Page 117 of Grim

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 hiscoat. 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, theatricalpat. “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. Hestaggers—not physically, but something in his posture tilts, like her words hit somewhere beneath the bone.