Page 38 of The Reluctant Reaper
Then the photophobia—a night-light might as well be a spotlight. And finally, the nausea and accompanying vomiting.
But they weren’t real. Because Death doesn’t get sick. Not even a head cold. And neither does his heir.
“Everyone gets headaches,” her mother had insisted, bewildered. “Just take some ibuprofen.”
“A warehouse, astadiumfull of Advil wouldn’t touch what’s in my head, Mother!”
Then, later: “Is this about getting out of your chemistry exam?”
“Mo, tz moot meh brin!” (Fuck aphasia. Seriously.)
Amara shook off the reverie. “I’m dealing.”
“Perhaps the headaches will lessen with time,” Skye suggested.
“That’s what the research says. Thank you, though.”
“Pardon?”
“When I was a teenager, you were the only one who believed my migraines were real. You were the only one who supported me when I tried to get Mom and Dad to help.”
“Well, as you know, I’ll take any excuse to visit. On your feet, Amara. I’ll help you hobble back to your tower.”
“How are you simultaneously the best and the worst?”
“Yet another superpower,” Skye began, but the horrified shrieks cut her off.
ChapterEighteen
“Mom!”
With Skye on her heels, Amara nearly collided with Gray as he shot out of the library. “There’s no way that racket means anything good.”
“Keep behind me,” she ordered.
“Sure, sure. Except I’m not gonna, so.”
The clichés had it right: No matter how fast she tried to move, it was like trying to sprint through molasses. Her urgency was in direct proportion to her difficulty in getting to her mother’s side. She had never heard Hilly sound like that. The only time she came close was when Amara accidentally drove the family SUV off the cli?—
Oh, shit.
The three of them kept getting in each other’s way until they were at Death’s door, all trying to enter at once à la the Three Stooges.
“He’s not here,” Hilly cried. She was crouched over Death, still in the apron she’d worn to oversee breakfast, holding fistfuls of his pajama top, her nose an inch from his. “He’s not here!”
“Let go of his shirt, Hilly,” Skye said calmly.
“He’s not here!”
“He’s there, Mom. He’s right there. In your, um, fists.”
“He isn’t, you ridiculous child!” Hilly wrenched her attention back to her husband. “You come back to me, Reaper,” her mother commanded the unconscious?—
Please only be unconscious or even a coma not that I want my father to be in a coma but please please don’t be dead I’m not ready no one is ready.
—body on the bed. “Come back to me, bone man! Freyja Brunhilde Göndul demands it, you eater of souls, you king of the graveyard. Lord of crossroads, return to me at once!”
“I wish my folks had cute pet names for each other,” Gray said faintly, and Amara bit her lip, hard, to lock back the hysterical giggle. The pain helped her get a grip, and she crossed the room, gently moved her mother aside (thank God Hilly went easily), and felt for a carotid pulse.
