Page 62 of Grim
I cut Kane off, “Catastrophic.Kata, strophe.A downturning.” I mime the twisting of thewheel.
“Very good, Rue. So, you do know how to listen. There may be hope for you yet,” Kane praises, and while I’m surrounded by this carnage, it shouldn’t send a dopamine rush, but it does.
“But these events can be a logistical nightmare,” Kane continues. “So many souls to process and cross in such a short amount of time. One slip from a reaper, one miscut of the soul from the body before going to the OtherWorld can ripple and alter pivotal moments in the future of both realms. So, we wait so they can oversee the reaping.”
“So, these Sisters, they make the rules then? Did they tell you to bring me back?”
“No. Actually …”
I jump at the strong female voice and look to see a powerful woman standing next to us. Her long flaxen hair travels past her large breasts. Her skin is bronzed, and her dark eyes look at me in a way that makes me wish I could be invisible from her too.
“Time,” Kane mutters, and I watch her lip curl.
“Dr. Kane Deveraux. My, my, my, it’s been far too long.”
“Funny. I was thinking it hadn’t been nearly long enough.” Kane’s tone is clipped, a blend of defiance and fear.
Time doesn’t move. She flows. Everything about her is smooth, graceful, and deliberate. She stands with a kind of poise that makes me feel like I’m a clumsy kid tracking mud across a marble floor.
Her iridescent gown is a shimmering gold that moves like liquid sunlight, swirling around her generous curves, as if it were a living thing. Her skin is flawless, kissed by a thousand sunsets, and her dark eyes stare straight into me.
“Ah.” Time tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “So, this is the one who shouldn’t be.”
I feel my spine straighten, instinctively defensive under her scrutiny. “Excuse me?”
“Rue Chamberlain.” Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. “You’ve caused quite the disruption to my symphony, my dear.”
I glance at Kane before looking back toward her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.
“She means,” another voice purrs, silky and venomous, “that your thread was severed, your fate sealed. And yet here you are.Alive.”
The temperature drops.
“But I thought you just mentioned music,” I state shakily.
“That”—she clips the endingTsound with powerful effectiveness—“is Time. She is the poet, and I, Fate, am the painter. While she conducts, I weave; while she performs, I sculpt.”
Fate towers over me, cold and unyielding. Time amplifies her sister’s energy.
Fate’s presence is razor-sharp. Her dress is midnight blue, threaded with silver, as though the fabric itself were woven from the night sky. Her jet-black hair falls in thick waves over her shoulders. Her lips are painted a deep, rich red, the color of crushed roses. Her icy eyes, filled with menacing rage, pin me in place.
“Fate,” Kane murmurs, his voice a low warning.
“Kane,” Fate replies, her tone dripping with disdain. “A mess still follows everywhere you go, I see.”
I don’t like her.
Not one bit.
“Mess?” I echo, my voice sharper than I intended. “Is that what I am to you?”
Her gaze locks on to mine, and I swear I feel the air around us tighten.
“Don’t flatter yourself, mortal.” The word is spit like an insult. “You’re not special. You’re a glitch. A mistake.”
My stomach drops.
