Page 45 of Grim

TheSend-Off

“C lap with me, you fools,” Big D bellows, the sound of his voice ricocheting off the cathedral-high bones of the ballroom ceiling.

He’s still the only one applauding. A beat of silence stretches just a tad too long for comfort before the entire ballroom erupts in a cacophony of celebration.

Shouts roll in from every side, a wave of sycophantic noise.

The dancers slowly return to their OtherWorldly forms and take a well-earned bow.

The herald, ever the show pony, takes his place near the base of the spiral staircase and throws his arms wide. “To all who revel, I introduce the Keeper of the Cup, the Ruler of the Roost, the indomitable, the indestructible, the interminable—”

“This introduction is interminable,” Big D snarks petulantly. “Just say my name so they can cheer already.”

The herald falters, eyes flicking toward the top of the staircase, hand gripping his velvet sash. He draws in a shaky breath, puffs out his chest, and finally booms, “The one and only, Big D.”

The applause returns—louder this time, more relieved than respectful—as Big D descends.

He makes a meal of it, of course. One hand on the iron railing, the other swinging just enough to show off the glint of stitched gold running like veins through his coat.

His movements are deliberate as he weaves his way slowly down the staircase that bends and stretches around the entirety of the ballroom.

All masked eyes stay glued on him, and he soaks up every self-satisfying second.

I don’t watch him; my focus is on Rue.

She stands perfectly still beside me, her gaze fixed upward in wonder. About halfway down the winding stairs, Big D catches Rue’s gaze and stops mid-step. His head tilts ever so slightly, and even though I cannot see it, I can feel his smile behind his skull mask.

Fuck.

Big D never pauses. This cannot be good. His pleasure and intrigue radiate from him, and it makes something inside me twist uncomfortably. D scans the crowd, who are all still gawking at him. He finally shifts, gaze still tethered to Rue, even as he continues his descent.

Once he hits the ballroom floor, he doesn’t raise a hand, nor does he bark an order. Just says, low and laconic, “Mingle.”

The spell breaks instantly. Souls begin to stir, and motion returns to the ballroom.

Noise resumes as the partygoers speak and the musicians strike up another tune, almost as though the assembled are trying to remember how to breathe, which, of course, none of them do anymore anyway.

But D is still watching Rue. She notices, frozen by the intensity of it.

Big D’s unpredictability often comes across as cartoonish, though in truth, his arbitrary nature makes him dangerous.

And I would be lying if I did not admit to a certain amount of fear of the unknown as he makes his final approach toward us.

“Kane.” Big D’s voice sounds like slowly dripping honey. He throws his arms in the air as though he might fold me in a bear hug, only to bring his palms together in front of his chest as he takes the final step, arriving directly in front of us.

“D. Wonderful party, si—”

He cuts me off before I finish, his interest in Rue evident.

“And you must be Rue Chamberlain, the melancholy mortal I’ve heard so much about.”

Rue straightens. “And I, you. ”

“Yes, my child. I imagine you have. Don’t believe everything you hear though, hmm.

Unless it’s fabulous. And then it’s all true.

” As he says this, his hand lifts, and he touches her face.

Not cruelly, but not kindly either. Just …

strangely. A brush of his knuckles along her cheekbone, followed by a soft, theatrical pat .

“Forgive me,” he says though he’s clearly not talking about the condescending contact he just made.

“Where are my manners? Welcome to my party. I trust you have been offered whatever it is that mortals find pleasing?”

“We’re getting on just fine,” I assure D as Rue lightly rubs her cheek, more out of shock rather than pain.

His touch was light, but, in classic Big D form, highly unpredictable.

“And what about you, Miss Rue?” D says, cocking his head. “Did you enjoy the performance?”

“It was quite nice,” she replies carefully.

“You wept, child.”

The surprise is evident behind Rue’s mask. “How did you—”

“It’s kind of my thing.” He smirks, grabbing a glass from a passing caterer and downing the contents in one quick pull. “Where did that emotion come from?”

Rue takes a moment to appraise Big D, then does the most curious thing. She mimics his earlier gesture by bringing her hand to his masked cheek. She runs her fingers along the ridges of his skull mask, as though she were reading a passage in braille.

Big D does not flinch or try to stop her, but he stills. “What are you—”

“What do you think about when you weep?” she asks softly.

He laughs awkwardly and swats her hand away. “I don’t cry, child. I am the lord of the OtherWorld.”

