Page 3 of Riding the Reaper

He goes deeper into the woods, off any semblance of a trail. Moonlight pours through the bare branches. He’s getting that feeling now. The prickle on the back of your neck when you know you’re not alone. And you usually aren’t. Mortals just can’t perceive most of what’s around them.

I can feel the clock ticking now. It’s a vibration deep in my bones.

Twenty-nine minutes.

Twenty-eight.

His soul is starting to show. A soft, warm glow that only a reaper can see. Right now it’s faint, just a shimmer around him, but it will get brighter, stronger, as he gets closer to the end.

I’ll have to show myself soon. But not yet. I like to take my time. A little chat first. Something to take the edge off before the big moment. The ones who can accept what’s happening, who don’t fight it, transition so much more smoothly.

Some reapers enjoy the terror. Get a kick out of watching mortals scramble. I don’t. I try to spare them that, when I can. A simple explanation. A gentle escort. A “your ride is here” vibe. It’s a grim job, but you don’t have to be an asshole about it.

Sam stops at a large oak tree, unzips that ridiculous costume, and urinates against its trunk. I turn away, more out of principle than anything. Decency has never been a requirement of this job, but it feels intrusive. He’s so alive. Fully, messily, steam-rising-off-his-piss-in-the-cool-air alive. A purely biological act that he has no idea he’s performing for the last time.

He finishes, shakes off, and the twig I’ve been carefully avoiding snaps under my boot. Rookie mistake.

“Hello?” he calls out, squinting into the dark. “Anyone there?”

I hold still. It’s still early. I could wait a little longer, let him⁠—

“Hey, asshole. I’m not in the mood.” His voice cracks with anger. “Show yourself, Luke. You want to gloat? Do it to my face.”

I sigh. So much for easing into it.

Stepping out from the bushes, I let the moonlight catch the blade of my scythe. Cheap trick, but it works. Speeds things up.

“Good evening, Sam.”

3

SAM

“Right,” I say. “Okay. Who put you up to this? Was it Luke? Did he pay you?”

The figure stays perfectly still. That baritone again, so low I feel it in my chest. “I assure you, I don’t know anyone named Luke. I work for a much higher authority.” He pauses. “You have twenty-four minutes left to live. I’d suggest you use them wisely.” He gives me a slight bow.

“Dude. I get it. The costume’s great, the scythe looks real, the voice is killer. Ten out of ten for commitment. But I just got publicly dumped, so I’m not exactly in the mood for improv night in the woods. Thanks, though. Really. Gold star.” I turn to walk away. “Tell Luke he can go fuck himself with a garden rake.”

“You’re lost,” the guy says to my back. “You don’t know the way back to the barn. Even if you did, you won’t make it.”

My blood runs cold. He’s right. I have no idea which way I came from. All the trees look the same. And there’s something about this guy’s certainty, the lack of emotion in his voice, that’s starting to get under my skin.

I turn around slowly. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all,” he says. “I’m simply informing you. Reapers don’t kill. We guide. Whatever’s about to happen to you was decided long before I arrived.”

“So what is it? What’s gonna happen to me?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Rules. We have a lot of them. You’d be surprised.” He takes a step forward, and a sliver of moonlight falls across what’s under the hood.

Damn.

This guy is handsome. Like, ridiculously handsome. His skin is ghost-pale, his features all hard lines and sharp angles, almost too perfect to be real. His dark eyes catch the moonlight in a way that has to be contacts. This is professional-level stuff. Whoever this guy is, he didn’t throw this together an hour before the party. He’s been planning this.