Grim doesn’t say anything.

  That’s fine. I can tell he’s nervous, that he’s worried. I can even understand why. The thought of losing him, it’s awful. But I already went through that once, when he vanished to the Reaper Council without saying anything first. I thought that he was gone, that he would never come back.

  When he did come back—when I realized how much I loved him—it hit me.

  There’s nothing that will ever be strong enough to break our connection. I don’t know if there’s really a red thread joining us somewhere, but I do know this: I love him, and there’s nothing that will ever be powerful enough to stop me from loving him.”

  So I tell him, “Unless you have another idea for how to fix all of this, I think that trying to figure out how to keep my memories when I change into a Reaper is going to be the best option that we have. I know it’s scary. But the thought of Satania doing something to prevent us from seeing each other… that’s worse. Right?”

  A long, long moment while Grim thinks it over. Then he gives a single nod. “She’s childish, and she has the tendency to be cruel. I don’t know how far her anger will stretch. I’ve gone back to work, but… I know that it won’t be enough to sate her. She isn’t going to let this slide quietly into the night.”

  “Then we need to find a way to make it see the dawn.” I reach out and take hold of his hand, tangling our fingers together as we walk. The hem of his robe sleeve brushes over the back of my wrist. The fabric is cool and soft.

  Grim is silent for a long moment. This time around, I let him have it. We walk through the city, toward the home of the mark. Her name is Cheryl Burnett. I don’t know how she’s going to die just yet, but I will by the end of the night.

  Wil is already sitting on the sidewalk just in front of the house, waiting for us. As we approach, one of the street lights flicker, just for a moment. I think that anyone else would have ignored it, but I’ve been working hard at noticing signs when I see them.

  Wil stands up and stretches languidly. “Power.”

  “I saw it.” Grim turns to me and tilts his skull to the side, gaze serious and bright. There’s something about the flickering flare of his eye lights I’ve always found captivating. Right now, it’s as though he isn’t just looking at me, he’s looking inside of me.

  He’s staring into my very soul, and getting ready to peel it back and see what lays even deeper within me than just that.

  I meet his gaze unwavering, and tilt my chin back. “This is going to work.”

  Wil spits, the sound sharp in the night. Both of our heads swivel to stare at him.

  The little black cat’s tail is lashing angrily. “I don’t care what you’ve come to decision-wise. Stop talking about it. Stop thinking about it. From here on out tonight, this mark is the only thing that you think on—either of you. That clear?”

  Grim opens his mouth as though he’s going to make a snide comment and then closes it again. I’m sure he’s thinking about how close he came to losing Wil earlier in the week, so instead, he just nods and he says, “You have nothing to worry about, Wil. The Collection will happen just as easily as all the others this week.”

  “It had better,” says Wil, and that truly is that for the night.

  Chapter Six

  Grim

  It’s not until after Angelica is back in her home for the night and the soul has been both Collected and delivered that Wil looks up at me, perched on a trash can in a back alley, and he says, “You know she’s going to be your death.”

  “Why are you bringing this up? You’re the one who told her to pursue this,” I snap, turning away from him. My robe swishes around my legs as I move through the alley, back toward the street. I pause at the mouth of the exit, surprised when Wil doesn’t follow me.

  He’s still perched on the trash can, watching.

  “Wil,” I say. “Nothing that comes out of your mouth will convince me not to pursue her.”

  “We don’t know what the dogs meant, or the wind,” says Wil, citing omens of the past.

  I frown at him. “Yes, we do. They have already come to pass. I told you that already; the dogs and the wind, they were what helped me convince her—”

  “You’re wrong,” says Wil. “and considering I’m the Omen here and not you, it might behoove you to actually listen to me.” He finally hops down from the trash can, silent as can be. “Grim, this is something that is bigger than a lost hat in the park.”

  My frown deepens, brow bones pinching down. “Did you see something that you haven’t told me about?”

  Wil shakes his head, one ear flicking. “I shared all of the omens with you. It’s not my fault that you aren’t listening to them, or that you haven’t been able to see how we can circumvent them from ever coming to pass.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles,” I tell him. “You’re not a sphinx or a fae.”

  Another flick of the ear. He still doesn’t cross through the length of the alley and come toward me. Wil does say, however, “It’s not a riddle, it’s simple. If she’s a Reaper, then her trajectory in the world will have changed. And that means she won’t be the cause of your death anymore. You could live.”

  “At the cost of her memory of me,” I quip. “That’s not—”

  “Do not dismiss me like that.” The hair along his spine stands on end. “And do not dismiss this idea. You could figure out how to do both, Grim. For once in your undead afterlife, be a greedy son of a bitch and go for both. Seek out Satania, and see what she has to say. She might tell you something. She might.”

  I don’t think that the Head Reaper will say anything about the situation, but I agree to it all the same, if only to appease both Wil and Angelica. I say goodbye to Angelica before leaving this time too, and enter into the Between of my own accord this time around, rather than being forced there by another Reaper.

