Page 21 of Grim

IScream,YouScream

R ue spent the evening sleeping—the first smart decision she’d made since I arrived.

I could not sleep. Though I do not need the same amount of rest as a mortal might, my energy levels still require regular resetting.

But that quiet has been hard to come by since that kiss.

My mind was consumed. The gentle pressure of Rue’s lips against mine lingered.

The honeysuckle taste on her tongue haunted. The warmth of her touch radiated.

It’s been hours since Rue and I had crossed over into a territory far more dangerous than anything I’ve experienced since my own crossing over, and I was having a hard time concentrating on anything else.

As Rue rested, I read. My mind flitting between the pages of her well-worn library in between fits of distraction as our kiss played in a loop in my mind.

Not even the haunting prose of Bronte could keep my thoughts off Rue.

“Now what?” Rue blurts from her spot on the couch. She sits in the lotus pose, her back straight, her eyes peering straight ahead.

When she entered the room, I have no idea. How long she’s been there, I could not say. For a being with an actual body, she is quiet. And I must be even more distracted than I thought. I need to pull it together .

I glance out the window and see the sun pouring through the curtains. “Good morning to you too.”

“Let’s go somewhere.”

“Before breakfast?” I deadpan.

“I don’t have time for breakfast, Kane. I need to do stuff,” Rue huffs, her frustration coloring her cheeks crimson in an infuriatingly adorable way.

“You should always make time for breakfast, Mayday. A perfectly brewed cup of coffee, accompanied by a freshly baked croissant, enjoyed leisurely on a balcony overlooking the Seine? I can almost smell the beans and taste the folded layers of butter now. Divine.” I briefly close my eyes and take an exaggerated inhale.

“If you haven’t done that, can you even say you’ve lived? ”

Rue stares daggers at me from across the room. I wish she’d point those peepers down at the table between us, where that mini mountain of a cat lies like a crumpled afghan. The tension in her forehead softens.

“Fine,” she says calmly. “Let’s do that then.”

“No can do, Mayday. This isn’t Disney, and I ain’t a genie.” I pause for a fraction of a second. “But you’re welcome to rub me if you want to be totally sure.”

She ignores this crass comment, staying on topic.

“I’m serious, Grim. Let’s go. Portal to Paris, please.”

“ Ce n’est pas possible , ma chère .”

“Why isn’t it possible? We took that portal before. Let’s take another one.”

“The portals are reserved for business use only. Death’s Door, LLC runs a tight ship.

Company property is to be used for company business only .

” I recite the passage from Reaper Regulations from rote memory.

“I can use them to return to the OtherWorld. We can use them to attend to a soul departing, but they’re not available for personal use. ”

“So, I guess I can cross Everest off the bucket list,” Rue jokes.

“Yeah, my leadership doesn’t sanction a lot of vacation time, probably because time doesn’t belong to us anymore after we cross over.

” Not much of anything belongs to us anymore over there, but I don’t share those bleak thoughts with Rue.

She doesn’t need to know about the crushing mundanity and loneliness that most endure.

Moments of my mortal life that mattered pierce the veil of memory.

I shake them off. “Anyway, I’m afraid there’s no private passage to reserve. ”

“Bummer. High altitude isn’t really my thing anyway.” She pauses for a beat, then smiles. “You know what airline travels to the OtherWorld?”

I stare at her blankly.

“Spirit.”

“Wow.”

“Oh, come on! That was good.”

“It wasn’t bad. More entertaining than ALP’s Soul, You Made It to the AfterLife. Now What? welcome video.”

Her face falls. “Are you serious? There’s a welcome video?”

“Sure, it’s all very corporate. The world is overpopulated as is, lots of deaths every second of every day and we have to get each one to processing. It’s just easier to have you all watch the welcome video that answers the same questions you all have so we can continue with our jobs.”

“Will I live in the OtherWorld when I die?” My spine straightens at her question.

“Doubtful. Not every soul lives there. The OtherWorld is Big D’s territory so most who live there work for him. There are other sectors that some go to if they’re chosen for placement, and then some choose bliss.”

“Bliss?”

“Uh, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head. “It’s better explained in the video during the ‘Which Soul Are You?’ quiz.”

Rue chuckles softly and I can’t help but note how nice it sounds. “I would rather hear it from you.”

