Page 16 of The Reluctant Reaper
She didn’t ask, but he went ahead anyway: “Because I kept doing dumb destructive stuff and couldn’t stop.”
“It’s a good thing you quit, then,” she replied, po-faced, and he had to laugh. “My name is Amara.”
“Graham Gray. And I’m not coming over to shake your hand. So give it up already.”
“As you wish. But—stop me if you’ve heard this—you aren’t dying tonight.”
He was surprised to see she was only a couple feet away, though he would have bet money she hadn’t moved the entire time they talked. Had she hypnotized him, like a gorgeous spitting cobra? And if she had, what did that make him? Mongoose or mouse?
“I still don’t see how you could possibly know that.”
“No need to take my word for it. Here, I’ll prove it.”
She wasright there, and even as he processed that fact, she slapped her palm against his chest and shoved. The world went upside down and then righted itself with crazy speed, and he had time for one panicked thought?—
Why did I think this was a good idea????
—before he feltandheard the impact:
Splorch!
“Mud,” he groaned. He wriggled in the mess for a few seconds, amazed he could move, then managed to flop over on his back and gasp at the night sky while wiggling his fingers and toes. The breath had been punched out of his lungs by the impact, and he sucked in air so quickly he was light-headed. Or maybe that was the concussion. “God damn. A four-foot pile of muddy slime because they broke ground on the new annex this weekend. I walked past it to get to the stairs!”
He heard footsteps, but he was in no hurry to try to walk, or even stand. Then she was looming over him, which was startling all over again. He’d thought she was older, but now realized she was closer to his own age. And how’d she get down so fast?
“See?” she said with a smirk. “You’re fine.”
“I’ve got mud inside me.”
“Mostly fine,” she amended. “So... hot chocolate?”
They had hot chocolate. Then tea. Then more hot chocolate, this time to go, and they ended up in his dorm room. And he told her everything. And she told him unbelievable things that he believed because, in a crazy-stupid way, they made sense. And then he passed out in his bed because he hadn’t slept in three days or eaten in two.
And she was there when he woke up.
ChapterNine
La Croix disappeared just after the train pulled into the Minot station, off wherever he lurked when he wasn’t irritating all living creatures in his immediate orbit. But her old Mustang was easily spotted in long-term parking.
“A convertible,” Gray observed. “In March. In North Dakota. Is your dad tricking you into coming home so he can kill you with pneumonia?”
“Oh, please, he could kill me with a thought.”
“Uh, what?”
“Don’t worry, this car has an incredible heater.”
“Sure, sure, could we get back to how your dad can kill you just by thinking about it? I mean, I know he’s the Reaper, but how can he think you to death?”
Given Gray’s childhood, mentioning a potentially murderous parent was a dumbass move. She cursed her lack of tact even as she ignored the question and talked up the car. “This heater? It could warm up the Arctic. More than climate change already is, I mean. C’mon, let’s go. The Mustang won’t hurt you. Most likely.”
It wasn’t just transport; it was an inside joke. Her dad had procured the Mustang her senior year in high school so she could drive it to prom. He’d never gotten around to selling it despite the fact that Amara hadn’t lived at home in a decade. But she still had the key. She wasn’t sure what that said about him. Or her.
Prom had been a bust, anyway. Her date showed up two hours late and left early with another girl. The knowledge that Amara’s replacement would OD before she hit voting age hadn’t been especially comforting. Nor had throwing her room-temperature Coke in the guy’s face. The worst part? The cheating SOB was going to live well into his eighties.
The drive to her parents’ place took half an hour, which was fine because she hadn’t been kidding about the heater. It was colder than Minneapolis here—colder than almost anywhere, getting colder by the minute—and crisp. Dusk was quickly shifting into night, and the uncountable stars over their heads were brilliant pricks of fire. It was impossible to take them in andnotfeel insignificant. And Death’s daughter liked feeling insignificant.
She understood why so many dismissed the Dakotas with tired scorn (“flyover country”), but it only ever evinced pity in her.That’s fine. You’re missing out, but it’s fine. Stay in New York. Stay in LA. We’ll take all that room and clean air.