“You have a sadness in you,” she says, unshaken.

“Watch your—”

“And that’s okay,” she cuts him off again. Her words land with eerie finality.

I may as well be a statue for all the good I’m able to add to this unimaginable conversation.

Rue speaks with a mysterious strength while Big D looks like a boxer stunned by a left hook he did not see coming.

He staggers—not physically, but something in his posture tilts, like her words hit somewhere beneath the bone.

Like any prize fighter worth his muster, Big D recovers and asserts his dominion over the moment and the mortal.

His voice drops to a dangerously low volume, and the temperature in the room begins to fall.

“You would do well to watch your words around me,” he murmurs, tone sharp.

“Your days on Earth may be numbered, but your time in my realm is infinite. And I am not a man to be trifled with.”

Rue receives D’s warning words silently, though there is a noticeable strength to her spine as she stands toe to toe with Death himself.

With a deft sleight of hand, Big D brings his index and middle finger up, filling the space between him and Rue. In his hand, he now holds a green shrub with small yellow flowers clustered atop the leaves.

“Rue,” he whispers, leaning closer to her, eating up the space between them and slipping the herb directly between her breasts, which are tastefully displayed in her corseted top. The flowers obscure the diamond on the necklace I got her.

It takes every ounce of restraint I possess not to grab his hand and rip his wrist from his arm. Knowing the futility of any physical move against D on his home turf, I silently seethe. I know what he’s doing. He’s baiting me. Testing me. And I am not stupid enough to flinch in front of Daryl.

“For remembrance.” He finishes the Hamlet quote with nefarious undertones.

Rue does her best to hide the shaking that’s involuntarily creeping over her shoulders, but Big D’s presence looms large.

He takes a small step back, squares his shoulders, and addresses us both with his pitch-black eyes. “Enjoy the rest of the party, you two. I’ll see you for The Send-Off.”

Big D spies another attendant walking away with a tray of the drink he downed earlier. He stalks the server with the tray, leaving me and Rue frozen in his manic wake.

“What is The Send-Off?” Rue asks, her voice thin. “Is that about me? Is there”—she swallows—“a ceremony?” The question cuts through the noise, laced with fear and the quake of uncertainty.

I shake my head slowly. “There is a ceremony,” I admit, my tone even and controlled. “But it has nothing to do with you, Rue.”

Her shoulders don’t relax, and I release a sigh.

“Rue,” I murmur, just for her, “you’re safe. You can relax. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She nods, barely. But the tension in her spine is steel.

I add, softer now, just above the music, “You can breathe now, Mayday. I’ve got you.” I look at her, hoping my nearness will serve as a reminder that I want to protect her.

She takes a steadying breath as her shoulders soften and asks again, “What is The Send-Off?”

I explain plainly, “After souls cross over, they’re meant to enter AfterLife Processing—ALP.

It’s a bureaucratic purgatory, really. They get assigned roles, stations, purposes in the OtherWorld.

Not everyone becomes a reaper, mind you.

Most shuffle paperwork or hold down time loops or oversee spectral inventories. ”

She blinks at me, the confusion evident.

“But sometimes,” I go on, slower now, “a soul can’t detach. Not fully. They leave their bodies behind, but not their grief. Or guilt. Or bitterness. And if they can’t release that weight, if they keep looking backward instead of forward, they fail onboarding.”

Her brow creases beneath her mask. “Fail onboarding?”

“They become unfit for eternal service.”

There’s a long pause, and I can almost feel her forehead wrinkle behind her mask.

“And?”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “In your language? They’re fired.”

She quirks a brow. “Fired?”

“Try not to think about it, Mayday,” I say, my tone deliberately lighter. “There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. Supra nostram potestatem. ”

She scowls, the line of her jaw flexing under her mask. “I really don’t like it when you do that. ”

“What?” I arch a brow. “Use the languages I spent years learning? Keep stories and cultures alive? Seems a bit shortsighted of you.”

“It would help if I knew what you were saying.”

“I said, it’s beyond our control. That’s it.” I cut my gaze toward the center of the ballroom, where the music is beginning to thin. “So, best to leave the machinations of the OtherWorld to the architects who built it. Keep your head down and survive the night.”

Rue does not seem completely satisfied with my rationale. I can see the rebellion mounting behind her eyes. She’s not the type to go quietly, even when she should— especially when she should.