Page 8 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

I should be used to the silence by now.

The men barely acknowledge me. No explanations, no justifications—just the eerie, cult-like efficiency of a group that has definitely done this before. Not that they've ever caught a Grim Reaper, but they've definitely made plans and watched everything fall into place. Honestly, I half expect them to break into synchronized choreography, like some homicidal boy band.

The only hint that I’ve walked straight into a trap is the smirk Foxface hides beneath his nose.

He packs up their remaining equipment into garbage bags, and glances at me through his eyelashes every so often. If it weren’t for him, I'd assume I was invisible to them again, that they couldn’t see me, and I could continue my lifeless existence in peace.

But that's the thing, isn't it? There's nothing peaceful about me anymore.

“So, what's your plan?” I ask, biting my lip as I watch Cassian sort the bags. One pile for body parts. One for paper towels. One for acid containers. And, of course, one for their murder weapons and whatever the hell else they bring to these fun little outings.

The man is basically playing trash bag Tetris with human remains.

Lovely.

“Have some patience, Little Grim,” Foxface replies. “You'll learn everything. Just let us handle the ugly stuff first.”

Cassian straightens up from picking up all the garbage bags and turns around. His whole body shifts toward me, and he starts walking my way. My pitiful, ridiculous excuse for a heart decides this is the moment to freak out. He’s walking straight at me, eyes dark, stride unrelenting, and just as my brain finally catches up and thinks , Oh shit, he's really committing to this bit , it dawns on me—

The bastard isn’t stopping.

He’s going to walk straight through me.

At the very last second, I lurch out of the way like an idiot, only to realize I’ve just graciously cleared his path… to a garbage bag sitting at my feet the entire time. One I somehow failed to notice.

“Hey, watch it,” I grumble, fully aware he couldn’t care less about my complaints.

Predictably, he doesn’t even spare me a glance. Just grabs the garbage like that was his goal all along and keeps walking, leaving me standing there feeling like a ghostly third wheel to literal trash.

It's getting old fast. And, to top it off, I'm supposed to be this entity that they all need for something. But do they treat me like I'm anything more than air—something they can see, hear, and walk right through? No, I don't think so.

But I try not to dwell on it. That would mean diving into the mess of my newfound jumbled emotions, and that's the last thing I want right now.

Instead, I just cross my arms and head to a different part of the basement, one that's been thoroughly cleaned.

Nathaniel lifts an eyebrow from his crouched position near the corner, where he's been meticulously shining a UV light over the space between the wall and the floor. He sets the device down, cocks his head to the side, and gives me one of the darkest looks I've ever seen. And that's saying something—I was literally murdered.

“Thought the corporeal doesn't affect you,” he says, his voice hanging somewhere between a question and an accusation. The tone is deeply unsettling, like he’s either testing a theory or waiting for me to confess my sins. And honestly? Either seems plausible at this point.

He saw my reaction when Foxface almost touched me. He knows something’s changed—something I should no longer feel as a Grim Reaper. And yet, he wants me to spell it out for him. No way I’m giving him that.

“It doesn't,” I breathe out. “It's just… not great being treated like a wisp of nothing.”

His fingers drum idly against the edge of his knee before he lets out a quiet hum and returns to work. Cassian, on the other hand, seems to latch onto my words. His shoulders stiffen from where he stands across the room. I can only see his broad back before he tilts his head slightly over his shoulder. He still won’t look at me, his eyes locked onto some particularly interesting crack in the concrete floor. But it’s me he’s talking to.

“Isn't that what you are?” he asks. “A wisp of nothing?”

My voice dies in my throat.

I mean… I’m not alive. To everyone but them, I’m not even real. But somehow, the way he repeats my words makes my stomach twist.

A wisp of nothing.

I should agree. I should throw it right back at him, make it clear that I don’t care what he, or the other two think. But the words won’t come. Because deep down, something inside me refuses to accept that.

I was murdered. Erased. My body discarded like trash, my name already fading from the world I used to belong to.

And yet—I’m still here.

A wisp of nothing wouldn’t feel this rage curling in my gut.

