Margie spits, “I’ve known from the moment you stepped into my house you were going to be trouble! When I realized that you were speaking to that Reaper—” She makes an affronted sound. “I knew that you had already been lost.”

  Well shit. She knows I’m with Grim.

  My eyes go wide.

  Margie waves her hand through the air. “I knew that I had to do something!”

  “What are you talking about?” I demand.

  “There are ways to contact the dead,” says Margie. “Old ways!” She stops on the other side of the counter from me, bracing her palms against the top of it. “The books I’ve collected over the years—they hold secrets someone like you could never dream of. I know how to speak with those on the other side.”

  My lips purse. “Margie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I told them about you.” Her voice drops low and furious. “And your satanic affair!”

  It strikes me, suddenly, that someone had to know I was seeing Grim. Otherwise, Satania would never know. But that’s drowned out by my inability not to let out a startled laugh and repeat back at her, “Satanic affair?”

  “I thought that you were just lost, Angelica.” Margie wrinkles her nose at me. “I tried to steer you back onto the right path at the park. I had hoped that my intervention would be enough to keep that ghoul away from you, but I can see now I’m wrong. You’ve already been corrupted.”

  “No one has corrupted me,” I counter, a flare of anger surging down my spine. When I was younger, my mother would often lament about how she wished I liked more traditionally feminine things; that I would wear Barbie pink instead of widow’s lace.

  Children in school, and even some of the teachers…people who I had never met before…their gazes weighed down with judgment as we take the same bus somewhere, or when they first step into my studio and see the sort of clothing I wear, my overly styled hair...

  To have someone like Margie think that she can do the same—and to my face, no less! Well, the anger at that is almost more prevalent than the fear that’s creeping down my spine, or the pressure-pain at the base of my neck.

  “You broke the boundary,” hisses Margie. “And now our city has paid for your mistake!”

  “I didn’t break any boundary.”

  “You cheated death!” Margie slams her palms down on the top of my desk. The sound startles me into jerking backward. “I was there the day it happened! You cheated death, and then you cohorted with it! And now the boundary has split. I’m no fool, Angelica. The media can try and find a plausible excuse for this, but I’ve known about the other side for too long.”

  “You think I’m the reason those people died?” I gasp as it clicks into place. “Margie, I had nothing to do with that. And whatever you think that you know about the Reapers, you’re wrong. They aren’t ghouls. Not all of them, at least.”

  Admittedly, I’ve only really spoken with Grim. Still, I think he would have warned me if the other Reapers were mindless, death-wanting monsters. He was very clear in explaining to me that they don’t cause deaths… And that’s why Satania’s actions were so brazen.

  “I don’t just think it,” says Margie. “I know it! And I know that there is only one way to stop it from happening again. I have to restore order and balance to our world!”

  With a throaty scream, the older medium lunges over the counter, grabbing for my throat. I barely fling myself backward in time. There’s a clatter as my photography book hits the floor, pens and papers following suit.

  I throw myself around the side of the counter, grateful that I chose pants today and not a skirt. Margie grabs for me, catching hold of my wrist. She pulls me back. I trip, staggering into the desk as she throws me backward.

  The medium pulls a knife from the folds of her cardigan. It’s no butcher knife—nothing large, but for a moment, I see an ax in her hand; for a moment, she is the killer in the movie that keeps playing, and I’m the blonde that’s fallen onto the road.

  The reality is that it looks to be some sort of a ceremonial knife—gilded handle and all. And the blade, a strange silver that almost glows when she swings it toward me. I roll out of the way, grabbing the lamp from the end of my desk.

  The cord pops from the wall with a spark of electricity. I’m too terrified to notice how close that came to being an electrical fire; the forewarning of my own death. Instead, my only goal is getting Margie away from me.

  With a shout of my own, I spin around and slam the lamp into her head. The glass bulb explodes, the lampshade crumpling. The impact is enough to have the older woman crumpling to the ground.

  Margie groans, grabbing at her head. The skin split where I slammed the lamp against her, and it’s already starting to bruise. Trying not to think about the fact I beat up an old lady, I don’t wait around for her to regain her senses, instead just turning and throwing myself toward the door.

  I run into it, face first. She locked it when she came in. It’s not a problem. My trembling hands fumble for the lock and it clicks open, easy as pie. But it gave Margie enough extra seconds to get back onto her feet.

  She screams at me, “You’re going to doom this whole city, Angelica! You can’t escape Death and not suffer the consequences!”

  The door swings open. Fresh air hits me. I’ve barely been in the studio for an hour, so it’s still mid-day, the sun having reached its highest point in the sky above me. Without stopping to respond to Margie, I take off away from the studio, leaving it open behind me.

  I don’t stop running until I’m in front of my apartment door. My hands are still shaking, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. Sweat runs down the back of my neck and I’m panting, open-mouthed, trying to catch my breath as I fumble with my keys.

  I manage to get the door open and stagger inside. Instantly, a sense of comfort washes over me. I’ve barely even been able to pinpoint the source of the sensation when strong, bony arms wrap around me.

  Grim asks, “Angelica, what’s wrong?”

