Page 127 of Grim
I carry her down the hall, searching for her bedroom in this foreign place. My search is momentarily interrupted by a massive cat assaulting me in the hallway.
“Easy there, tiger,” I say to the feral feline. “Just looking for the lady’s chambers.”
The fat grey fluff ball visibly relaxes and then, as though she understood me, turns slowly and walks straight to the door I’ve been seeking.
“Much obliged.” I thank the cat, then tell it to get lost as I set Rue down atop her made bed.
Rue’s brow twitches, a little furrow right between her eyes. There’s the whisper of that fight left.
Good girl.
I touch her wrist, feeling her fluttering pulse beneath her pale skin.
Haven’t felt a pulse in ages. I can see the allure, Kane ol’ boy.
I should leave. But I don’t. I have no reason to remain in this room. Yet I do. I stand there, staring down at her.
“What am I going to do with you?” I wonder aloud.
Kane may be a loathsome twit, but honor among reapers or something like that. I decide the path of least resistance makes the most sense for all involved. I will do what I can to make her crossover as smooth as possible. I only hope she’s amenable. Because if she resists …
My fingers tingle at the thought like they can feel the weight of my blade.
She will rue the day, I think to myself on a smirk, then take in the room around me.
You can learn a lot about a person from their bedroom. Their passions and proclivities are on full display in that most sacred of sanctuaries. Rue’s room screams of one thing—stories.
Glancing around, I notice all of her books. They are everywhere. Books on tables. Books under tables. Books in stacks beside the heater. Some with broken spines, others pristine because as any good book lover will tell you, there really are two hobbies—reading books and collecting books. I scan the titles, looking for themes and genres that might give me a glimpse into this fast-fading soul. The variety of subject matter speaks of a voracious mind, a tireless consumer of tales. The one through line I feel among all the dusty pages and chaotic stacks? Love. Rue adores literature. It permeates the room.
I stop when I spot one in particular, the familiar font making the bottom of my stomach drop out.
North and Southby Elizabeth Gaskell.
I’ve seen this edition before. I inch closer as a more haunting realization dawns.
It can’t be, I insist in my head, even as I reluctantly reach for the book.
I not only recognize this edition; I know this exact copy. Same worn leather. Same bruised corners that speak of much use. Same pages, still dog-eared, even after all these countless years. I finger the edge and open the book to the first flagged passage.
“‘I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me.’” I read the words aloud, remembering them in her voice.
Madeleine.
“How did you manage to get your copy of this book back into my hands, Maddy? You always were the cleverest girl,” I whisper, secretly expecting a response.
A torrent of long-lost memories pour forth. My head and heart are consumed with the overwhelming feeling of it all. The passion and power of us.
Ash and Maddy.
Forever.
But nothing lasts forever, does it?
Only pain.
Only ever the pain.
That is all that lasts, all that lingers, all that remains.