“Doesn't matter what I am,” I manage to say. “Just don't pass through me. That's all I'm asking. You three already locked me in some magic circle, took the soul I was supposed to reap, dug up my grave, and carved my bones. The least you can do is give me this small thing, right? If you hate what I am, just try to remember what I once was.”

To any religious person, this list of offenses would sound like the résumé of a group of dudes getting express-shipped to hell. Murderers, defilers, maybe even some off-brand cultists who started with satanic rituals and then just got really into taxidermy for some reason. There’s no denying they’ll have to face the consequences of their crimes. But not yet. Not until they actually die.

Given who they are, I don't expect Cassian to take me seriously now. He doesn't seem the type to respect the dead, or the living, for that matter. But for whatever reason, my words seem to hit him.

His jaw tightens. His muscles flex. He exhales sharply through his nose, then turns back toward the grimy basement floor. His hands freeze over the garbage bags for just a second, his fingers curling—like he’s resisting the urge to say something—before he lifts one of the heavier bags over his shoulder.”Fine,” he grumbles. “No more passing through you. I'll remember that.”

Just like that. No argument, no sarcastic retort.

To say I'm surprised is an understatement. And even though I should feel relieved, that stupid, stubborn twist in my stomach only tightens. No, it gets even stronger .

“Right,” I murmur. “Thanks.”

But before he can hear me, he's already hauling three garbage bags toward the exit. I guess his courtesy for the dead extends only so little.

I sigh and glance around the room again. The blood that once coated everything is gone now. Same for the body, the plastic that separated the main area from the rest, and the creepy occult markings on the floor that made up my binding circle.

The smell of acid still lingers in the air, but the chlorine in it has cut through the moldy, grimy undertones. It’s cleaner now. Which is ironic, considering a whole-ass man got unalived here.

I have to give it to these guys, though. They really know what they're doing. The cover-up is flawless. No evidence left behind, no traces of struggle, no remnants of the horror that unfolded in this very room. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d think nothing ever went down here.

Foxface claps his hands together, a sharp sound in the stillness, then stretches with a sigh. “Alright, gentlemen, I’d say we’re just about done here.” His eyes flick to Nathaniel, who’s still running the UV light over every possible surface. “Well? Are we clear?”

Nathaniel grunts, standing up and shaking his head. “Not a single trace left. We’ve outdone ourselves.”

A pat on the back.

It still takes a little bit of time for Cassian to come back to the room and take another round of the garbage bags, while the other two check up every single little corner, nook, and cranny for any remnant of their crime, but around twenty minutes later, they're all done.

“Something’s still bothering me,” I say as they’re getting ready to leave.”Why go through all the trouble?” I gesture vaguely at the walls. “Why paint everything in blood like you’re decorating for a satanic welcome party if you’re just gonna scrub it all off later? Feels kinda... inefficient.”

I don’t mean to relate to them. Grim Reaper’s honor, I don’t. But since I’m apparently stuck with these unhinged murder connoisseurs, I might as well try to understand how their twisted little minds work.

Foxface snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Oh, Little Grim, you assume we kill just for the fun of it. Like we're mindless butchers with a hobby.” He tilts his head, looking at me like I'm some naive child, asking why the sky is blue. “But there's always a reason.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t see it,” I deadpan.

Nathaniel, who’s been quiet this whole time, finally speaks up. “The man you saw on that table wasn’t just some random target for the big bad wolves you probably think we are.”

I blink at him. “Okay? And?”

“He was a killer, Skye,” he says.

My mouth falls open. Then I snap it shut before anything dumb escapes, because I genuinely don’t know what shocks me more: the fact that they just admitted to murdering a murderer , or the fact that this guy somehow knows my name .

He dug up my grave. He took my bones. But nowhere under the willow tree was there a name, a date, or even a half-assed epitaph from my ex-husband. No indication that I had ever been laid to rest there.

So how the hell does he know my name?

I swallow down the questions clawing at my throat, narrow my eyes, and press my lips into a flat, unimpressed line.

