Page 19 of Grim

“Damn it,” I mutter, crouching beside the collapsed woman. “Of all the places to drop, you pick your own graveyard. Poetic, I’ll give you that.”

I have a moment of clarity. A thought whispering that I should complete the job and move on. Clean extraction. Business as usual.

But I don’t.

Instead, my hands move on instinct, and I press them against her chest, just over a vertical scar that peeks from the edge of her dress.

Her curls tangle in the mud. Her lips are blue. Her pulse is gone. Her soul is already half out the door, slipping past the threshold.

And I know what I’m supposed to do.

Fate and Time drew up the schedule. The Weavers wove their thread. Big D sent me with full clearance to collect her soul, by force if necessary. I am a reaper—an entity tasked with the collection of souls at their appointed time. But it isn’t her time. Not yet.

I’ve reaped thousands of souls over the centuries, each of them slipping through my fingers like sand. I don’t feel them anymore. Not really. Not since I stopped letting myself. But this one? This one Iremember. The girl from the nursing home. Orange-and-black hair. Combat boots and a du Maurier quote that’s been stuck in my head like a splinter.

So, I allow my doctoral instincts to take over and do what this place has told me never to do again. I plant my hands, fingers locked, elbows straight, and I start compressions.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I grit out through clenched teeth, finding the gait with practiced ease. “Don’t be stubborn.”

One hundred beats per minute. A rhythm older than belly dancing. Older than me.

I should walk away. The Weaver Sisters will feel the ripple. Time will scream. Fate will snap. I should care. But I don’t. I’m tired of being their blade. A good boy on a chain who jumps and speaks on command. I want to do somethingbecause I want to. Because Ican. Because maybe centuries of taking orders is long enough.

I’m going to climb that mountain because it’s there. That’s why.

Her lips are going paler, and her face goes slack.

Shit.

“No. Not today,” I growl, angling her head back.

I press my mouth to hers on instinct, simulating a breath, then another. And another. And then I feel it.

It’s not the movie-magic kind of jolt. No dramatic gasp. No spark of divine light.

Butresistance.

I feel her breath ghost against my lips. I pull back at the sensation, then watch her soul absorb back into her physical form seeing color return from her grey. That’s new. Then—her eyes snap open. They are blue-grey storm clouds, unblinking and unnerving.

She stares, not with fear, but curiosity. Like something deep in herknowsthat something changed.

I stand, brushing at the grass stains on my Italian slacks. Grass stains are the least of my worries now. The Sisters are going to metaphorically flay me if I’m lucky. Flay me literally if I’m not.

“Perfect,” I mutter. “Resurrect a girl, ruin the tailoring. Is nothing sacred anymore?”

She blinks once, twice, before trying to sit up.

“W-where am I?” she asks, voice thin and frayed.

“Backyard,” I say. “Yours, specifically. The cemetery’s got great ambiance. Five stars.”

She manages to right herself and looks around the graveyard like it might give her answers. Her eyes come back to me, locking with mine in a very unsettling way.

“You’re staring,” I tell her.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Dr. Kane Deveraux. Former physician, current reaper.Enchantée.”