Page 41 of Grim

“You think Poe was melodramatic,” she continues, voice softer now, more tired. “But you don’t get it. His writing wasn’t about death; it was about the fear of it. About the inevitability of loss. How grief wraps aroundyour ribs and squeezes until there’s nothing left of you. How it turns you into a ghost long before you die.”

She exhales sharply, her fingers tightening around the book. “I get Poe. I am Poe. A person trapped in the waiting room of her own demise.”

I open my mouth, then close it. For the first time, I find myself at a loss for words.

Because for the first time, I have nothing clever to say.

Rue watches me for a moment, then sighs and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

“But you know what?” she says, her voice picking up just a hint of its usual edge. “I have eight days left, Kane. And I am not going to waste them debating literature with a philistine.”

I snort, repeating her insult. “Philistine?”

She waves a hand. “You heard me,” she offers smugly, returning her treasured collection to the shelf.

“You’re right, Rue. Eight days is not a lot of time.” I begin, then finish with a quote from her precious Poe. “I think I hear the ‘bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells’now.”

NoTurningBackNow

Flipping through my notebook, contemplating how to live my final days, my reverie is broken by a discordant twang of a cello. Kane reaches into his breast pocket and removes his mobile device. It’s the first time I have noticed the design.

“Is your phone shaped like a headstone?”

“Not just any headstone, Mayday. Mine.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. All soul shepherds are issued theirs after Processing and Assignment.”

“What’s written on there?” I ask, trying to read the etchings.

Kane moves farther away from me as he scans the device. “It says I had a good run. Now, back to bed with you.”

“What? No way.”

“Yes way. My next scheduled case just came due. I still need to handle my essential workload. I won’t be long.”

“Take me with you,” I state emphatically.

“No,” he replies just as emphatically.

“You won’t even know I’m there.”

“You asked before, and the answer has not changed. Now, be a doll and tie yourself up in the bed again. I’ll be backtout suite.”

I don’t care what this six-foot-something reaper withquestionable taste in poetry and an unquestionably sharp tongue says; he is not cutting me out of getting the most out of my last days on Earth.

I cross my arms defiantly and state, “I’m coming.”

“Absolutely not,” Kane snaps for the twelfth time, pacing my living room like a man desperately searching for the nearest escape hatch.

“C’mon,” I whine, stalking him like a cat preparing for attack. “How bad could it be? You just show up, escort a soul out of a body, and brood dramatically while looking all domineering in a crisp black suit—”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he says flatly. “And it’s much more complicated than that, Rue. It requires nuance, patience, and precision.”

I put my ego aside and lay it on thick. “And I’m sure you’re wonderful at it. How lucky I am to be able to learn at the feet of the master.”

He raises one eyebrow, unmoved.