Page 9 of Grim

But she asked. Simple as that. And after already breaking the rules, what’s one more?

“Nine days,” I say, and the words are gravel in my throat. “You’ve got nine days.”

A hard, heavy silence settles in the air around us.

She sways, the color draining from her face, as if someone had just pulled the plug. Her hand shoots back to the nearest headstone, fingers clawing for something solid as the axis of her world tilts beneath her.

“Nine days?” she echoes, and it sounds like a prayer turned inside out. “You brought me back, just to let me die again in nine days?”

I look away, jaw clenched so tight that it aches.

Reckless and selfish—that’s the only way to characterize my recent actions. And there is no apology now to make up for the burden my spontaneous outburst has caused her.

I nod. Once. A slow, deliberate confirmation—because lies may spare feelings, but they damn the soul, and I’ve seen enough damned ones to know better.

“You weren’t supposed to go yet,” I say. My voice is quieter now.

She stares at the ground like it might open and offer her an easier exit. Her hands tremble. Then curl into fists. Her pulse is back, wild and panicked and painfully human. I can feel it, even from here, like a ticking clock stuffed inside her chest .

I did this. The thread has snapped, and I can’t weave it whole again.

I gave her back the seconds she’ll now have to spend.

“You’re on borrowed time,” I murmur, voice stripped of bravado. “Whatever it is you’ve been waiting to do, don’t wait anymore.”

She doesn’t answer right away, just breathes slowly. And I let her have that moment. Because in nine days, she won’t get another.

“If a week of worldly delights doesn’t sell you,” I say, slipping my flask back out and taking a long pull, “then take the scenic route. Gorge yourself on red meat, guzzle something vintage and ruinously expensive, find someone reckless and flexible and explore the boundaries of tantric sex. Then, on day nine, I’ll come knocking and carry you across, gently of course. ”

Her eyes narrow like a blade being drawn. “You don’t know me. You know nothing about me.”

“True.” I offer a half smile. “But the context clues give away a fair amount here, and I’d say you probably haven’t had the most hedonistic journey through life thus far. Just offering you an opportunity here to live a little.”

“Presumptuous dick,” she mumbles loud enough for me to hear her clearly.

My eyes flash. “Kitten’s got claws.”

“Keep purring, pretty boy, and I’ll have you neutered,” she snaps, folding her arms. “So, let me get this straight. I’m alive again, but only for a short while, so you can kill me and drag me back to wherever I was heading, just so your bosses don’t get mad?”

“I’m not the executioner,” I say, jaw tightening. “I’m just the escort service. Your heart’s the traitor, not me.”

That lands wrong. Her hands curl into fists, and her face twists in fury. She turns and storms off like she thinks she can walk away from Death itself—which, frankly, I admire.

But then she slips.

The wet grass betrays her, slick and treacherous. I see it unfolding before it happens—her heel skids, her body twists, and her head angles hard toward the sharp granite of her father’s headstone.

And without thinking or planning, I move .

I lunge. It’s a reflex. Something ancient in my bones that predates protocol. My arms catch her mid-fall, fingers curling around her waist like the most natural thing in the world.

And then everything stops. Because I’m holding her.

I’m holding her.

I freeze. My hands—dead hands, hands that have touched hundreds of souls and never once a living body—are full of her.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, staring down at the impossibility.

She gazes back, her eyes wide as her breath hitches in her chest. I instantly release her as if I’d been burned, and she drops the last inch to the grass with a thud.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she shouts, smacking the earth in frustration.

But I barely hear her. I’m staring at my hands like they betrayed me.

I shouldn’t have been able to touch her.

Reapers can’t touch the living. It’s rule one. Basic metaphysics. The ironclad law of the OtherWorld. We pass through. We guide. We never touch. We can’t.

Except …

My fingers still remember the curve of her hip. The heat of her. The weight.

I reach out without thinking, kneeling beside her, and run my hand gently along her cheek.

Soft. Warm. Real.

It’s impossible.

“This can’t be happening. There’s no w—OW!”

Her fist collides with my jaw before I can finish the thought.

“Don’t touch me!”

I stagger back, hand cradling my cheek. She’s glaring up at me, radiating fury, and I don’t even blame her. I’m too busy panicking. Not the mortal kind—the cosmic, existential kind. The what does this mean kind.

She can hit me. I can feel it. I can feel her.

And that means something is wrong .

“I—” I start, but my voice is hollow. I inch away from her, walking backwards in a cautious retreat .

“Hey!” she calls. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just leave!”

“I have to check something,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “I have to—fuck.”

I reach for my Tombstone Phone and press the Home button to initiate an immediate transport out of here.

In order to transport between realms, an OtherWorlder needs to be situated in a location on Earth where someone has died or been laid to rest. So my current surroundings are super helpful for this hasty retreat.

I broke something tonight. Not just protocol. Something far worse. I’m just not sure what.

I am fairly certain though that Time and Fate are going to want my head for this.

And Big D?

He’s going to want answers for my malfeasance.

Unfortunately for him, I have some questions of my own I want answered first.