  I still end up on the Bridge of the Dead, above the rolling Sea of the Damned. The spirits thrash beneath me, twisted and deformed. They have been gone for too long to try and escape, and they lived in the realm of the mortals past their prime for too many years as well.

  Before Reapers were around, or at least before they were an organized force, the spirits of those who died were left to roam the mortal realm. These souls have been twisted and forced into beings that are beyond repair. Now, they serve as the river that the Collector’s ferry the freshly gathered souls upon.

  There are no Collectors on the river right now, which is fine. They bother me. Something about them, it’s unsettling.

  The Bridge leads me to the large, white wall that wraps around the Reaper Chapel, home of Satania, the head reaper, and gathering spot of the Reaper Council. A long time ago, the wall had many entrances. But as more of the world became segmented, they slowly vanished.

  Now, there is only one way into the Reaper Chapel, and only one way out; the bridge that I walk on at this very moment. The double doors are closed but they open of their own accord as I draw closer, letting me step into the vast expanse of garden that surrounds the Reaper Chapel.

  The flowering valley has no start and no end. The edges of my vision grow almost fuzzy when I try to focus on the furthest point of the garden. Massive oak trees sprout up and form a towering canopy, and the ground level of the garden is filled with everything from ferns to night shades.

  The path leading away from the gate is made of an ombre of stones; light to dark and then to light again, in shades of white and gray and black. The side of the path is lined with small flowers, whose heads turn toward me as I move, their petals soft and delicate.

  I pause, picking one from where it was growing. The stem settles between my phalanges, the flower resting on my upturned palm. I wonder what color the petals are.

  It’s a new thought, for me at least. So much of the world has always been monochrome. It wasn’t until Angelica came into my life that I began to want more; that I began to wonder what the world truly looks like.

  I’ve asked Wil about a few things, in the recent days, but not enough. There are still too many questions that have yet to be answered.

  Are these petals truly white, or are they a soft shade of pink? Is the path that I’m on really done in shades of gray and black, or is there another color beneath those sullen, still hues? When my gaze turns toward the river that the path seamlessly becomes, I can’t help but wonder what the water looks like.

  Blue, or clear, or tinted with color? Does the sunlight hitting it flash in shades of yellow, like people write about in their stories?

  So many questions, and no answers. I drop the flower and continue on the path, starting through the stream that leads to the cathedral at the heart of the garden. The water is repelled magically from my robes, just as it always is.

  The cathedral comes into view. It’s a large building, made of every style of architect that the world has ever created. Wil says that it truly is made from white stones, but he also says that the windows are stained glass, and they shine in a rainbow of colors.

  The last time that I was here, it was for a gathered council. The doors were flung open, and organ music played the March of Death within. Today, the doors are closed and there is no music.

  Letting out a deep breath in the hopes that it will expel the last of my nerves from me, I move up to the entrance and push the doors open. The inside of the cathedral looks much the same as any mortal church, with a long aisle way that is lined in padded pews. It’s not until one looks at the top that they realize something is amiss.

  Rather than a pulpit for preaching, the front end of the chapel is taken up by a throne woven of yew and bones. Sitting in the chair is Satania herself, the Head Reaper. Her gilded, soul stone headpiece glints in the non-light of the room.

  “Satania.” I try to put as much false reverence into the tone as I can. She’s the fly, and I’m trying to catch her with honey, not vinegar. “I seek counsel.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, then waves one hand and bids me to come closer. “Come, then, and ask your question.”

  I walk up the long aisle. In the corner of my vision there are flashes of ghosts and spirits, residual energy. They don’t linger, and I can focus on none of them. There is no stool beside her, because I am not here for judgment.

  Instead, I follow protocol and take a knee in front of her, folding one arm over the crook of my bent leg.

  Satania looks me over, then nods once. “Ask your question.”

  “We are many in number,” I start. “But I do not know how that came to be.”

  Satania says nothing.

  I ask her, “What creates a Reaper?”

  Her eye sockets narrow. Her eye lights flare. I don’t know what color they are, but I can see the passion and the fury rising up in them. She tells me, “That knowledge is forbidden. There’s no reason you should know it.”

  “Why?” I challenge.

  Satania hisses out, “Because you don’t get to choose who creates the Reapers!” She lurches to her feet, her robes fluttering around her legs. “That is not your decision!”

  I don’t know where her Omen is. The black panther is far more level-headed than Satania, who is known for her childish outbursts, her quick temper, and a desperation to always be entertained by something. I knew that coming out here would be a waste of time!

  No matter how much I try to convince her that the knowledge is fine to share, Satania refuses to tell me, eventually ousting me from the cathedrals entirely. I have no choice but to listen, retreating back into the garden like a dog with my tail tucked.

  The flowers and the plants no longer hold my interest. I stray from the path, pushing deeper into the trees and hoping that I might find something of use in the garden.

  I do, but not in the way that I had been hoping.

  There, between the trees in the not so far distance, is none other than Baber.

  She looks at me, one hand on the trunk of an old oak. The ground beneath her is brittle and dry, where she’s absorbed the energy of the grasses.