“Oh, so this is what our Little Grim is called?” Foxface cocks a brow. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“As you shouldn't,” I deadpan. “But I guess Nathaniel here pulled it out of my bones like some kind of unhinged necromancer playing Ouija with my femur.”

Foxface… is he laughing? Yes. Yes, he is.

Nathaniel tilts his head, unbothered. “I’d actually like us to work together on a more... personal level. Unlike Cassian, I see you as a person.” He tells me, voice smooth and infuriatingly calm.

My spine stiffens. My stomach does something weird and tight that I refuse to acknowledge. There’s nothing cooperative about this situation, and absolutely nothing should be personal between me and these psychopaths.

But, if I had to choose, I guess I’d rather be treated like a person than a haunted paperweight.

“Great,” I mutter. “That works. For now. But you still need to tell me how you know my name.”

“I will,” he promises. “But later. Right now, we have a job to do.”

I glance at the garbage bags in the corner. Right. Considering the circumstances, I figure by “job,” he means “disposing of evidence in a way that won’t get them all on an FBI watchlist.”

Foxface sighs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Come, little Skye,” he drawls. “Let's become ghosts.”

I stare at him. He stares at me. I stare harder. He raises an eyebrow.

“Wow,” I deadpan. “That was clever. Truly. Shakespeare is weeping in his grave.”

He just grins.

I hover close as he grabs the last of the trash bags, and we all make our way out of the basement of this forgotten warehouse. Nathaniel opens the door, and the three of them step outside into the alley. A pickup truck sits parked as close to the building as possible, looking exactly like the kind of vehicle you’d use to transport either a body or an extremely questionable Craigslist purchase.

Cassian tosses the bags into the truck bed while Nathaniel slides into the passenger seat. Foxface swings into the cab after him, then yanks open the door and motions for me to climb in.

“You want me to… get into the car with you?” I ask, dumbfounded. He looks at me like it's obvious, but it's not. Not really.

A car is a moving object. I can walk just fine on solid ground—most of the time—but this? This is a physics nightmare waiting to happen. If I mess up, I’ll phase straight through the floor while they drive off and end up stranded on the pavement like an abandoned couch.

It’s happened before.

Once, I tried to sit in a moving subway car. I got distracted for a second, lost my grip on reality, and whoosh—straight through the floor. Do you know what it's like to be stuck underground while the world blurs past you like a fast-forwarded horror movie? It sucks.

So, no. I’m not exactly thrilled about attempting this again.

“Come on, don't make us wait forever.” He leans his forearm against the roof of the truck, and smirks. “We don’t have as much time as you do.”

Oh. Ha. Ha.

Nathaniel, already settled in the front seat, clicks his tongue. “She needs to focus on the truck’s physicality. Otherwise, she’ll phase straight through.”

“Like a ghost,” Cassian mutters, slamming the tailgate shut.

“No. Not like a ghost ,” I hear Nathaniel argue.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes my nonexistent stomach do a weird little flip—not in fear, but in a how the hell do you know so much about what I am? kind of way.

I try not to let it show as I steel myself, clench my fists, and will myself to stay solid. It takes effort—more than I want them to see—but I manage. When I finally slide into the backseat, I feel the truck’s fabric against my legs, the faint vibrations of the engine running.

The edges of my existence still tingle with every touch—not as much as when Foxface almost touched me before, but still enough to be deeply inconvenient. That changes when he slides in next to me and his hand brushes mine.

“Shit,” I curse, taking my hand away like he just licked it. Which, honestly, would be less confusing. Because instead of normal, healthy personal space reactions, my whole body decides to react like someone just plugged me into a malfunctioning neon sign. A live wire snaps across my skin, too much sensation all at once, like my soul is horny for danger. Foxface stills. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t move away. Just watches me with something dangerously close to curiosity.”What?” I snap, trying to shake off the lingering static—and failing.

His lips part slightly, like he's about to say something. But then he just huffs a quiet breath, leans back in his seat, and rolls his shoulders.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

Lies. Filthy, Foxface-shaped lies. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to demask them regardless.

Whatever this weird… zing was, it better not happen again. I have enough problems.

