Page 135 of Grim Tidings

Rafael snorts, then takes pity on me and raps his knuckles against the bar top. “I forget sometimes how little they tell you in the early days. There’s a long and complicated explanation—complete with the legends of the original archangels—or there’s a simple one. Which would you prefer?”

I’m still having trouble breathing around the feel of my heart, pounding in my chest. How do mortals walk around like this, feeling so much? “I’ll take the simple one, please.”

“Good, ’cause I’m not much of a storyteller.” He opens the folder and points to the first line, a sticky tab arrow next to it indicating where I should sign. “You died protecting others, yes?”

I try to remember, but everything from when I was human is a blurred slash of color. It’s been so long. “I think so.”

Rafe nods. “As such, you were made into a Guardian when you died. You’re put on a path for your own redemption, and you have three chances to fulfill your heart’s greatest desire.” He gives me a condescending look. “Did you pay attention at all during orientation?”

“But what about the scars? What about my failures?”

Rafe drags his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “What failures?”

“The lives I couldn’t save. The mortals that were taken by the Reapers under my watch. I lost them, and then you carved these wounds against my heart. They’re my punishments, right?”

Rafe looks at me like he can’t quite believe how stupid I am.

My heart speeds up in my chest, and I feel like I might throw up. “Right?” I ask again.

He shakes his head slowly. “No, Gabriel. They weren’t wounds made as punishment. They’re—” He drags his hand down his face. “They’re cracks in your heart. You were close each time, but then she drifted away.”

I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”

He frowns. “Let’s try another way. Haven’t you ever wondered about your tattoos?”

I lift my arm and stare at the marks. “They’re from people I’ve helped, right?”

He nods. “Yes. Lives you’ve shaped.”

I drag my thumb along the stupid tomato that Darcy always loved to poke. “I was hoping I’d get a mark for Darcy,” I confess on a mumble, embarrassment a collar around my throat.

I wanted something tangible for me to look at. To touch. A mark on my skin that matched the one on my heart. I twisted myself in front of the mirror every day for the first week she was gone, looking. For a scythe, maybe. Or a flower petal.

Fuck. Even a damn German shepherd.

“Gabriel,” Rafe says, sounding completely, utterly exasperated. Amused. Mildly horrified. “Every mark on your body is for her.”

I shake my head. “I don’t—”

“They’re from lives you’ve shaped on your way to her. Every person you’ve helped, every soul you’ve protected, it’s so you could get to Darcy. Twice you made the wrong decision, and it resulted in—those marks are cracks against your heart. That’s why they haven’t healed. You haven’t caused anyone’s suffering except your own. That’s what those marks mean.” He stares at me over the length of the bar, aghast. “Shit, man. You had no idea?”

She’s the butterfly, I think dumbly. And the tornado.

“No,” I gasp. “What the fuck? No.”

Rafe reaches for the folder in front of me and flips through the pages until he gets to one close at the end. SOULMATE IDENTIFICATION AND DECLARATION is in bold across the top.

The word soulmate slices through my body, sharper than any sword. It sinks into my belly and carves its way up to that hollow cavern where my heart pounds a furious beat.

I’ve heard others at the department discuss it in whispers, but I’ve always dismissed it as a myth. A fairy tale. A bedtime story for the lost and lonely souls. Something to hold on to for the long stretch of immortality ahead.

Maybe this is another dream. Maybe they want to lure me into a false sense of security before cutting my third strike.

But there’s no mistaking the pound of my heart in my chest. How it speeds up, then slows down. I can feel my new mortal fragility. I’m no longer trapped in the in-between.

Every step I’ve ever taken. Every choice I’ve made.

All of it, for Darcy.