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“Indeed,” Mort smiled, leaning against the porch railing. His black kitten, now becoming a cat, padded over to sit next to him. “Congratulations on your employment.”
Tristan leaned against his scythe, already comfortable with the dark tool. “What will you do while I am harvesting souls?”
“I’ve been watching a lot of television lately, mostly renovation shows. If you don’t mind, I’d like to try fixing up this house.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Tristan said. “You’d do it anyway, probably.”
Mort grinned broadly.
“You know me so well.”
For the first time in his existence, Mort was not only seen, but known. He was understood. He was loved. Mortality was a small price to pay for such a happy ending.
Tristan twirled his scythe.
“I think I’m going to like this,” he said. “Maybe I’ll pay Tom a visit.”
“You can only reap a soul when it is that soul’s time. There are rules and regulations.”
“Which I give zero fucks about,” Tristan reminded him.
Mort let out a groan, tempered with a smile. “We’re all in trouble, aren’t we?”
“Absofuckinglutely.”
