The Afterlife’s Most Anxious Reaper (Supernatural Suckers #3)

Chapter 1

Greg adjusted his tie for the fourth time and cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said to his reflection. “My name is Greg, and I'll be your reaper today.”

No. Too casual. Too much like a waiter introducing the specials.

He tried again. “Greetings. I am Field Reaper Grigoreth, and I'm here to guide you through your transition from—”

Too stiff. He sounded like a form letter.

The bathroom mirror offered no feedback. The fluorescent light above it buzzed and flickered, casting his face in tones that made him look either sickly or dead, depending on the flicker.

But that was only appropriate.

“Hi.” He softened his voice and tried to make it warm and inviting. Like the kind of voice you'd want to hear at the end of everything. “I know this is confusing. I know you're scared. But I promise—”

The door banged open.

Greg jumped. A reaper he vaguely recognized from Processing shouldered past him without acknowledgment, heading for the stalls.

“Sorry,” Greg said automatically. “I was just—”

The stall door slammed shut.

So much for that.

Greg looked back at the mirror. He had to find his thread again.

“I promise,” he said, quieter now, “that what comes next isn't something to fear. Death isn't an ending. It's a—”

The toilet flushed. The other reaper emerged, didn't wash his hands, and walked out without a glance in Greg's direction.

Greg watched him go.

No, no more distractions.

He forced his gaze back to the mirror again and straightened his tie a fifth time.

“Death isn't an ending,” he whispered to himself. “It's a threshold. And it's my honor to walk you through it.”

He believed that. He believed that.

He just wished he didn't have to believe it in a bathroom that smelled like… well, like this.

Greg didn’t mind that upper management had passed the Bodily Needs Mandate to bring them closer to their clients, but couldn’t they have been given a nicer bathroom to take care of those needs?

Maybe not.

Mortal life was rough, wasn’t it? Dirty and gritty and inconvenient at times. Messy and chaotic and loud. Greg knew that. Greg had studied it in detail for decades. He’d seen the good and the ugly. The awful and the wonderful.

He licked his lips and stepped away from the mirror.

He was ready.

Greg found Morrith in his office, which was less an office than a cubicle with walls that were slightly higher than everyone else's. It also came with a shiny nameplate. These were the perks of seniority.

Morrith didn't look up from his paperwork. But then, he rarely did.

“Sir? I'm here for my assignment.”

“You're early.” Morrith's pen kept moving. “By eleven minutes.”

“I wanted to be prepared.”

“Uh-huh. By prepared, do you mean vibrating with enthusiasm?”

Oh no, was he vibrating? He was.

He couldn’t stop.

Morrith finally looked up. He had the eyes of someone who had seen empires rise and fall and had been forced to file the paperwork.

Greg longed to be that experienced one day.

“First solo,” Morrith said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You nervous?”

“No, sir.” Greg paused. “A little, sir. Mostly excited.”

Morrith stared at him for a long moment. Then he pointed at the clipboard Greg was carrying.

“You'll find a new file in there,” he said. “The target's name is Dustin. He's male. Twenty-six years old. The window is three minutes, fifty seconds. It should be an easy job. Good luck, kid.”

Greg looked at his clipboard with a rush of pride. “Thank you, sir. I won't let you down.”

Morrith was already focusing back on his paperwork. “Just bring me clean documentation and don't make me answer questions from Oversight. That's all I ask.”

Greg nodded. Should he say something? About what this meant to him, about how he understood the weight of this responsibility, about how he'd spent decades preparing for this moment.

“You're still in my doorway,” Morrith said.

“Right. Sorry. Thank you.”

Greg turned and walked away, eager to get started.

His first assignment.

He was going to do this perfectly.