Page 114 of Grim

“Turn around,” he commands.

The moment his fingers touch the back of my neck, I forget how to breathe. He fastens the clasp, then lets his fingers trail just a second longer than necessary against my skin. Not enough to be overt, but just enough to make me melt.

“Superbe,” he murmurs in French. “Stupéfiant.”

“Wait, did you just say it looks stupid?” I ask, a bit stunned.

“Stunning. Both words mean some version of stunning, but this looks so good on you that one version was simply not enough.”

I am speechless as I watch the confident Kane reemerge before me. He offers me his elbow like a man raised right, and I thread my arm through his, my fingers coming to rest atop his gloved hand.

The leather of his glove is cold beneath my fingers, but his presence at my side radiates with heat and a gravitational pull.

He leads me through the open arch of a long, crumbling corridor that gives way to a ballroom carved from midnight itself.

It is unnaturally, almost impossibly beautiful. Like walking through cracks in the mountains until you round the corner and gaze on the treasury at Petra, only this place has an ethereal quality to it that could not exist in the world I come from.

A black glass-and-mirrored dome ceiling reflect this singular sky—velvet dark, threaded with violet lightning and glowing embers, like stars on fire. The walls are lined with towering candelabras that burn with silver flames. Light shimmers across the marble floor, which looks wet, but doesn’t make a sound underfoot.

Everything moves like it’s part of the same dream—guests in masks, drifting across the floor in elaborate gowns and shadowy suits; laughter echoing in strange, slow rhythms that feel like music, even when none plays. Some of the dancers have no shadows. Some have too many.

Everyone wears some sort of mask. And yet I feel them watching me. Their attention prickles my skin like the eyes behind the masks are shooting invisible needles in my direction. Not entirely aggressive, but it feels invasively curious.

“Are they staring at me because I’m not a part of their world?”

“No, Mayday. They’re staring at you because you are the most beautiful creature in this room.”

My knees go weak, and I lean deeper into his steady arm. He smirks at the noticeable effect that line had on me, and then, like the smug bastard he is, he undercuts the compliment by adding, “Or perhaps it’s because you’re still alive. We don’t get a lot of full-flesh humans down here. Who’s to say? We could ask some of them if you’d like.”

“Dick,” I mumble under my breath.

We move deeper into the ballroom. A man made of smoke offers me a glass of something that looks like wine but smells like petrichor. Kane plucks it from the tray before I can reach it.

“Not for you,” he murmurs, sliding the glass back.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’m too delicate?” I say, feigning irritation to mask the flutter in my chest.

“No,” he replies simply. “This is the part where I keep you alive.”

Before I can argue, he veers left, guiding me through the swirling chaos of lace and shadow until we stop at the far side of the ballroom.

To our right, pairs of spirits swirl and sway in timed rhythm to the music playing from the string quartet in the corner. Each instrument hovers in front of the smartly dressed musicians, the bows moving without the use of hands. It is another visual indication that this party is taking place in some other realm, somewhere that could not be Earth.

The music is haunting and flawless, minor chords strummed with deep pathos.

I’m just starting to relax into the shadows Kane picked as our temporary sanctuary when a ripple cuts through the air. It slices through the room like a cold gust through a cracked window.

And then I see him.

He moves like a predatory wolf. His liquid walk is full of grace and confidence. Sharp lines cut the air around the edges of his fitted charcoal suit with oxblood undertones and a paisley pattern that glints red when it catches the light. His mask is a sculpted slash of metal and shadow, curling up over his cheekbones like smoke, concealing half his face, but I know who it is. Even before he opens his mouth, I feel it in the static coil of energy radiating from Kane.

“Good evening, Asher,” Kane growls, barely keeping the venom from his voice.

Asher doesn’t flinch. Instead, his smile widens. “Well, well …” he savors each syllable as he speaks. “They let just about anyone into these little soirees now, don’t they? Pity, that. Big D used to hold himself to such high standards.” Asher delivers this insult directly to Kane, his legs wide and eyes locked on to his fellow reaper.

Kane does not dignify him with a response. He doesn’t need to. His stance does all the talking—shoulders tight, jaw set, hands flexing once, like he’s picturing them around Asher’s throat.

Asher’s attention turns to me. “You, on the other hand”—his voice drops an octave as he bows with a courtly flourish—“are a vision.”