Page 19 of Grim

NotNothing

U pon returning to Rue’s home through the family plot portal, I set the woman down, only to watch her knees buckle and her already-pale face go grey.

She falls to the ground as her breathing becomes labored.

Naturally, I sigh loudly for no one’s benefit but my own.

Bending down, I pick her up and carry her through the yard and return her to her spot on the living room couch.

“Precisely why you should’ve stayed,” I mutter as she lolls her head against my shoulder, falling into unconsciousness. “Transport is not meant to be a luxurious ride. You have one foot through to the other side and decide you’re wanting to try out the supernatural transit system? Foolish.”

I stand behind the chair facing the couch to wait for her to wake up.

Deciding I need a distraction, I focus on my mobile and make notes.

The cold, clinical task of filling out the case report grounds me in what I laughingly refer to as my reality.

I log the details: Peaceful departure, minimal resistance.

No haunting probability. Standard grief levels in the next of kin .

It’s a textbook case, and I should be satisfied. But I’m not. Something rankles.

I’m about to send off a status report to Big D when a drowsy, purring sound from the couch pulls my attention. It’s not the dreaded cat, but rather a creature I’m finding may be far more dangerous.

Rue Chamberlain.

Her blue-grey eyes flutter open, tired, confused—yet somehow still radiating a light that’s so damn impossible to ignore. She rises, slowly pulling herself up, hair mussed, lips parted, breathing deep. I’ve witnessed thousands of humans wake. But none have affected me quite like this.

There’s a grace and fluidity to her movements that weren’t there before, or perhaps I didn’t notice them. Either way, I cannot deny the growing pull this frustrating human has on my thoughts. I loathe it. I think.

“Welcome back,” I droll, attempting to sound aloof.

“Is it over?” Her voice is hoarse, raspy, like gravel over silk.

“For Olivia in this life? Yes.”

“Her name was Olivia,” Rue repeats, her gaze softening as she voices the name—that reverence in her voice makes my chest ache in ways I don’t care to admit.

“Yes, well …” I clip, brushing past the raw emotion that is starting to linger like smoke in the air. “You should go get yourself some water. You sound hoarse.”

I avert my gaze, but the truth is, I don’t care about the damn water. I care about the way she looks, sitting there, the way her eyes flicker with something almost hopeful despite it all.

“How do you do it?” she blurts, uncharacteristically raw, her words slipping out like the breath she’s been holding since we stepped into this strange, uncharted territory together.

“Do what?”

“All of it. Any of it. It’s so …” She pauses—searching for the right word, I imagine. “Sad,” she eventually finishes.

The word sits heavy between us.

Sad.

Such a small, woefully inadequate word for what it really is.

I stare daggers back at Rue as my jaw tightens. Hundreds of years of practice, of repression, of keeping my spine straight, heart closed, and duties cleanly executed—and this little flame of a woman dares to see through the cracks.

I sigh, unable to wholly ignore her empathetic energy. “I wish I could say it gets easier, but it doesn’t,” I admit. My voice is lower. “It’s just different.”

“But they don’t really die, do they? Not forever? There’s something else. It’s not the end,” she presses, the hope of something more, something bigger still clinging to her.

“No, it’s not the end,” I reply solemnly, my voice dragging, careful not to break the illusion she’s clinging to.

“But it’s not the same. You lose control.

You go where Fate decides. You’re part of a system that forces you to give up any autonomy, any free will you might have had—and probably took for granted for too long. ”

My mind flashes briefly back to my mortal days—simple memories of the ocean air tickling my cheeks or a warm blanket enveloping me and—

“But surely, there are moments of joy in the OtherWorld?” Rue breaks my reverie. “Experiences worth living for, for lack of a better phrase?” Her voice is hopeful yet tinged with something, as if she can sense the quiet, buried sorrow in me that I try so desperately to ignore.

I hesitate. I should shut this down, but instead, I find myself responding.

“Indeed, but don’t underestimate the power of feeling,” I say in a rare, unguarded moment.

The look in Rue’s hopeful eyes pulls more words from me.

“And I don’t just mean emotionally because that does stay—oh, believe me, that does stay.

But physically too. Feeling. The power of touch is everything.

It’s singular and the heartbeat of mortal living. And it is strong.”

“She tried to kiss him.”

“What?” I ask, missing Rue’s transition.

“Before we left. The reap. Before she moved on to Processing or whatever you call it.”

“AfterLife Processing. ALP. Yes. Go on.”

“Yeah. She tried to wipe a tear and kiss his forehead. But the tear didn’t move, and he didn’t respond.”

“That’s right, and that’s because she couldn’t. Not anymore. But her first impulse—many souls’ first impulse as they begin to pass over—is to stay connected to this world through physical touch.”

