Page 80 of The Reluctant Reaper
“More an amuse-bouche than a meal, though.”
“That’s not how you pronounce that. I mean, you’re not even close.”
Gary shrugged off her devastating correction. “I think you’re just pissy because my idea didn’t work.”
“A little,” Amara admitted. Gray’s plan. A stupid plan. A “there’s no way this can work but let’s try anyway” plan: No one can resist the smell of freshly cooked, crisp bacon. Not even comatose Death. So he’d piled a plate with it and brought it to her father. Who was still in a coma. A bacon-resistant coma.
“Never mind me,” Gray replied to Paeon. “Though it’s nice of you to ask.”
“Yes, never mind him.” Christ, dideveryoneknow Gray would be in the dirt a few months from now? Stupid question. Just death gods and the god of godly medicine, apparently. “What’s the prognosis for my father?”
“How did you do it?” Paeon asked Hilly.
“That’s the question,” Amara replied. “Because I’ve got no idea.”
“Ah.” Paeon plopped his pink wheeled suitcase, which looked like a giant shiny Canada mint, on Death’s bed. It was a king, so there was plenty of room for him to pop it open and rummage, but it was still jarring. To Amara he said, “The fact that you don’t know gives credence to Death’s foolish, idiotic plan.”
“Thanks for the lecture, don’t trash my comatose dad, your medical bag is ridiculous, please answer my question.”
“Ichor, I would guess.” Paeon looked up. “Yes?”
Hilly, cupping her elbows as she observed the proceedings, nodded.
“Fast-acting, not necessarily controllable,” Paeon commented. “You—and I include Death in that ‘you’—likely assumed someone of such powerful longevity would be able to fight it off before he succumbed. That he could ingest enough to look ill, and be ill, but notsoill that he would lose his faculties. Or be in any real danger. But it’s the simplest thing to take too far. As we see here.”
“Ichor?” Gray asked.
Amara sighed. “They poisoned my father with their blood.”
Gray’s expression almost made her laugh: nausea warring with fascination. “Ichor is blood?”
“God blood. Yes.”
“And theyfedit to him? He went along with this?”
“Behold, my family,” Amara said dryly. “Not that it’s a contest.”
“Ichor is toxic to humans,” Paeon explained. “And not especially good for gods, either. It would kill you instantly, Mr. Graham.”
“Gray, please. So no god-blood cocktails formoi. Warning noted. But here’s where I keep ending up in the weeds: Death isn’t human.”
“His avatar is. It’s complicated,” Paeon said, kindly enough. “I’m guessing he deliberately made himself vulnerable. Allowed the ichor to begin to work.”
"Because he’s walking around in a human body,” Gray guessed. “So because physics—or would that be biology?—Amara’s dad can let himself be vulnerable?”
“Very well, Gray, perhapsnotcomplicated.”
“Not to brag, Dr. Paeon, but I read a ton of graphic novels and I’ve got over a decade of D&D under my belt.”
“Splendid,” replied the underwhelmed god of godly medicine.
Amara let out a sudden yelp: “Fuck!” Everyone flinched, including Hilly, who was too surprised to snap out a reprimand.
“God, I’m so blind. I wassupposedto figure this out, wasn’t I? This isn’t just a scheme of Scooby Doo–esque stupidity. It’s my rite of passage.” She let out a groan of pure irritation. “If I came on the run, remained to help, figured out the scheme and ‘saved’ Dad, I would be worthy of taking Death’s musty, feathery crown.”
“Oh,” Gray said. “Another reason for your mom to put off calling Dr. Paeon. Seeing as how he figured out what they did and how and why in about thirty seconds.”
“Yes, well.” Paeon didn’t quite shrug. “I am outstanding.”
