Page 68 of The Reluctant Reaper
“So it’s true. He’s comatose,” Hank breathed. “He isn’t waking up.”
“He hasn’t woken upyet,” Amara said.
“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Penny said in a small voice.
“Tell me about it.” Amara closed the book. “Thanks for coming. It’s nice of you to visit again.”
“We haven’t actually gotten around to leaving yet,” Penny said, then stretched up on her toes to nuzzle Hank’s nose.
“I’ll tell Hilly to lay in more Gatorade.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“How goes the Reaping?” Hank asked.
“Well. It’s Reaping. So there’s really only one way it can go.” Amara held her breath, but neither of them had notes. Excellent. Hilly had kept her confidence.
The Reaping is going fine. Why wouldn’t it be going fine? When has a Reap ever not been fine? As far as Reaping goes, nothing strange or worrisome is happening at all!
“It’s good of you to be such a help to your family,” Penny said. She was still using her wardrobe to channel college cheerleaders, right down to the oversized letter jacket slung over one cashmere-clad shoulder. Which raised questions: Did she pack it? Or just happen to have it with her? Also, when did Hades go to the U of ND? “I know it’s been a comfort to your mother.”
“Thanks. Did you two come up for air long enough to ring the figurative dinner bell?”
“Yes, and your mother asked?—”
A shriek cut him off, and Amara was out of her chair and the book thumped to the carpet before she realized she was already moving. It wasn’t the first time her reflexes kicked in before her brain.
“By all the gods, who isthat? And are they on fire?”
“It’s just Gray.” Amara was intimately acquainted with all Gray’s noises. “It’s dark out, so.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“He’ll be fine, Penny. But we should head to the dining room anyway. If our tardiness results in congealed gravy, my mother will see to it that we’ll all be shrieking like Gray.”
* * *
“It’s night! It’s night!” Gary shot out of the library so fast, if he’d collided with anyone he would have knocked them on their ass. As it was, he had the attention of everyone in the hall. “Chernobog comes at night!”
“Dusk, actually,” Amara pointed out.
“Sorry.” Chernobog had been right behind him, and now Gray was right behindher. “Didn’t mean to.”
“It’s fine,” Amara replied. “Your reputation precedes.”
“Chernobog,” said Chernobog, holding out a slab of a palm. His fingers were an interesting dichotomy of stubby and strong; she’d seen him twist off bottle caps that weren’t twist-off. “Paying respects.”
“This is my friend, Graham Gray.” When Gray didn’t move, she added, “He’s very pleased to meet you.”
“Just because I’m cowering in terror doesn’t mean I can’t speak for myself,” he snapped. “I’m notverypleased to meet him, I’m just... pleased.”
Chernobog waited. Amara could picture centuries sliding by as Chernobog quietly went about his business while ignoring the flow of time.
“I, um, like your hair,” Gray ventured. “It’s a... a striking contrast to the, uh...” The flannel, the black jeans, the swarthy complexion, the dark stubble, the large, long limbs. “Everything else.”
Chernobog’s lips twitched, the closest he ever got to a smile. “Light hair, not scary.”
