I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, cool against my palm, and took a sip before noticing the neatly folded note beside it.
Astoria, I hope you’re feeling better today. Please make yourself at home. I had business to attend to, but the house will provide whatever you need. Just ask. I’ll return as soon as I can. Under no circumstances are you to leave the gates surrounding the property. Please… for my sake.
— Grim
P.S. I’ve warded the gates, if only to keep you honest
My heart lurched. He might have looked fine last night, steady enough to carry me to bed, but I wasn’t imagining things. I’d seen the tremors in his hands, the way his breath caught as if he was fighting something invisible and losing. And the marks, they were jagged, sprawling things across his torso like lightning trapped under skin. He was exhausted, unraveling, and still he’d gone. But why is it that Death looks like the one who's dying?
“What am I even going to do?” I muttered, just to hear something break the silence. My stomach answered, grumbling loud enough to echo. I reached for my sweater draped over the bedpost and caught sight of my bag, now resting neatly on the chair in the corner.
That gave me pause. A small, thoughtful gesture. He’d moved it as though I already belonged here. As if this wasn’t bizarre at all and that I hadn’t just spent the night in Death’s bed, wearing sleep shorts and a band tee from a concert I’d attended over four decades ago.
I pulled the sweater over my head and turned toward the chair, only to freeze again. Hanging above it was a signed photo of Elvis, his name scrawled in bright red ink. Next to it, a painting—impressionist, faded, framed as though it might be an original.
He never stopped surprising me. These were artifacts of humanity. Of life. Of the very things he claimed to loathe.
And… Elvis?
Seriously? I didn’t take Death for an Elvis guy. The photograph was a bit out of place, vibrant, almost kitschy with the neon glint of the signature still bright after all these years. I moved closer to inspect it more carefully. The signature was unmistakable. My brow furrowed. It had to be real.
Grim had a thing for contradictions. I didn’t know why that should surprise me. He surrounded himself with relics of humanity—art, memory, softness—as if he couldn’t help but collect what he claimed to despise. As if he needed to keep some evidence that life had once passed through his hands.
He called himself ancient. Immutable. The end of all things. But he clearly felt. He bled, he burned, he broke down in front of me. He tried not to show it, but the effort was cracking.
And maybe he cared for me more than he ever meant to. More than he knew how to.
Death was supposed to be still. Absolute. But he moved like a storm barely held together. He was inevitability made flesh, and yet… he kept choosing.
Me, even. Over and over again.
I swallowed hard, unsure why my chest was tightening.
Hobbling about the room, I slipped one wool sock on after the other and made my way down the dark hall. The walls were covered in a textured vine-patterned wallpaper, the deep color of a sleeping forest, and I paused before the large arched door that led to Grim’s office, the ancient brass knob teasing me as I made my way to the kitchen. Sconces lining the hallway flickered to life as I passed, the beeswax candles igniting in a slow, deliberate dance. Their soft glow was welcoming, though the magic surrounding them felt strange, too.
It was as though the house itself was listening to me, responding to my every move. The air hummed with something old, something I couldn’t quite place. I wondered what kept thishouse running, what power sustained it, or who was behind its strange ways. Was it Grim’s doing? Or something… else?
Opening the fridge, I didn’t expect to find anything. But there it was: a butcher-wrapped parchment containing thick slices of pepper-crusted bacon, sitting next to a jar of creamy yogurt. Beside it lay fresh fruit and a few vegetables I swore hadn’t been there yesterday. I blinked, unsure if my eyes were playing tricks on me.
“Uh, thanks?” I muttered, half-expecting Grim to appear out of nowhere.
The overhead basket light flickered, and the oven clicked on, as if the house was thriving off my gratitude.
“Is it possible to rustle up some coffee? Or point me in the direction of—”
Behind me, a hutch rattled. The door opened on its own to reveal a French press and an assortment of coffee beans in glass jars, nestled alongside tea leaves.
I didn’t even flinch this time. Magic stopped surprising me a while ago, not long after my first encounter with Grim. And yet…
I glanced toward the hutch as I grabbed the French press.Magic.My plague. It always seemed to cost something and the Tempest curse was no different. But it was never worth it. Magic did not grant—it devoured.
The cottage shuddered, the cabinets tapping open and shut, as if to argue with me. It brought a soft smile to my face. I could see why Grim enjoyed living here.
“Sorry,” I muttered, tipping my face to the ceiling as if that's where its heart lived.Nonsense, utter nonsense.
With a click of a knob, the kettle was well on its way to boiling as I scooped a generous helping of coffee beans into a handheld grinder. It was mundane and exactly what I needed.
The last few years we’d spent in the hospital, coffee was consumed on the go and breakfast served on white styrofoamtrays. Even before then, I’d spent so much time traveling and moving from place to place that I hardly cooked. And when I did, I was flooded with painful memories of time in the kitchen with my own brood of children at my skirts, watching with a love I never deserved in their curious eyes.