Nathaniel's eyes are on me. He's looking at me through the rearview mirror before he focuses on driving off. The movement jolts me slightly, but I stay grounded. Barely. Unlike most of the time, I can't find it in me to gather myself and feel… stable.

And bad things happen when an incorporeal being gets unstable. I wouldn't want to flicker in and out of this plane and get myself stuck in the darkness as it was sometimes the case.

Get it together, Skye. You’re an old-ass Grim Reaper. Experienced. You handle this shit.

“Where are we going?” I ask, mostly to fill the silence. Also, partly to focus on staying in the car and not unintentionally melting through it.

“Our place,” Foxface says.

“With the garbage bags?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Gonna dispose of them there.”

Um, okay.

“Right,” I mutter. “Whatever you say.”

Cassian makes a noise in the front seat. Not quite agreement, not quite dissent. Nathaniel's hands tighten slightly around the wheel.

Did I hit a nerve, or something?

Foxface turns his head toward me, suddenly grinning like a maniac. It’s not an ugly smile. Quite the opposite of that, actually. But when he opens his mouth, I immediately know why he’s giving it to me in the first place.

He’s about to bullshit.

“So, your name's Skye,” he drawls, laying it on thick. “Quite a pretty name. Quite fitting, too. You hover around, always watching. I like it.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost astral project. But the comparison gnaws at me. I don’t want to be some hovering presence, a forgotten specter lingering in the corners of the world. At least not anymore. Didn’t seem to bother me before they decided to carve my bones like artisanal soap. But still.”Yeah, well, I'd say you're more like a cockroach,” I mutter. “Crawling where you shouldn't be.”

That makes him laugh. And God help me, it’s a nice laugh. One of those deep, velvety, “come closer and make bad decisions” laughs. The kind that makes a living girl lean in before remembering this man has hobbies that involve a hacksaw.

Good thing, I’m not living.

“I like your spirit,” he says. Another one of his word plays. “My name's Talon. Less like a cockroach and more harp, deadly, and pretty fucking hot, if you ask me.”

“I wouldn't ask you,” I counter.

Talon chuckles, the sound smooth and easy. He really doesn’t have a care in the world despite the fact that we’re literally driving around with a truck full of dismembered body parts.

“Your loss, Little Grim,” he muses, tipping his head back against the seat. “I’m a man of many talents. You might come to appreciate me in time.”

“Doubtful.”

Wow. A self-obsessed killer, a cold, calculating one, and another who barely says a word. That’s my company now. And to think I used to complain about Pain.

Why am I even here? I should just end this conversation, fade out of the car, and go back to how things used to be.

But no. I linger. Why? Beats me. I just do .

“For some reason, I called you Foxface the whole time,” I tell him. “In my head,” I add.

He raises an eyebrow, his smile showing off a flash of sharp, white teeth.

“Because of the hair?” He gestures to his burnt ginger stands.

“Because you seem like a shady bastard.” I mean, foxes are cool—beautiful creatures—but I’m feeling the urge to take a jab at him. Just enough to wipe that smirk off his face. Unfortunately for me, and my still-twisting stomach, that smile only deepens.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t,” I mutter.

Nathaniel takes a sharp turn, and I have to brace myself to keep from slipping out of sync with the physical world. I don't quite manage the gravity right and my hand flies right toward Foxface's—Talon's—leg. The moment my hand passes through him, a jolt of something electric shoots through me again, and I outright yelp.

Yes, I yelp .

Talon goes still, staring at the spot where my hand should have touched him, but didn’t. The smirk fades instantly. His entire body tenses. Then, slowly, too slowly, he tilts his head.

“I felt that,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, lacking its usual playful tone. Somehow, that makes it worse. “Wiggle your fingers for me, would you?”

Like hell I would. I snatch my hand away as quickly as I can, like I'm alive and I’ve touched something burning. I press it into my lap, hoping the sensation will go away.

It's… infuriating. A weird mix of tickling and numbness, but it isn’t just in one spot. It spreads, like it's poison.

Nathaniel and Cassian are now completely silent in the front seat now. Nathaniel might be driving, but I know he’s totally focused on what just happened. Cassian, though—he's unnervingly still. I can't see his face, just the way his shoulders tense up.

