Chapter 10 Helena
Frustratingly, after I’d tried to talk to him, the calls stopped.
If there was one thing I’d learned about Reaper Man, it was that he wasn’t the conversating sort. A fact that led me to question why he bothered calling me in the first place.
But that question. Wasn’t it the last one in a long line of too many others left unanswered?
I just wanted to know what in the fiction turned nonfiction was going on. And since it was my keister on the line, didn’t I at least deserve that?
Of course, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also long to hear that voice again. Buzzing into my ear over the phone. Or in person. Bossing me around some more. But maybe without the threat of imminent death?
“Any wild party plans for tonight?” asked Cleo, one of my library assistants, the question stirring me from my bordering-on-dirty thoughts.
Together, we descended the steps of the building’s main entrance, the brisk and blustery Halloween-night air whipping our hair about.
“No,” I admitted, my enormous jack-o’-lantern earrings swaying as I huddled into my matching oversized orange sweater.
The early afternoon had been warm enough when I’d arrived that I’d left my jacket in my car.
“I already did the costume-party thing. And frankly, ever since then, my October has been scary enough.”
“You could say that again,” said Cleo, straightening her black-and-pink cat-ear headband. “You doing okay after all that?”
It had been just over a week since the elevator incident, or as Cleo had put it, “all that.”
“Glad to be alive,” I admitted, though I couldn’t keep her eye as I said it. “What about you? Headed out to a big party?”
On weeknights, the library closed at nine, and this year, Halloween fell on a Thursday, one of the two weekdays that Cleo and I were scheduled to work.
Not that I’d minded. Living in an apartment meant I didn’t get trick-or-treaters.
And I’d ditched the dating apps after the epic-fail night with Dale the wandering werewolf, so there weren’t any more spooky-themed romantic escapades to be had, either.
And since I’d had my two brushes with death, I’d been resisting the urge to tempt fate by spending my nights holed up at home with vintage cartoons, movie musicals, and Netflix baking competitions.
Tonight, with the exception of some pumpkin-shaped Reese’s and maybe a glass of wine, would—fingers crossed—be no different.
“I’m meeting Peter at that new witch-themed bar for some spooky drinks,” she answered.
I froze on the last step, my head swinging her way because… what?
“Peter,” I repeated.
Halting, too, Cleo smirked. Biting her bottom lip, she wagged her brows at me. “Winston,” she clarified like I couldn’t already guess. Like there’d been any question regarding who she’d meant. “The archivist?”
Anger, more potent than a swig of Fireball whiskey, bolted through my veins, setting my blood ablaze. Words—salty ones about Peter—dogpiled in my mouth, but I pressed my lips into a line, disallowing a single one to slip past.
Obviously, Cleo didn’t know Peter and I had dated.
How could she when he’d insisted that I keep our every move an absolute secret?
Seemed Cleo had received no such gag order.
She had no clue, either, that Peter had used the excuse of our working together to end things with me.
So how could she know how much it stung that he was apparently now seeing her?
Someone who worked in the exact same department as me, never mind the same building.
Unless I was overreacting. Unless I had this all wrong—jumping to conclusions and assuming Cleo and Peter were seeing one another when they could just be friends.
Friends could wag eyebrows about friends… right?
“You didn’t hear this from me,” laughed Cleo as she leaped off the bottommost step, “because he doesn’t want anyone to know we’re dating since we work together or whatever, but if you can get him to shut up, that man is one hell of a kisser.”
I scowled, glaring after Cleo. When she turned around, I managed to clear my expression.
“Well,” I hedged, “sounds like you’ve got a spicy night ahead.”
“Won’t be the first,” she said through a grin that befitted her feline makeup, the too-cute whiskers and little pink nose she’d drawn on with greasepaint.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. You don’t want to know, don’t ask.
“How long have you two been an item?”
Cleo shrugged. “We’re more like coworkers with benefits. But we’ve been on and off since July. Currently on.” She winked at me. “Very, very on. Rroow,” she added for effect, pawing at me with one hand before turning the gesture into a wave. “See you tomorrow!”
“I’m off,” I called after her. “It’s my week to work Saturday.”
“Ah, well,” she said, “then bright and early on Monday. Enjoy your Friday.”
Breaking away, she hurried through the parking lot toward her car, a definite skip in her step.
