Page 59 of Grim Tidings

Her lashes flutter against the tops of her cheeks. “Yeah.” She grabs the bottle and takes another drink. “It was a silly thought.”

“No.” I take the bottle back and my fingertips brush against her knuckles. “It’s an honest one.”

She stares at me. I stare back. Tension unspools between us, growing with every labored breath. The colors of the room are muddled, swipes of a thumb through wet paint. But Darcy is crystal clear in the center of it, watching me with heavy eyes.

“Gabriel,” she whispers.

My gaze trips to her mouth. The press of her tongue at the corner of her lips. “Yeah?” I rasp.

“I think I need some chips.”

I laugh and I shake my head. That heavy, thick thing breaks and I’m left feeling more than a little lightheaded. I could use a task.

“Then I’ll go get you some chips.”

I weeble-wobble my way over to the kitchen with herculean effort. I bang open one of the cabinets and stare too long at the contents. Coffee mugs. Measuring cups. Half a box of stale cereal. I sort through the disaster until I find two serviceable bags of chips I must have bought the last time I went to the grocery. I add a box of Girl Scout cookies on top, just because.

By the time I return, Darcy has moved so her back is against the couch, her long legs in front of and her arms stretched above her head so she can pet the dog. I catch a glimpse of pale skin at her middle. The cute poke of her belly button.

She grins. “You think my belly button is cute?”

I blink. Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud.

“No,” I mumble, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “M’drunk. I don’t know.”

“Sure,” she laughs.

I sigh and toss her a bag of Bugles. She catches them and stares at the picture, curious. “Are these … tiny hats you can eat?”

“You’ve never had Bugles?”

“Bugle.” She sounds out the word slowly. Her eyes squint. “Buuuuu-gleeeee. What a strange name for a tiny hat.”

“It’s not a hat, it’s a—”

She unrolls the top of the bag and rummages around. Her face brightens and then she holds up her hand, fingers spread wide. On the tip of her pinky finger is a Bugle. “Look! A finger hat!”

I shove a handful of Doritos in my mouth. “Yeah. People do that.”

She quickly adds a Bugle to the rest of her fingers, wiggling them like she’s suddenly sprouted claws. “I can see why mortals like them so much.”

“They taste pretty good, too.”

I lean forward and bite the Bugle on the tip of her index finger, tugging it into my mouth. I lean back, and Darcy stares at me, scandalized.

“What?” I laugh, chewing. “You don’t want to share?”

She holds her hands closer to her chest. “Not particularly, no.”

“Too bad.”

It’s hard to believe she’s the embodiment of death and destruction when she’s like this—loose and happy and making tiny Bugle hats on each of her fingers.

“Why did you become a Reaper?” I ask, the question tumbling out of me before I can second-guess it. The alcohol has obliterated the wall between things I should know and things I want to know. We’ve had an unspoken agreement so far tonight to not bring up work, but it seems I’ve reached the state of drunken oblivion where I no longer care about repercussions.

Darcy scowls. “What was it you said? Oh, yeah. I am well suited to the end of beautiful things.”

I glance down at my hands, feeling another hot rush of regret. I pride myself on my control and my goodness, and neither of those things have been on display with Darcy. “Why do you think you became a Reaper, I mean. And not, I don’t know. A Malevolent Spirit.”