Page 37 of Grim

“Sometimes, I feel like that’s what I’m doing,” I mumble to myself while looking up at the ceiling to deliberately piss him off. I push the buds into my ears. “Better?” I snark.

“Just remember, you’re the one they’re going to whisper and point at.” He smirks.

“Just walk, reaper.”

We make our way down the first hall, and I find a kiosk with a map.

Kane takes in his visual surroundings with wonder and derision, if his tone is any indication. “Fascinating. Reminiscent of a medieval village.”

“They’re about to be just as extinct too,” I reply scanning the business names along the bottom of the display. “Shoes, shoes, shoes. Ah, here we go. HPSW.”

“What is hupsswuh ?” Kane strings the letters together in a mess of sound.

I laugh. He does not.

“It’s not a word, Kane. It’s an acronym. Half-Price Shoe Warehouse,” I say, emphasizing each first letter.

Kane looks appalled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not getting heels for a ball hosted by the lord of the OtherWorld on clearance. Show me on this map where FILTH is located.”

“What the fuck is filth, Grim?”

“FILTH, an acronym that’s also a word, Mayday. The best kind of acronym.”

“What does it stand for?”

“Fine Italian Leather-Topped Heels. Take us there, Rue.”

I notice a couple of teenagers staring at me from the entrance to a hat shop and realize I look as though I’m talking to air again. I’ve got to get better at this ghost chatter. I scan the map and speak to Kane, pressing my fingers to my ear, as though starting a phone call.

“Hello? Yes? Can you hear me? I don’t think they have a store like that. They do have a high-end boutique with women’s designer wear.”

“Laying it on a little thick there, Mayday, but I appreciate the effort. Nice work.”

“Shut up, ass,” I whisper under my breath without moving my eyes from their spot.

“Yes, take us there.”

I track the route from the You Are Here marker on the map and make my way. “Okay, Mom,” I say with a bright, fake laugh. “Heading there now.”

Kane rolls his eyes as I take the lead, but he follows close, like an overly opinionated shadow.

We pass the firing squad of perfume slingers, who look disappointed when I refuse to make eye contact, and Kane mutters something about “chemical warfare disguised as citrus blossom. ”

I ignore him until something glittering in one of the jewelry cases grabs my attention. I pause briefly to stare at the beautiful piece. The teardrop diamond pops against a pair of sapphire rectangles, housed in rich eighteen karat gold.

“That looks just like a necklace my grandmother wore,” I murmur, caught in the gleam of memory.

Kane cuts against the wistful note in my voice with an acerbic tone, “Move it along, little lady. They’re called accessories for a reason. They’re not necessary. Shoes are. You can’t show up to a party barefoot.”

Kane continues toward the shoe section, and it’s the first time I am able to take in the fact that no one else can see him.

As I trail behind him, I watch him walk past customers and store clerks.

To me, he looks as real as anything; to them, he is invisible.

They take no notice of his towering height.

No one balks at his immaculate, though decidedly outdated, wardrobe.

To them, he simply does not exist. It is disorienting.

We reach the leather couches in the back, where the women’s shoes are located. Can lights highlight walls full of flats while tabletops display more luxurious pumps and heels. Kane dismisses the shelves on the wall immediately and prowls purposefully around each of the table displays.

While he inspects, I am greeted by a young woman with enough vocal fry to zap a mosquito. “Hi,” she states, managing to make the word contain about thirteen letters. “My name is Paloma. Can I help you find anything?”

“Yes. Hi. I’m Rue. I’m looking for some shoes for an event.”

Kane interjects, speaking directly at a table rather than looking up. “You’re not looking for shoes, Mayday. You’re looking for heels that will stop the dead in their tracks. You’re looking for lift and line and elegance. You’re looking for sex in a stiletto.”

“Ma’am?” Paloma asks, looking at me askance. “Did you hear me?”

Shit, Paloma must have said something while I was listening to Kane’s admittedly hot diatribe on heels.

“Yes, sorry. What was the question? ”

“Did you have anything in mind? Color? Style? Design?”

Before I can answer, Kane chimes in again, hands clasped behind his back, like a judge inspecting evidence. “Black and lifted. With something that ties or wraps around the ankle to highlight and accentuate the gentle curve of your calf muscle and the softness of your pale skin.”

“That’s awfully specific.” I shoot daggers at him.

