“I appreciate that,” I said.
Quiet. And then, “Good night, Helena.”
“Cheers,” I whispered in response—and ended the call.
9GRIM
After my unceremonious slaying of Cedric and my subsequent release of his soul, he did not return to the Hallowed Halls.
Had the circumstances been anything other than what they were, his failure to reappearwouldhave brought me rare solace. But since I didn’t know the extent of his knowledge regarding the librarian, his prolonged absence sent me into an unending state of red alert.
My anxiety over where he had gone and what type of retribution he was planning put me in the habit of checking on the librarian nightly.
Best-case scenario, Cedric had woken up six feet deep in a box or some other precarious state and was now tasked with the tedious assignment of exhuming, extracting, and possibly reassembling himself—something that could potentially keep him busy for a spell.
Worst-case scenario, my knee-jerk wrath had confirmed his suspicions regarding the librarian, and he was now biding his time with a new and more thorough plan to use her to ensnare me.
So far, I had not again felt the pull of her imminent death. Something I kept waiting for: an unstoppable event I simultaneously anticipated and dreaded.
The anticipation part should concern me. So should the dread.But I refused to let them. Examining the roots of either emotion too closely would just complicate the already-unmitigated clusterfuck I’d found myself in.
So would another non-vital interaction with her. Which was why I kept my distance.
Between making my rounds, I stopped by her building just after midnight every night.
After assuring myself that her car, an offensively yellow Volkswagen Beetle, slumbered in its usual spot, I checked her fourth-floor living room window.
Almost every night since the elevator incident, I’d glimpsed the pale blue flicker of television light flashing between the curtains that she kept parted. As if, perhaps, she sometimes searched for me, too.
Except that was an idiotic thought. On the off chance shewassearching for me, her terror alone would be the sole motivator behind such an action.
Not that I hoped for a different motivation. I didn’t. I sure as fuck wasn’t in this job to make friends.
On the rare nights that the television failed to verify her presence, I sent a call to her phone, something that, due to my powers, I needed no device to accomplish.
Always, she answered, her quiet and curious “Hello?” soft as it resonated through my empty skull.
I never said anything in response. Just ended the connection.
One night, when I glimpsed her pacing and talking to some visitor, I floated up to her window, making sure I stayed back so she wouldn’t catch sight of me.
She used her hands a lot when she spoke, and whoever she was talking to seemed to be getting quite a story. Hopefully she hadn’t told anyone about me. For some reason, I was less worried about that than I was about who she had to be yammering at.
Finally, she turned out the light and left the room, probably to go to bed.
Wait. Was someone staying over? Sleeping on her couch?
Before I knew what I was doing, I unspooled to vapor, then rematerialized in front of her sofa.
And glowered down at… a stuffed pineapple?
The fuck?
I tilted my head at the thing, which wore a dopey smile, and I had to resist the urge to tell it I knew of a bird it might get along with.
The shower kicked on. Followed by a radio blasting some folkie, touchy-feely,Twilight-soundtrack-sounding, acoustic “Kumbaya” guitar shit.
Ugh. I should get out of here.