“Come on, Little Grim,” Talon beckons. “Get your hand back here.”

I swear, he sounds like a perv.

“No.” I shake my head. But he doesn't take no for an answer. He tilts his head, smacks his lips, and reaches for my wrist. Or, more like, he tries to. The point is, he makes contact, and…

The world shudders .

My breath—if I can even call it that—hitches, and for a second, I swear I flicker. I snap back fast, though, because the sensation alone keeps me from slipping away.

“Fucking hell,” Talon mutters. “It's like sticking my hand through warm mist.”

In a flash, I find myself pressing into the car door, as far away from him as I can get. His dark green eye sparkles, getting brighter than a moment ago as he lowers his chin and smiles at me with his brows furrowed in a way that’s less charming and more psychotic.

“I told you,” I manage to say. “I don't want you passing through me.”

“I didn't. You’re the one who wanted to touch me first,” he shoots back.

“I did not. I just…” Words die in my throat. “I miscalculated.” It sounds pathetic even to my own ears, but it's true. Managing my form next to them while in a moving car is harder than I thought.

“Miscalculated, huh?” Talon teases.

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

“Nah,” he muses, stretching out his legs. “I just think it’s interesting. You always gotta concentrate this hard not to put your hands on a man's thighs, or is that just a me thing?”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because I’m too busy suppressing the urge to commit a violent supernatural crime. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Cassian turns around so fast I almost hear his spine crack, pinning Talon with a stare so chilling it probably dropped the car’s temperature by ten degrees.

“Talon,” he warns.

Of what, I don't know. But based on the way the air suddenly feels like we’re one wrong move away from a blood sacrifice, it’s not the kind of warning that comes without consequences.

Talon raises his hands in mock surrender. But the smirk never leaves his lips. If anything, it deepens, his eyes glinting with the kind of amusement only a man who enjoys being a problem can have.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, but there’s not a shred of sincerity in it.

I shift uncomfortably, pressing further into the door, as if that’ll somehow put more space between me and the absolutely heinous realization I’ve just had. The worst part about the tingles—that’s what I’m calling them now, because if I acknowledge them as anything else I’ll simply pass away—is that they don’t go away . Even after the contact is broken, they linger. Cling. Make themselves at home in my nervous system like they’re a part of me.

For lack of anything better to do (or to distract myself from the existential crisis happening in my own body), I turn to the window, watching the streets blur past. Less streetlights. Fewer buildings. Just the occasional warehouse or abandoned lot.

Technically, it’s still my jurisdiction as a Grim Reaper, but not somewhere I visit often. Not many people live here. Not many people die here.

Unless you count the occasional accidents… or murders.

“Recognize the area?” Nathaniel’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, where his stare meets mine.

“Somewhat.” I nod. “A big portion of the city is under my jurisdiction. This still applies to it. But anything further up north belongs to another Grim Reaper. We get assigned to districts.”

“Huh,” he breathes. “Didn't know that. What kind of districts?”

“Not the kind humans have. It's more of a natural balance thing. Souls are drawn to the Reaper meant to guide them, and we instinctively sense the boundaries of where we're supposed to work. The borders aren't physical, but they're solid enough that we don't cross into another Reaper’s territory unless something seriously messes with the order of things.” I shrug, eyes flicking back to the window. “Not that any of this matters now. Since, you know, you stole the soul I was supposed to reap.”

Nathaniel hums, clearly filing that information away. “So if we drove just a little farther north, you’d feel it?”

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. It’s like… stepping onto the wrong side of a magnet. Feels off.”

“Good thing we're not driving north then.”

Again, a surprising answer. More than that, I get the distinct feeling he's absorbing everything I say. He seems so… attentive . And I don’t know how to feel about that. Not that I care. It’s not like I have any trade secrets. The dead do what the dead do. Reapers reap. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

The truck slows down as Nathaniel pulls into a secluded lot, surrounded by crumbling brick walls and overgrown weeds. There’s a security fence, but it's half-collapsed, looking more decorative than functional. In the center of the lot, there’s a small side entrance leading into what looks like an… old hospital wing? Straight off, it looks like one of those abandoned places no one ever bothers to demolish because the paperwork is more trouble than it’s worth.

