At least officially.
“Johann,” I called, louder this time.
“He’s in the cloisters,” came a voice from behind me. A British-accented one that would have made my eye twitch if I didn’t have just sockets.
Whirling, I found none other than Cedric, the Hallowed Halls’ resident pain-in-the-ass wizard, standing next to my scythe, his fist wrapped around the handle of the tool—which he would not be able to budge since it waited for and responded only to me.
A tall young man with short white-blond hair, a medium build, and a misleadingly boyish, clean-shaven face, he wore his usual modern ensemble of a black suit and tie. A pretentious-as-fuck silver watch chain and fob hung from his waistcoat pocket.
He liked to look important, but he did jack all of significance. Like the rest of us, he’d come to the Halls for refuge. For him, that meant conducting busywork in the archives. Translating old magic texts, organizing volumes, and annotating historical crap or whatever—bullshit kid-in-detention nonsense.
If you asked me, he was a spare part if there ever was one.
Worst thing about him was that he knew it. And it chapped his ass.
Which was why he made it a point to chap mine.
“What is Johann doing in the cloisters?” I asked.
He didn’t pay me any mind. Instead, he smirked up at the scythe and put his other hand on his hip as if pretending the instrument belonged to him.
Most likely, that’s exactly what he was doing since Cedric had no qualms about making it known to anyone who would listen that he felt more equipped for—and worthy of—my job than me.
“I asked you a question, asshole.”
Cedric did a double take at me with those unnerving frost-blue eyes, almost like he’d forgotten I was there. Frowning, he gestured toward me. “Is that… glitter on your robes?”
I ground my teeth. Because I thought I’d shaken that shit out.
“Johann,” I pressed.
Cedric cricked his neck—one of his quirks since he’d once lost his head. He had a grisly scar from it that I often fantasized about reopening. He probably had a bunch of other ones from where he’d died and re-died over the decades. He’d once been shot by Billy the Kid and, before that, turned into a lawn ornament by Vlad the Impaler. If I didn’t know for sure they were both dead, I’d start a fucking fan club.
As if it took some effort, Cedric withdrew his hand from my scythe. Then he strode toward me, his expression as pompous and judgmental as ever.
“There was a soul missing,” he said. “But no one can say which soul it is or where it’s gone.”
The shadows of my inner essence contracted in the cavity of my ribs, the murk radiating something akin to fear. That wasn’t an emotion I’d encountered in a very, very long time. All the same, did one ever forget such a poisonous sensation?
“That still doesn’t answer why Johann is in the—”
“He’s in the cloisters talking to one of The Few,” Cedric said in that emotionless way of his, gaze set with indifference as he stared straight into my hood. “They’re going over all the names from last night, but the name of the missing soul is also missing on the roster. So, again, no one knows which soul is absent, or where it’s flittered off to.”
One of The fucking Few was here? And Johann wasalonewith them?
I spun away from Cedric, heading down the hall that led to the cloisters.
“Where are you going, Grim?” Cedric asked, my steps soundless while the heels of his polished black dress shoes clicked against the marble.
I didn’t answer. The less said to Cedric, the better.
“Is it possibleyouknow something?” he asked. “About the missing soul?”
I walked on, the bones of my right hand cracking as I curled it into a fist.
“Did you miss someone, you think?” he ventured.
The shadows in my rib cage dispersed, the essence of my soul shooting through my limbs. The force of my sudden anger had me whirling on Cedric, who I seized by the collar.