  I sag against him, too out of breath to answer. My arms curl up between our bodies, so I can tangle my fingers into the front of his oil-slick robes.

  “Was it Satania?” Fear is heavy in his voice.

  I shake my head, still haven’t regained breath. Grim doesn’t try to make me move or make me talk after that. He just holds me until my breathing evens out and I’m able to pull away from him and straighten up some.

  Over his shoulder, I can see that Wil is still waiting on the balcony to be let in, gaze curious.

  “I’m okay,” I promise. I let Wil in and then head into the kitchen to get a drink, a can of cold cola from the fridge. My long nail pops the tab easily. That first swig is practically euphoria.

  “Something happened.” Grim states the obvious.

  Wil says, “You might as well let him know. We won’t be able to tell you about becoming a Reaper until you do.”

  “What?” I perk up, my attention instantly caught.

  Grim insists, “Did you get hurt?”

  “I’m not hurt,” I reassure him. “Another medium—she attacked me.”

  “The old broad?” guesses Wil.

  With a nod, I briefly explain what happened, then insist, “I told you, now you tell me. You found out how to make me a Reaper? Really?”

  “She tried to kill you?” Grim’s voice is thinly veiled in fury.

  Thankfully, Wil is more content with my story. He jumps up onto the kitchen counter next to my coffee pot, and tells me, “We know someone who will know more about it than us. A goddess.”

  “A goddess,” I turn toward him, letting Grim fume over my run-in with Margie. It has me frazzled, of course, but it’s easy to shift my focus into solving problems instead of lamenting on problems.

  Plus, the distraction is helping settle my nerves some.

  Wil says, “Don’t say it like you’re surprised. You’re dating someone made of bones, and I look like a talking cat. Of course the world is bigger than you think.”

  “Does the goddess make the Reapers?” I question.

  Wil flicks an ear. “No. She’s the Goddess of Memories. She’ll be able to help us figure out how Grim became a Reaper. Then we can figure out if it’s something we can do for you.”

  “We should handle this problem with the mortal first,” Grim fumes.

  I tell him, “It doesn’t need to be handled. I won’t be mortal for much longer, and then Margie won’t be an issue. If she wants to let her days fill up with fear and hate, so be it. I don’t want that for me. I want to visit this goddess. How do we find her?”

  “We go to her home,” says Wil. “And hope that she’s kind enough to let us in.”

  “All right, and… How do we do that?” I straighten my shoulders.

  Wil perks up, looking like a pleased prince as he sits there. “You let me handle it.”

  Grim gives a heavy sigh. He seems to decide that just going along with what I want is better than heading off to try and find Margie, and explains, “Omens are able to open portals.”

  “We find them,” says Wil. “They're already there and opened. Just hidden.”

  “Okay,” I nod. “Where’s this portal at?”

  Wil lets out a mrow of laughter and says, “Believe it or not, Angelica, it’s at the park.”

  “The park?” I laugh too, giddy and exhausted even before this journey has started. “All right. Then I guess we’re making a trip to the park.”

  And with that decided… Off we go!

  Chapter Eight

  Grim

  The fact that someone tried to hurt Angelica leaves me with a bubbling rage I haven’t felt in years. Mediums are dangerous. The older they get, the harder their powers are to handle. And that tends to leave them progressively less mentally stable. Some of them are like Angelica, gifted just with sight for the world around them. Others, granted visions of things that have already happened, or things that might happen.

  Dreams that haunt them even in the waking hour. Enough latent energy that they’re able to contact souls and spirits that have passed on.

  And some of them are just so obsessed with their ability that they go out of their way to get their hands on every text and tomb about the spiritual world they can; the more knowledge they gain, the more they fear and hate and struggle to keep their gifts working in their favor and not against them.

  I’m not surprised that this other medium would have figured out at least part of what had happened. The fact that she would blame Angelica for it, that makes sense. But even if it makes sense, it still leaves me furious. Angelica is mine; my mortal, my human, my love. And that someone would try to hurt her…

  I can’t help but simmer on it the entire way out to the park. It’s starting to creep toward early afternoon now, and there are plenty of people around. Wil sticks to the shadows, vanishing under one car and stepping out from beneath another, until we enter the fenced greenery.

  Then he leads the way, caring less about what humans might spot him. He looks like little more than a stray alley cat to them; Angelica, like a woman trying to catch him. My own visage is hidden from mortal eyes.

  Wil guides us to one of the farthest parts of the park, and the base of an old oak tree. He sits in front of it, and his eyes begin to glow.

  “Whoa,” breathes Angelica, enraptured by the sight. I can’t help but agree. With Angelica so close to me, her aura is enough to color the world around us. And for the first time, I can see Wil’s magic in its golden, vibrant glory.

  The color exudes from him; eyes first and then his entire body. He sits there, focusing, guiding it. The golden light builds up on the tree, and quickly takes the form of a door; it’s a solid rectangle of power.

  “I’m coming with you,” insists Wil. “It’s the only way you’ll be able to come back.”

  I take hold of Angelica’s hand, tangling our fingers tight. We step through the doorway together, and into a long tunnel. The golden light stretches out, forming the walls and the ceiling. There’s another door at the end.

