If I had anything to say about it, herlonglife.
Somewhere I wasnevermeant to be in the first place.
38GRIM
Usually, in any given situation, I was almost always the scariest person in the room.
Not so when I returned to the Basins.
Scythe clutched in one hand, my full-to-bursting hourglass in the other, I entered the chamber with a purposeful stride. But the moment I spottedhim, I halted.
Sir White…
The foreman of The Few.
No one knew what they really were.
Johann speculated they were angels—some faction of them. Flora believed them to be a type of elemental or djinn. Cedric was certain they were Nephilim.
I didn’t know what to think—and I tried not to, either.
Whatever they were, my MO had always been to stay the fuck out of their way.
Hard to do on those rare occasions when one happened to stop by.
“Grim,” said Johann, his voice tense as he looked up from his writing, a Wolseley pith, safari-style hat strapped to his head, “welcome back. As you can see… we have a guest.”
“Guess who, one of The Few,” said Pluto, who sat perched on Johann’s shoulder.
Garbed from head to foot in hooded white robes, that “guest” sat in a gold-trimmed white throne-like chair near the White Basin. Like all The Few, Sir White wore a full-faced metal mask.
Silver like the embroidered embellishments on his robe, the mask had the impression of a nose, though it lacked a mouth. While long and silken silvery-white hair poured out of the hood and down his shoulders, a pair of glowing red lights peered out at me through the eyeholes of that mask.
Gauntlet-style gloves, metal as well, concealed his hands, the fingertips fitted with sharp silver claws.
Since I’d shed my human form on my way here in favor of my own black robes, I didn’t have the equipment to gulp—but a trepidation close to what that Hunter kid must have felt whenI’dshown up in his aisle swept through me.
“Greetings, Grim,” said Sir White, his voice gravelly and grated—but in a different way than mine. His register was more tenor than baritone, and the “filter” of his cadence hit somehow alien, like Morgan Freeman talking into a fan but… scarier. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I clenched my jaw, taking in the short table at his side, which, like the chair, he must have conjured. Someone had laid out a small silver tea set and tray, but no one held any of the teacups—including Sir White, who didn’t have a mouth to drink with anyway. At least, not one readily accessible.
“Waiting for me,” I echoed while my thoughts raced, going to all the worst-case scenarios first. The very worst being that he knew not only that I’d saved the missing Fated Soul multiple times but that I’d illegally transported her to and from the Netherworld.
Kissed her.
Slept with her…
The oath that came with this role included a vow—made to The Few—not to interfere in any way with the lives of the living.
I had sure as fuck done some flagrant interfering as of late.
But.
I wasn’t stupid enough not to act stupid.
“There a problem?” I asked, scanning the room in search of Flora—who wasn’t here. Hopefully she was stashing Cedric’s body somewhere less conspicuous than his desk. I hoped even more that she’d done so before any potential tour Sir White might have taken of the premises.
“No problem,” said Sir White, who tilted his masked head at me, an oddclickaccompanying the motion. Something that chilled my bones. “At least… none other than that of the still-missing Fated. Which is partially the reason for this… follow-up visit.”
