Page 1 of Grim Tidings

Chapter One

Darcy

I died on a sunny Tuesday in March at the age of twenty-seven.

I could hear the bumble bees buzzing beneath my window, dancing through the sprigs of lavender planted in small, clay pots. I remember thinking it was especially cruel, how I could hear life creeping forward, even when mine was coming to a close.

Scratchy sheets. Sore throat. An ache wedged beneath my rib cage that radiated out until I knew nothing but pain. Most of my life was spent in hospital beds, but I could feel the difference this time. So I tipped my face into the single beam of sun that managed to filter through the hospital-issued canvas curtains and I rattled out my last breath.

I thought death would mean an end to my suffering.

Not so much.

“Can I touch it?”

“No.”

Behind me, Brad makes a noise that settles somewhere between aggravated and amused. To him, I am an adorable kitten with no claws, hissing through my teeth.

I try to sharpen my scowl.

“I’m not asking to hold it,” he says. “I just want to touch it.”

“And I said no.” I study the half-peeled sticker on the side of my water bottle. It’s a smiley face with looping words underneath. Good Vibes Only. Someone probably put it there as a joke during a staff meeting.

Brad shifts closer, oblivious to my subtle attempts to put space between us. I don’t usually come to this side of the department, but no one has bothered to replace the water filter on my preferred fountain for almost a month.

“You know we don’t actually need to stay hydrated, right?”

“Just because we don’t need to do something, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

I’ve had a hard time letting go of my mortal habits. Roughly ten decades in and I still drink my water. I still have a doughnut for breakfast and the occasional cigarette after dinner. I like holding on to these simple things. They make me feel human in a way I haven’t been for a very, very long time.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Brad laughs. “Technically, we’re dead. Dead things don’t need water.”

“It’s not a technicality,” I mumble under my breath, not understanding why I’m still engaging with this idiot. I’m already running late, and my patience is razor-thin. “We are actually dead.”

“Right. Reaper status. The best of the best.” A fist appears in my peripheral. I think he wants me to … bump it?

I ignore him.

“You’re not a Reaper yet. Technically”—I bite down around the edge of the word, my frustration manifesting with a heavy hit of sarcasm—“you’re still a Ferryman.”

It’s what all Reapers start as when they enter the Department of Hauntings and Spirits. A transport officer who ferries souls from one side to the other. It’s supposed to give new arrivals a better appreciation for the fragility of man, or something, but I don’t think the lesson has landed with Brad.

Brad and his pastel-colored polo, the collar popped in the back.

I don’t think a single lesson has landed with Brad since the dawn of time.

“Such a stupid rule.” He leans his shoulder against the wall next to the cooler, boxing me in. “Bet I’ll get my blade soon enough, though. Then we’ll be out in the field together.”

Great. The last thing I need is Brad in the field, trailing after me like a puppy, armed with a scythe.

“Grim Reapers work alone,” I tell him.

He inches closer, fingers reaching for the front of my dark robes. He gives them a playful tug, then bites his lip and looks up at me through his lashes. “They don’t have to, though, right?”

I fist my robes and yank them out of his grip. “I prefer it that way.”