Page 55 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Gah!” Her pulse was hammering again, but for the wrong reason. “Jesus, Cherny, don’t do that!”
Chernobog, the Black God, took half a step back. “Sorry,” he rumbled, because he had a voice like a gravel truck. “Thought you saw me.”
“No one ever sees you until—never mind. Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.” She extended a hand. “It was nice of you to come. It’s been a while.”
Short, blunt fingers engulfed hers and squeezed. Like all of them, he was physically unchanged, still rocking the bulky physique, sweatshirt, and jeans that were his unofficial uniform. He had the build of an NFL athlete who’d retired a decade ago, thus the beer belly (gin belly, technically) sheathed in muscle.
His black eyes were so bright the corneas looked blueish, and his hair was a pale helmet. Like La Croix, he could loom without half trying.
“Saw your father. No change,” he added before she could ask.
“I know. It’s a problem.”
“Heard you Reaped.”
“Of course you did. Death gods gossip more than BuzzFeed.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
A short silence fell, because the god of darkness was the opposite of chatty. As she had many times before, Amara felt obliged to shatter the silence. “So you probably also heard about my friend.”
...
“Well, I kissed him today. Yes! That’s right! I orally mauled my best friend.”
...
“Not a peck. A full-on, all-lips-on-deck sort of kiss.”
...
“And he started to kissback! That’s the part that’s screwing me up.”
“Problems.”
“You’re damned right.”
“Change things?” At her blank stare, Chernobog pointed to his yellow head. “You can be something else.”
“Oh. No, we’ve been best friends forever. I know that’s an overused phrase, but it’s an overused phrase that happens to be true. What we had was perfect and I was stupid to risk it. Change is bad, especially now. Oh, and your attempt to dye your naturally black hair platinum looks entirely natural, so don’t worry.”
...
“Well, thanks for listening. Goodbye?”
A nod, and then he was gone, doubtless back among the shadows from whence he came. Or he was going to hit the kitchen for some cold venison. Either way: not her problem.
Scratch Chernobog, she thought. He wasn’t around for any of the death-god shenanigans.I can’t wait to tell Gray I was able to elim?—
She cut herself off. She wouldn’t be able to look at him right now, much less have a conversation.
I’ve ruined it. I ruined everything.
Her first instinct—to annihilate the memory of her blunder with copious amounts of booze—was (maybe?) a bad plan. She would, however, indulge in a long, mostly booze-free soak while she figured what the hell she would say to Gray when she saw him. Thank God the compound was... well, a compound. She should have no trouble avoiding him. She’d managed to avoid her aunt for most of the summer back in ninth grade, and dodged a subpoena her senior year.
Oh, you piece of shit coward.
