Page 97 of Grim
Just warm New Orleans sunlight filtering through centuries-old oaks, the faint aroma of powdered sugar from down the street, and the constant hum of life pressing in from every direction.
I hear a low rumbling noise coming from my left and glance that way. A sound I thought had come from the throat of an angry beast seems to have come from Rue’s stomach.
“You’re hungry.” It is not a question.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t do that, Rue,” I insist while surveying my surroundings. “Your body just made a sound that startled pigeons. You don’t have to be polite about survival. You’re clearly in need of food.”
“Sorry about that,” she whispers, evidently embarrassed.
“You don’t need to apologize, and don’t act like needing something is shameful. You are allowed to take up space in this world. You want food? We’ll get food. That’s it.”
She exhales, her mouth twitching toward a real smile. “Okay. Yeah. I’m hungry. But you don’t eat. I can just get a slice or something.”
“A slice?”
“Yeah, like a piece of pizza?”
“A slice of pizza?” I make a face like she just proposed she drink bathwater.
“No. You live in the heart of one of the most culinarily blessed cities in the world. You’re not eating something that’s been coagulating behind an exposed glass window for hours.” I shudder. “I’ve got nothing but time, Mayday. And since I don’t eat, I’m going to need you to indulge enough for the both of us. Let’s get you a proper lunch.”
She squints at me. “Who are you, and what have you done with my broody reaper?”
“I’ve decided to expand my brand.”
“Fun.” Rue laughs, the sound bright against the dull hum of the street. “That sounds great actually, but I don’t really know what’s around here.”
“You’re in luck,” I say, lifting a finger. “I have just the place. About a century ago, I was here for a reap. Some odious land developer who spent most of his life bulldozing historic blocks and replacing them with buildings shaped like tax write-offs.”
“Charming.”
“Oh, he was detestable. Spent the first moments of his postmortem trying to bribe me.”
“Did it work?”
“Rue, I’m incorruptible.”
“You’re full of it.” She snorts.
I ignore that.
“As his soul began detaching—tendrils of energy separating from his decaying ego—he had one final thought. One last pitiful wish before slipping out of existence.”
“This story had better be going somewhere, Grim. I’m not getting anylesshungry over here.”
“Hold your horses, Rue. I told you to stand up for yourself, not be an impatient nit who doesn’t have time for a little backstory appetizer.”
“Fine,” Rue says, rolling her eyes sardonically. “Fill me with your big words, Kane. I want them all.”
“Watch that mouth of yours,” I warn, though there isno denying the allure of her sass. “Anyway, this man’s spirit is separating from his body, wispy tendrils clinging to this place as his essence becomes less like him and more like a cloud. And then his voice croaks—and I quote—‘I wish I’d had one last étouffée from Simone’s. Nothing brought me joy like that first bite. Nothing in this life or the next.’ Then he dematerialized.”
She blinks. “That’s his legacy? Shellfish regret?”
“I don’t think there was anything selfish about it actually. Probably the only unselfish thing that man ever thought about. Goes to show you, in the end—”
“Shell-fish, you dolt. As in crustaceans and mollusks. Not selfish.”