I think about all the final touches I was witness to, all the desperate moments of desperate souls clinging to metaphorical lifesavers, unaware that drowning is inevitable. Better simply to give in, to give over, rather than be stranded in the middle of the unforgiving sea.

“But I can.” Rue’s gentle voice breaks my melancholic meandering yet again.

“Yes, you can,” I assure her. “You still have some time left to feel the full experience of this world in every tactile, emotional, and sensory way you possibly can. And you should. I want that for you.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” She shakes her head and waves her hand dismissively.

“I take it back then.” I undercut, but she ignores me.

“I can touch you ,” she says, realization dawning in her eyes.

Rue scoots herself to the edge of the couch, her hands clinging to the lip of the wooden frame.

“No, you can’t,” I insist pointlessly. I can see the wheels turning in her mind.

“Yes, I can. I’ve done it. Before you tied me up. Then you carried me. And in the portal, when I grabbed you. You were solid. To me, you felt real.”

The passion in her voice grows with each word she utters, ignorant to the fact that they cut like razor blades against my undead flesh.

“Never mind about that.”

“No, it’s important. That woman’s lips faded when they reached her husband’s forehead. I’ve thrown objects through you, Kane. But I can touch you. Why? How?” she says, rising from the couch and walking toward me.

An eerie sense of déjà vu plagues me as I replay our previous interaction, this maddening dance playing on a loop. I decide the only way to break the cycle is to let her in. Give her the rest of this part of the story.

“It’s another one of the side effects of your having begun the process of crossing over. I didn’t tell you before because I do not want you to do that.”

She continues her slow pursuit. “So, I can touch you.”

“Yes, you can. But are you permitted? No. ”

“You can be touched again.” She marvels, completely ignoring me.

“But please don’t.”

“Have you felt physical touch since …” She leaves the sentence unfinished, and the silence hangs between us, momentarily stopping her approach.

“No,” I admit. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Centuries,” she says, her rich voice carrying a sense of awe.

“And I aim to continue the streak.”

“Why?” she asks simply.

Because I cannot be hurt again if I do not open myself up.

Because the poets and romantics got it wrong.

It is better to have never loved at all.

Because without feeling, there is no pain, and a world without pain works pretty fucking well for me.

I think all of that and say none of it. Rue fills the silence as she closes the space between us.

“Everyone deserves to be touched, Kane. Everyone deserves to feel.”

The words hit my ears with a deafening clang.

Rue inches closer as I retreat from the safety of the chair and find myself pressed against the far wall. Only, unlike last time, there’s no rope nearby to come to my rescue.

Rue presses in, her thin hips swaying rhythmically. She’s become a panther, and I am being stalked. She takes a final step and stands directly in front of me, looking up eagerly as I lean down at her. She closes her eyes, and I am pretty sure her next move will be to crane her neck and kiss me.

I am frozen. Physically incapable of movement and unsure whether I want to or not. But instead of her bringing her lips to mine, with my eyes and attention fixated firmly on her face, I feel it suddenly.

She locks her skinny fingers with my long ones, interlocking our hands at our sides, and she hums. The connection electrifies the room and burns into the center of me.

Her hands are cold, but her touch is scintillating.

I expect an onslaught of previous memories.

I prepare my mind for a barrage of past moments, but none appear.

No old nightmares surface. Just this. The power of the present radiates in this infuriatingly gorgeous creature.

The confidence and brashness with which she has demanded this connection unlock something I thought I had thrown the key away to long ago.

Well, I might not have rope, but I do have strength.

In one swift motion, I dig my hands more firmly into hers, press into my heels, and spin her around.

Before she can open her eyes, I have her hands above her head, her back pressed to the wall.

She crashes against the wood with a thud and a small gasp.

With a predatory gleam in my eyes, I ask, “Did I hurt you?” My voice is low, ragged, and foreign to me.

“No,” she whispers in reply, her chest rising and falling with her increased breaths.

“Good. Please do me the honor of returning that favor,” I beg.

Crashing my mouth to hers, I take Rue in a kiss that could only happen when the elements of hundreds of years of repression ignite with a single lifetime of longing and passion that has yet to find its release.

Combustion.

Our mouths move desperately between us. Decorum is set aside for desperation, risk over rationality. Time stands still, and I realize I could gladly stay here for the next several centuries.

Using my free hand, I hold the side of her face, tilting her to deepen the kiss. Her tongue is so soft against mine, and the needy whimper that I consume from her—if I had any resolve left, that noise stole it.

I’m about to lift her up to wrap her around my waist—desperately missing the feel of her in my arms from back at the plot.

But our connection is severed by a tiny voice that pulls us from this moment of reckless passion.

His high-pitched gasp rips Rue and me away from each other and has us staring directly into the eyes of the house ghost.

He looks at us and exclaims, “The plot thickens.”