Page 60 of Grim Tidings

“Your perceptions of my character are awe-inspiring,” she deadpans.

“What? I know plenty of Malevolent Spirits that are good people.”

“Yeah?” She snaps her teeth around another Bugle. “But Reapers can’t possibly be good, right? Love how that logic works.”

This is why we haven’t talked about work. I don’t know how to get around what she is. Her role, and all the things she’s meant to do.

Her expression slowly shifts from resentment to frustration. “I don’t understand. Why do you hate Reapers so much?”

I shake my head, the wine making everything feel fuzzy and thick. She looks so sad now. I did that to her. I keep doing that to her.

“I don’t hate Reapers.”

“Okay. You don’t trust Reapers.”

“Well, yeah. Of course not.”

She sets the bottle to the side and crawls across the rug toward me. She wobbles to the left, and I reach out to steady her. Somehow my hand ends up on the side of her neck, my fingers beneath that infuriating braid.

“Why don’t you trust Reapers?” she asks, hovering in front of me.

I lick my lips. She’s so damn close. “Because.”

She reaches for the collar of my shirt, her fingertip tracing the edge of a scar. I go still.

“Is it because of these?” she asks.

The alcohol makes the decision for me.

“Yes,” I whisper, watchful.

“Did a Reaper hurt you?”

I swallow. “Yes,” I say again, and my voice cracks down the middle.

But not in the way she thinks. It wasn’t a Reaper who wielded the blade that sliced my skin down to the bone. And it wasn’t a Reaper who pressed their hand to that same wound, filling it with magic that would keep it from ever healing fully.

She hooks her thumb in the top of my shirt. “Let me see,” she whispers.

I do as she asks, reaching behind my shoulder to fist the material of my T-shirt, tugging at it until it slips over my head. I let it fall into my lap, and then I let Darcy see.

The jagged, ugly marks that are carved over my heart from the base of my throat to the curve of my rib cage. Red, and angry. Tender, stretched skin that will never fully heal.

She makes a small, choked sound.

“Gabriel,” she whispers.

Two cuts. Two strikes.

I only have one left.

“When I first became a Guardian, the job seemed simple enough. Protect those who need protecting. But I didn’t realize there would be other spirits intent on doing their jobs as well.” I pause and try to gather myself. I haven’t talked about this to anyone. I’ve done my best to not even think about it. “The first soul I lost was a—” I drag my hand over my mouth, gripping my jaw tight. I take one breath and then another.

“The first soul I lost was in Spain. A little girl. I was working at a tavern on the coast, and she was—” I can still remember it all so clearly. Her dark hair against the whitewashed rocks. Her small, bare feet. “She was playing in the sand with her brother. I was watching them, so I should have seen the Reaper close by. But I wasn’t paying attention, and even if I was, I didn’t know what it meant.”

Darcy doesn’t say anything. She’s still staring at my scars and her palm is still pressed against my skin. I focus on the way her thumb digs in slightly against my rib cage. How it feels like my entire being is centered on that single point of contact.

“They don’t tell us, you know. They don’t tell us which souls will be important later. I think they want us to protect everyone equally, but—that little girl was important. I know that now. That day at the beach, she went into the water, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t get to her. I was barely off the rocks before the Reaper pulled her out.”