, Rue. How very rude,” Kane deflects sardonically, but there’s a sliver of truth to his jab that hits me right in the solar plexus.
As I think back on all the things I’ve said to this faceless entity over the years, I blanch. I am mortified that I spoke so hostilely to a mere child. I never stopped to think about his circumstances. It never occurred to me he could be anything more than a nuisance to me. I used words that cut and wounded because I had no sense of who was causing this trouble. He had no face. So, I treated him as if he didn’t have a heart either. And now that I can see the warm gaze and friendly demeanor of this apparition, I feel terrible for the way I mistreated him in the past. We are so quick to show unkindness to that which we do not know.
Determined to do right by the family ghost, I decide to make up for past faults. “You’re right,” I say begrudgingly to Kane, then turn my attention back to the boy. “And you. I am very sorry that I’ve been so mean to you over the years. The way I’ve spoken to you is unacceptable. I never stopped to think of what you might be going through.”
“It’s okay. How could you have known?”
“Well, I won’t let it happen again. We need to give you a name.” I think back to his tale for clues about a proper name. “What about Steven? In honor of the first place you remember living.”
“Don’t much care to remember that place. Bad memories there, to be certain.”
“Of course. That makes sense.” Then it hits me. “Since you don’t have to hide anymore, little guy, it’s your turn to explore. What about Seek?”
“I like that,” the child says, his ash-stained face alight. “Call me Seek.” He beams with pride.
“And now you’ve been found,” Kane grumbles to my left, taking in the exchange between me and the child with something unfamiliar behind his eyes.
My eyes stay locked on Kane, who has gone eerily still, his jaw clenched so tight that I can see the muscles twitching. His hands are fisted at his sides, but it’s not anger I see—I don’t know what it is.
Is he mad at me? Is he upset over the kiss?
I swallow hard and turn away. “I’m gonna make some tea. Wanna help pick out the cups, Seek?”
“I’d love to!”
“The selection is limited on account of a certain ash-faced adolescent using the china for gravity experiments, but I’m sure we’ll find something.” I smile at Seek as we walk to the kitchen.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the kettle. I need to ground myself, focus on something real. Boiling water, tea leaves. My mind wanders where it shouldn’t. To Kane’s lips.
Those lips.
I lean against the counter and shut my eyes, trying to block it out—but it’s there, vivid as ever.
The way his mouth claimed mine. The press of his body. The sound he made—somewhere between a growl and a sigh.
He kissed me like he was dying. Or like I was. And now? He won’t even look at me.
I stare down at my hands. They’re still shaking. From the grief, from the boy’s story. From Kane.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know if he regrets it. But I do know this: I’ve never been kissed like that before.
Like I mattered. Like I was something to be treasured. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Even if he already has.
IScream,YouScream