“Fine,” I relent. “The Bliss is where the majority of crossovers end up. Your own little peace of happiness. For you I would imagine it would be a library of endless books. Some will have an endless rock concert. Others, a fishing trip that never ends. It’s very personalized.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” She pauses and I see the question forming before she asks. “Why would you choose reaping over that?”

“Nothing is given for free, Mayday. Bliss has a heavy cost. ”

“What’s the cost?”

“You forget,” I manage while walking toward the window and looking outside at the greying skies.

“Forget what?” She asks.

“Everything,” I turn back to look at her. “Family, friends, loved ones—anything that makes you, you is erased. Some souls are given the option to work, to—for a lack of a better term, ‘live’, in the world they are assigned to. Or they can forget.”

“Wow, I don’t know which is worse, forgetting everything, or remembering and being unable to see your loved ones again.”

“It’s not as bad as you think. You learn fast to remember what you need to in order to do your job and keep your sanity while tucking the rest away.”

“Why?”

I find myself growing tired of her questions.

“Because remembering too much gets you in trouble, and that’s the final question.” I point my finger at her as she opens her mouth to ask another question.

“Fine,” Rue uncrosses her legs, stands gingerly from the couch and heads to the kitchen. “Esther,” she yells over her shoulder and the cat instantly pops its head up, peers toward Rue and saunters after her, but not before glaring back at me with a vicious amount of side-eye.

“Feeling’s mutual, furball, I assure you.”

Rue returns moments later, a new look of determination in her eyes. “Get your coat,” she says.

“I don’t have a coat. Just this suit. I’m impervious to temperature on Earth.”

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I’m normally quite climactic.”

“Has that line ever worked?” she asks dryly.

“More times than I can count.” I smirk.

“Because you’re so terrible at math?” Rue fires back.

“Exactly.” I give her the verbal-sparring victory and change the subject.

“Where are we off to?”

“I want ice cream.”

I stare at her, brow cocked. “Ice cream?”

“Yes. Ice cream. ”

There’s a beat of silence while I try to figure out if she’s being serious.

“That’s what’s keeping you from spiraling into despair? Frozen dairy?”

“That and spite,” she says brightly, grabbing her bag. “You coming or what?”

Someone save me.

“Going out in your condition is ill-advised.”

“Trying to stop me is also ill-advised. Do you really want to find out who’s going to win this argument?”

Even though I know this is a terrible idea, I stand and button my jacket. Rue grins victoriously.

She’s dressed like the lead singer of a band that performs in catacombs—black combat boots, ripped fishnets, a short black dress, and a jacket with more silver hardware than seems strictly necessary.

Her hair is thrown up in a half-messy bun with bright orange streaks peeking out, and her eyeliner looks like it could cut someone.

She looks absurd.

And I hate to admit that I like it.

Also, Catacombs would make a great name for a band, but I digress.

She looks like a gothic fever dream—defiant yet delicate, like something that shouldn’t belong in the sunlight but roots itself there anyway.

We head into town. She insists on walking instead of getting a ride. I once again advise against it. She reminds me that this may be her last chance to walk to town, and I have no comeback for that, so I fold.

As we walk, I ask about the cat. “Why Esther?”

“What?” Rue asks at the question I volleyed without a preamble.

“The cat. Loathsome little thing. Why did you name it Esther?”

“Oh. Why? Is she growing on you?”

“Absolutely not. I was simply making conversation. Which I am happy to unmake. Forget I asked.”

“I named her after Esther Greenwood. The protagonist of—”

“Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar . Yes, I know. I’ve been around for centuries. I read. A lot. ”

“Yes, well, she’s one of my favorite characters from literature, so I named my favorite creature after my literary heroine.”

“Esther’s road was rather bleak. Alienated, isolated, suicidal. And you say I’m the grim one.”

“She was passionate about learning, felt outcast from her peers, and was terrified of what lay ahead in her life. So, yeah, she resonates with me.”

“Maudlin, party of one,” I growl, low in my throat.

“Pompous, party of fuck you ,” she fires back, much to my satisfaction.

I do seem to love getting a rise out of her.

I snicker softly, which she harmonizes with a grumble. Then we walk for a while in decidedly comfortable silence.

This part of town is small with a historic air.

The bricks hold the stories that the old people in rocking chairs no longer tell.

Humidity adds a stifling weight to every measured step we take.

Rue stands out like a single storm cloud on a clear day.

People stare. She doesn’t notice—or pretends not to.

When we arrive at the ice cream shop, she practically vibrates with joy.

“Aha!” she crows. “I can smell the sugar from here.”