I don’t need to ask whose place this is.

Cassian gets out first, grabbing a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking the heavy door. Nathaniel follows, and Talon gestures for me to get moving.

“Welcome to our humble abode, Little Grim,” he says, the words—still—drenched in amusement. “I promise it’s cozier inside.”

I don’t doubt that. From the outside, this place looks like a ghost story waiting to happen. But these three don’t strike me as the kind of people who’d live in squalor. No, I imagine whatever’s inside is carefully curated, clean, and efficient. Just like the basement they left behind.

Cassian disappears inside without waiting for anyone, while Nathaniel moves around to the back of the truck, grabbing one of the heavier garbage bags. Talon stretches, looking way too pleased with himself, then nudges me forward.

“Go on,” he says. “Don’t be shy.”

I roll my eyes but step inside, immediately hit by the distinct scent of antiseptic. It’s faint, mixed with something darker underneath, something metallic. Something that makes the air feel sterile in a way that’s more unsettling than comforting.

Inside, the space is exactly what I expected—functional, carefully maintained, but completely devoid of anything personal. The walls are white-tiled, likely remnants from when this place was a functioning hospital, and the fluorescent lighting hums softly overhead.

But even though some of it looks like a ruin, the rest looks like a home.

The front room, which might have been a waiting area once upon a time, is now set up like a makeshift living space. A long, worn-out couch sits against one wall, a few mismatched chairs scattered around it. There’s even a coffee table with a half-empty deck of playing cards and an ashtray that looks suspiciously clean, like someone uses it regularly but hates the mess.

To my left, a door stands slightly ajar, leading into what looks like a small kitchenette. The overhead cabinet doors have been left open, revealing neatly stacked supplies—mostly non-perishables. There’s no sign of anyone actually cooking in there, but a state-of-the-art espresso machine sits on the counter.

Several doors leading into examination rooms, are now repurposed for something else entirely, but there are plants in every corner.

Talon passes right next to me, winking.

“See? Cozy.”

I snort. “Yeah, real homey. You guys do bed-and-breakfast, too, or just the occasional murder?”

Nathaniel sets down one of the garbage bags in a designated area by a metal door at the back of the hallway. He doesn’t respond to my snark, too busy rolling up his sleeves. I get the feeling he’s about to do something with the remains, and I don’t know if I want to see what that entails.

Cassian, having already disappeared down the hallway, returns a moment later with a pair of black gloves, snapping them on without a word. His dark gaze flicks to me briefly before he disappears through the metal door, leaving it open just enough that I catch a glimpse of what’s inside.

A morgue.

Of course.

This isn’t just their hideout. It’s a fully functioning disposal operation.

Nathaniel glances at me again.

“You're welcome to stay out here,” he says, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “But if you want answers, you’ll have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that some kind of a warning?”

Talon stretches his arms above his head, groaning dramatically. “It’s more like a friendly heads-up. We’re about to do something you might find distasteful—but if you’re gonna hang around us, you might as well get used to it.”

I glare at him. “I’ve been around plenty of death before, you know. It’s literally my job.”

“Yeah,” Talon grins, flashing teeth. “But you’ve never been on our side of it.”

He’s right.

The bodies I see as a Grim Reaper? They're irrelevant to me. I usually skip looking at them altogether, wanting to focus only on the twinkles of light leaving them. The souls.

But this? This is ugly.

And yet, I don’t want to leave.

Because, no matter how much I hate to admit it, I need to understand these men.

I need to understand why me .

Why my grave? Why my bones? Why did they act like they knew I’d come back?

I take a slow breath and step closer to the open door.

Talon whistles low, amused. “Oh? Little Grim is curious?”

I don't answer.

Nathaniel shakes his head and follows Cassian inside. Talon strolls in after them, and after a moment’s hesitation, I do, too.

I guess it’s time to get cozy with all aspects of death, huh?

Funny—I thought actually dying would’ve done the part.