Page 21 of Grim
“But I want to know,” she says softly.
It’s not defiant. Not even desperate. It’s just … real. And something about that makes this harder.
I close my eyes for a breath that doesn’t quite come. Centuries of this gig, and I still can’t find a script for moments like these. No rulebook for the pause between a truth and the ache it will cause.
My voice comes out quiet. “Knowing changes people.”
“Tell me anyway,” she says, finally standing.
The words are small for the weight they carry.
I look at her. She’s not glowing, not fragile, not half draped in angelic light, the way some mortals imagine they’ll be after near death. No. She’s sharp around the edges. Bright and breakable, but not broken. Her eyes still haven’t stopped staring into mine, like they’re hunting for something.
I don’t want to say it. I shouldn’t. No good can come from carrying the weight of that knowledge.
But she asked. Simple as that. And after already breaking the rules, what’s one more?
“Nine days,” I say, and the words are gravel in my throat. “You’ve got nine days.”
A hard, heavy silence settles in the air around us.
She sways, the color draining from her face, as if someone had just pulled the plug. Her hand shoots back to the nearest headstone, fingers clawing for something solid as the axis of her world tilts beneath her.
“Nine days?” she echoes, and it sounds like a prayer turned inside out. “You brought me back, just to let me die again in nine days?”
I look away, jaw clenched so tight that it aches.
Reckless and selfish—that’s the only way to characterize my recent actions. And there is no apology now to make up for the burden my spontaneous outburst has caused her.
I nod. Once. A slow, deliberate confirmation—because lies may spare feelings, but they damn the soul, and I’ve seen enough damned ones to know better.
“You weren’t supposed to go yet,” I say. My voice is quieter now.
She stares at the ground like it might open and offer her an easier exit. Her hands tremble. Then curl into fists. Her pulse is back, wild and panicked and painfully human. I can feel it, even from here, like a ticking clock stuffed inside her chest.
I did this. The thread has snapped, and I can’t weave it whole again.
I gave her back the seconds she’ll now have to spend.
“You’re on borrowed time,” I murmur, voice stripped of bravado. “Whatever it is you’ve been waiting to do, don’t wait anymore.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just breathes slowly. And I let her have that moment. Because in nine days, she won’t get another.
“If a week of worldly delights doesn’t sell you,” I say, slipping my flask back out and taking a long pull, “then take the scenic route. Gorge yourself on red meat, guzzle something vintage and ruinously expensive, find someone reckless and flexible and explore the boundaries of tantric sex. Then, on day nine, I’ll come knocking and carry you across, gently of course.”
Her eyes narrow like a blade being drawn. “You don’t know me. You know nothing about me.”
“True.” I offer a half smile. “But the context clues give away a fair amount here, and I’d say you probably haven’t had the most hedonistic journey through life thus far. Just offering you an opportunity here to live a little.”
“Presumptuous dick,” she mumbles loud enough for me to hear her clearly.
My eyes flash. “Kitten’s got claws.”
“Keep purring, pretty boy, and I’ll have you neutered,” she snaps, folding her arms. “So, let me get this straight. I’m alive again, but only for a short while, so you can kill me and drag me back to wherever I was heading, just so your bosses don’t get mad?”
“I’m not the executioner,” I say, jaw tightening. “I’m just the escort service. Your heart’s the traitor, not me.”
That lands wrong. Her hands curl into fists, and her face twists in fury. She turns and storms off like she thinks she can walk away from Death itself—which, frankly, I admire.