  As we step closer to it, the door seems to grow farther away.

  “This happened in my apartment,” gapes Angelica. “I knew it was a sign!”

  The corner of my mouth twitches a little bit. “I would think it’s a good one, it means we’re actually heading in the right direction.”

  Wil looks up at us. “You’ll head in no direction without me.”

  The moment that the black cat catches up with us, the hallway seems to stabilize and we’re able to finish walking through it, to the door of golden light on the other side. Just like before, I hold Angelica’s hand as we walk through it—no longer at the park, but in an entirely different world.

  “Holy shit,” says Angelica, looking over the land.

  Wil lets out a mrow of laughter. “Honey, this isn’t anything. You should see some of the places out there!”

  “I think that I might agree with Angelica on this one,” I tell the Omen, pausing to take in the view. The ground is a patchwork image, as though every land has been stitched together. A square of fresh, tall grass, and one that has just been mowed short. Another of desert sand in golden hues, and a third in white sugar sand.

  Valleys and meadows and a variety of rocks. The world is made of memories; pieces of the earth that existed long before humans did, woven with the structures of their own creation. Apartment buildings and massive redwood trees all loom before us, with jutting spires of partial mountains and great expanses of lakes and oceans woven between.

  Wil says, “It’s just because you haven’t done much traveling.”

  “Don’t act as if you have, just to show off,” I say, with a roll of my eye lights.

  “Just because I’ve only been working with you for fifty years, that doesn’t mean I’ve only been around for fifty years,” Wil grouses. “Come on, it’s this way.”

  He guides us through the strange world of memories, over the various terrains, and toward…a fence that rises from the ground. Like the rest of the world, the fence is made of many images, many types of fences connected.

  At the center is a gate, and before that gate is a massive tiger. The creature is nor normal tiger; his upper half is that of a human woman, body draped in strands of gold and folds of orange cloth. Her eyes glint emerald green.

  “You come to see Mnemosyne,” says the guardian. “You have her offering.”

  “Offering?” I question, glancing toward Wil.

  The cat sits down. “I have your offering, Willomina. A memory.” His ears flick back. “A memory of great importance.”

  Angelica questions, “Do we all need to give one?”

  “Yes,” says Willomina, Guardian of the Gate. “To see her, you must first offer tribute. Tell me, mortal woman, what tribute do you give?”

  Angelica looks at Wil for direction.

  The Omen explains, “It has to be a memory that is dear to you. And a good one, at that.”

  “How do I give it?” Angelica questions.

  Willomina holds out her hand. “Simply think it.”

  Angelica’s eyes close. Her brows crease with concentration, and then smooth out. She exhales through her nose.

  With a twitch of her fingers, Willomina guides the memory out of her form. It turns into a silver mist in the air. Within the mist, we can see fleeting images of the memory itself; a very young Angelica, sitting on a boat in a lake with her mother. They’re laughing and smiling. She looks happy and innocent.

  Willomina catches the memory the same way one might catch a firefly, between two cupped palms. “That is very good. Your offering is accepted.”

  Angelica wavers when her eyes open, hand coming up to her temple.

  I curl a hand around her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” she says with a slight groan. “I just feel… Like I’m missing something.”

  Looking amused, Willomina directs her gaze toward Wil. “And you, little Omen?”

  Wil hesitates. Then he closes his eyes. Just as before, the memory is pulled from him in the form of silver mist. In it, there is a man and a woman. They look like they belong together, sitting in the garden of a great palace, leaning against each other.

  When Willomina cups her hands together, Wil drops his head toward his chest, ears pinned back, as though in great mourning.

  “Your memory of Ilana will be kept safe,” promises Willomina. Then she turns to me, and I realize I have no memory to offer her.

  I hold out my hands. “All of my memories are new.”

  “I know how a Reaper works,” says Willomina, still managing to sound quite amused. “Your modern memories mean very little. They are too easy to replace. But your bones, now, those are hard to come by.”

  She smiles, a flash of viciously sharp teeth. I recoil a little. “My bones?”

  “Don’t get so up in the air about it,” laughs the Guardian of the Gate. It’s a rolling sound, like a tiger’s roar. “I think just a finger bone should do. Hand out, if you wish to enter.”

  Though I’m nervous, I give her my hand anyway. The tiger-woman reaches down and pinches straight through the magic that holds me together. There’s no pain in the action, just the strange discomfort of having lost something.

  The tip of my left ring finger is pulled away, and my body simply acts as though it has been that way for a long time. Just as she cupped the memories, Willomina does the same to the finger bone, and when she moves her hands, they have vanished completely.

  “Now you may enter,” says Willomina. “Follow the path. It will lead you to my goddess.”

  A strong, fierce wind blows the gate open. We step through it. The wind doesn’t stop. It howls around us like a raging, horrid gale force. It curls through the air, twisting, pushing, pulling. The hood of my cloak is swept from my head.

  I reach up and scoop Wil against my chest, so that the little Omen doesn’t have to fight quite so hard against the rushing, crashing winds.

  The path is straightforward, a simple dirt trail through the patchwork land of memories. Angelica asks, “What’s with the wind?”