Page 42 of The Reluctant Reaper
“I... I think you keep having the same nightmare. There’s a woman, and she’s terrified. But you’re terrified ofher. It’s... weird. And it sounds awful.”
“It’s—”
“Don’t! Please, it can’t be. It can’t be my time yet! It’s a mistake, please. Please, I’ll do anything. Take my mother. Take... anyone. Just not me. Please.”
“—just a bad dream.”
“I know it isn’t.” He was giving her his straight gaze, the unflinching examination that always meant No Bullshit. “And you do, too.”
“Well. I’m sorry you had to—had to put up with that.”
“There’s nothing about being with you that amounts to ‘putting up.’ It’s all good on my end. Mostly.”
She was still mortified, but she was also starting to see how it was. They were platonic pals, had always been so, but they’d slept over at each other’s places plenty of times, and even in the same bed now and again. Hell, they’d shared a bed the night they met.
She hadn’t known she screamed in her sleep, though. It’s not like she brought men home all the time. Or some of the time. Or ever.
“You’ve been running from this all your life. I won’t let you face it alone, no matter how many cinnamon buns you force your mom to wear.”
“Sucha nice boy.”
“Not now, Mother.” To Gray: “You don’t know what you’re in for.”
“I’m aware I’m dog-paddling in a sea of ignorance. I’m loyal, not omnipotent. We’re wasting time. Places to go, people to psychopomp.” At their stares, he added, “What? It’s not a verb? I feel like it could be a verb.”
And Amara laughed, to keep from screaming if nothing else.
ChapterTwenty-One
She’d driven from her folks’ house to Minot hundreds of times. But always as Amara Morrigan. Never as... whatever the hell she was now. And never with the delightful Graham Gray beside her. So the ride was simultaneously too long and not long enough.
Amara pulled into the lot with great care, checking blind spots no one in the world knew existed, and finally parked in the Trinity Homes lot.
Then she sat and sat and sat.
“Are you hoping whoever it is will die of old age instead of a heart attack so you don’t have to take care of him right this minute?”
Amara said nothing. Amara said nothing. Amara said?—
“Hon? You okay? Relatively speaking?”
“I know this one.” She could see the sweaty marks from her fingers on the curly printout. “She was my middle school music teacher.”
“Oh. Does that make it easier or harder? I guess it depends on who it is. Or how you feel about music. Given that you listen to way too much nineties pop garbage, I’m not optimistic.”
“I will not hear one word against Ace of Base or En Vogue,” she said absently.
Gray reached over and gently pried open her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe that’ll be a comfort for her. An old student. Someone she knows.”
“I was a crap singer. So, no.”
Gray let out a snort and then clapped his hand over his mouth. He rolled his eyes to look at her and let out another muffled snort.
She had to smile. She’d never adored anyone more, or been more infuriated by anyone, come to think of it. Well, La Croix was a contender for that last one. And she’d never suffered from inappropriate laughter with that guy the way she did with Gray. “Come on, you ridiculous dope. Let’s get it over with.”
* * *
The grounds were lovely, even at this time of year: lots of trees and flower beds, wide paths and even a fountain. In a month, residents would look out at a riot of color.