Paloma’s eyes pop out of her head, and Kane shakes his head at me, a disappointed dad. He points to his ear, reminding me about my earbuds.

I touch my finger to my ear and say, “Mom, I’m not asking the clerk for that!” Then I whisper, turning my attention to Paloma, “Sorry, on the phone with my Mom, who’s helping. I don’t do fancy events or dress up often.”

“You don’t say,” Paloma sneers.

Kane sighs audibly, though it sounds like he’s covering a laugh. “Just ask her if she carries Manolo Blahnik.”

“Fine!” I yell at Kane, though this time at least, I remember not to look directly at him.

“You don’t need to yell, ma’am.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll ask.” I turn to Paloma. “Sorry, she’s a handful,” I say, pointing to my right ear while trying to find any semblance of composure. “And please don’t call me ma’am. I’m on the phone with my mom. I’m not actually my mother though.” I give a half-hearted laugh.

“Okay,” Paloma returns, making this four-letter word even longer than her initial greeting.

“Do you have any Manolos?” I ask without a trace of confidence in my voice.

Paloma’s face lights up. “Yes, we do. Right this way.”

When we arrive at the small white table with six pairs of shoes on display, Kane hums as he surveys the footwear.

His focus is unwavering, his gaze bordering on obsessive.

The silence stretches, and since these are my shoes anyway, I take a look at the table and make a pick.

I point to a black patent leather heel with a single black strap over the toes and a thin black ankle strap with a small gold clasp.

Kane moans a low rumble in his throat as Paloma oohs audibly at the same time .

“Not bad, Mayday, but not quite it.”

“Great choice,” Paloma says. “What’s your shoe size?”

“Seven,” I say as Kane speaks only to me. “Those, Rue. The ones to your left.”

He points to an open-toed sandal-style heel with a soft curve to the arch, a single strap in smooth leather, and a bow to secure it around the ankle in a rich crushed velvet of the purest black.

As Paloma begins to walk to the back, my eyes break from the shoe in my hand to Kane’s. His sinful smile is damn near edible.

“Wait,” I shout after Paloma. “On second thought, could I see this one too?”

“Ooh, the Chastanas,” the clerk says reverently. “Yes, queen.”

I take a seat as Paloma disappears to the back. She returns with two cream-colored boxes that reveal some of the nicest shoes I’ve ever seen, let alone tried on.

Paloma kneels and helps me slide into one of each—left foot in the patent heel, right foot in the Chastana. I stand to my full height. The contrast is immediate.

Kane says nothing. He just observes for a moment. His silence weakens my knees.

Finally, he breaks the tension. “Hmm,” he appraises with a delicious growl to his voice. “You’re more bows than straps, Mayday. A gift to be tied up, not a dangerous creature to be strapped down.”

My face floods with heat. “I’ll take the Chastanas,” I say, my voice rushed as I sit back down.

Paloma helps me remove and then box the shoes, and we head to the counter. “You’re going to turn a lot of heads in these.”

I glance briefly at Kane, and like he’s not standing right there, I answer honestly, “I’m only hoping to turn one head, Paloma.”

“Ooh, okay, girl. That’s a lucky person then.” The clerk scans the side of the box and looks up at me. “That will be eleven hundred dollars.”

“I’m sorry, what? Eleven hundred?” I exclaim, my voice hitting an octave I did not know I had.

“Mayday, calm down,” Kane says .

“These are more than shoes, girl. They’re a feeling, a statement, a purpose,” Paloma preaches.

“You can’t take it with you,” Kane reminds me with a smirk as I take a deep breath.

He’s right. The price tag doesn’t matter much since money won’t mean anything in a few short days. I ignore the pit in my stomach that realization invokes and offer Paloma my credit card.

“Wrap ’em up, Paloma,” I say, handing her the plastic rectangle.

Kane smiles and offers one more piece of encouragement. “And you can’t put a price tag on feeling good about yourself, ma chère .”

As we’re walking out of the store, bag in hand, I glance down at the box, then up to Kane. “I do feel decadent,” I admit, surprised by the weightless grin tugging at my lips. “It does not suck.”

Kane stops in his tracks and turns toward me. His voice is low, reverent. Like a vow. “Your father might have treated you like a princess, Rue Chamberlain,” he says as he traces my cheek with his thumb, “but I intend to make you a queen.”