  Baber says, “I was wondering when you would find me. Has anyone ever told you that it takes you forever to do literally anything?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games,” I tell her.

  “Good,” says Baber, “Because this isn’t a game.”

  My mouth tugs into a thin line. “Do you think I’ll listen to anything you have to say, after you took Wil?”

  “Yes,” Baber tells me, simply enough. “Because I was just doing my job.” She folds both arms behind her head. “It wasn’t anything personal, Grim. But this? What I’ve got to say?” That’s a rare sharpness to her smile. “It’s very personal.”

  She turns and steps deeper into the garden. After a moment, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow after her. The garden is endless. Baber leads me to a section with few trees and many flowers. Their hidden colors do little to sully the view.

  Baber perches on a stone in the clearing, swinging her legs back and forth. It seems like a false idleness.

  “What is this about?” I demand, stopping in front of her.

  Baber tilts her head to the side. “You made a joke about a Minotaur, at the counsel meeting.”

  My teeth grit together, jaw tightening. “Everyone makes that joke.”

  “It’s not a joke,” says Baber, still in that light voice she always uses. It’s disarming. She acts as though everything is a game, but only in the way that she talks. I know that Baber is one of the oldest Reapers around, and that she has some of the highest priority jobs given to her as well.

  I stay silent.

  Baber continues, “When I was much younger, I fell in love with a Minotaur. Al-da-ra.” She says each syllable of his name as though it’s a precious prayer. For the first time in all the many eons that I’ve known her, the shadows around her skull fade and I can see her face clearly. “I loved him, and he loved me.”

  “I—”

  Baber talks over me, “But Satania didn’t like that anymore than she likes your little mortal girl.” The Reaper slides from the stone suddenly, and the action has her standing directly in front of me, so close that we’re nearly touching. “So she gave me a job. Can you guess what that job was?”

  It’s not a question I’m meant to answer.”

  “Collect the soul of Aldara,” says Baber, in a poor mimic of Satania’s mightier-than-thou voice. “It was my job. So I did. I Collected his soul, and I brought him back. And I never saw him again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. The grief in Baber’s voice is palpable, thick enough that it makes my own emptiness stir in sympathy.

  “I don’t want your apologies or your pity.” Baber pauses, then takes a half step back. The air between us is crackling with energy. She tilts her skull to the side. “My bed was made, and I laid in it. But your bed hasn’t been made yet. I told you before, I support you, your mortal belle.”

  “It doesn’t matter. If she orders me to Reap Angelica—”

  “Satania will never tell you how a Reaper is made,” interrupts Baber. “And I don’t know the answer to that question, either. But I know someone who will.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “The Goddess of Memories,” says Baber. “Mnemosyne. If anyone will be able to answer your questions… It will be her. And luckily for you, I know just how to enter her realm.”

  Chapter Seven

  Angelica

  Grim has only been gone for a day and a half, and I already miss him. It sits in the back of my chest like a solid weight. I am so ridiculously tempted to just sit around all day in a slump until my Reaper shows back up… but considering that I’ve been giving him all sorts of speeches about not slacking in his work, I figure it wouldn’t be right if I started slacking in mine.

  With a groan, I roll off of the couch and drift into the master bathroom to get dressed. It doesn’t take that long, really. I’ve got my routine totally down pat. The cat’s eye liner goes on easy, the blush, my little purple heart just beneath one eye, and a spritz of setting spray that never fails to make me flinch.

  My green- and purple-dyed hair is pulled up into coifs and curls and then my blue corset is pulled on tight, over a pair of dark jeans and a black leather belt that wraps around my thighs in a visible garter.

  It makes me look less like I’m waiting for a sailor to come back from sea, even if I still feel like I should be standing at the base of the lighthouse in anguish. The mental metaphor has me giggling as I step out of my apartment and head to work.

  It took a long time for me to get my photography studio up and running. I had always thought that leaving town and heading for the big city was going to be my end goal, but now I’m realizing that what I want more than anything is just…to be with Grim.

  Knowing that, all this silly mortal putzing around feels less important. Still, I flip the sign to OPEN, take a moment to be grateful that the AC has finally been fixed, and then go about setting up for the day. I’m still in the back studio room when the bell above the door chimes.

  It must be a walk-in!

  I don’t get those too often so I put on my best “welcome” smile and step into the main lobby—only to freeze when I realize who’s there.

  Margie, another medium, stares back at me. She’s an older woman, at least in her forties or her fifties, and she wears her dark brown hair pulled back away from her face. Today, she’s pulled on a fuzzy black cardigan over her simple blue cotton dress.

  “Margie,” I say, struck with the same push at the back of my neck as the last time that we met. This woman unnerves me.

  Something like anger flashes in her eyes. “You fool,” she announces, storming across the room. “I’ve seen what you did! I know that this is your fault!”

  “What are you talking about?” I swiftly side-step her, over to the front counter. It puts more space between us without making me look like I’m running away.