When she was far enough away, I let my smile fall and allowed my glower to take over again. I wasn’t jealous so much as I was angry. Incensed.
Because what was Peter’s deal? Why lie to break up with me?
And had he been cheating on me?
I honestly didn’t want to know.
“Stupid hot accent,” I grumbled as I wrestled with the ridiculous faux patent leather pumpkin-shaped purse I’d impulse-bought off because, for whatever reason, I’d wanted to be festive.
Wrenching open the zipper, I then scrounged for my keys.
“Dumb pretentious ponytail. Pompous blazer with the absurd elbow patches!”
Every p I spoke got extra emphasis as I hit the button on my key fob to unlock my doors.
Except nothing happened.
I blinked at the fob, and then at my car, searching the interior to make sure I had the right yellow Beetle.
And I did. There was my oversized silk sunflower beaming at me from the built-in dashboard vase.
Also, lying there unhelpfully in the front passenger seat, the jacket I’d failed to carry in with me because why think ahead?
Doing so hadn’t exactly worked for me before, had it?
Not when I’d said yes to Peter flipping Winston that day he’d stopped to help me with the book drop so he could ask me out.
Certainly not when I’d proposed going on a first date to a Halloween party dressed as rainbows and mother-flipping sunshine just so Dale could write me off and rub himself on some hussy with knee-high socks, a pencil in her updo, and a fake branch-manager badge with the asinine name “Paige Turner.” Some vapid, job-appropriating poser who probably had never read a line of Shakespeare in her life, didn’t know who Keats was, thought Hemingway was just a type of cat, and had no idea just how horrible of a no good, very bad day poor Alexander had actually had!
“Augh!” I roared at my car, giving the front tire a good hard kick, which, just like every other action I’d taken to try to find a man who wasn’t a walking pooper-scooper, did me absolutely no good.
Was that why I’d gotten the toe-curl tickles for a literal skeleton? Because while all the other eligible bachelors couldn’t be bothered to not make moves on everybody else in my vicinity, he’d actually opened a door for me?
And if we wanted to get technical about things, out of everyone, Reaper Man did call me.
Maybe it was on his bingo card to, at some point, take me out the way he had the blond John Doe, but at least he did still call me.
The bar for dating standards. It really was in hell, wasn’t it? So doggone low that I had developed the hots for (and maybe was a little sad about not getting to have phone sex with) the. Grim. Reaper.
“Unbelievable,” I snarled as I shoved my apparently dead key into the lock to manually unlock the door.
Except that wasn’t working, either. “Got to be kidding me,” I added through chattering teeth, though it was anyone’s guess at this point if I was grousing about the car, Peter, or my possible impending demise.
With a sigh, I cast a glance around the parking lot, scanning for any of the other employees who’d yet to drive off.
Another frigid gale rushed by, sending brittle leaves scampering over the asphalt and the nearly vacant lot.
Cleo’s car was gone—something that, even given the circumstances, I had a hard time not being grateful for. I certainly didn’t need details about her and Peter, any more than she’d already divulged, which had given birth to enough frolicking brain goblins as it was—happy frigging Halloween.
Ben’s truck wasn’t here, and neither was Peter’s Volvo—not that I would have resorted to texting him even if he had been working the night shift. At this point, I’d sooner hit up Michael frapping Myers for a ride.
Still, I dug my phone out. Because my options seemed to be calling Roadside Rescue or Uber. Which did I truly need?
I got my answer to that—at least partially—when my car started itself.
“What?”
Blinking, I backed away from the vehicle, which revved loudly as if someone was pumping the gas even though there wasn’t anyone in the driver’s seat—or any of the seats.
The car jolted forward, an action that sent me skittering in reverse.
Oh God. It was happening again. Except this time, instead of tumbling off a balcony or careening down an elevator shaft, I was about to be run down by my own sunflower-yellow Volkswagen Beetle.
Looping my head through the pumpkin purse’s crossbody strap, I bolted, making a break for the building, my keys to the front door gripped hard in one hand, my phone still clutched in the other.
If I went back into the building, I’d trigger the alarm, and the police would come. I could wait inside while—
With a gasp, I fumbled to a stop at the steps leading up to the main entrance.
Garbed in that same impeccable black suit now paired with a matching frock coat, a man stood front and center on the wide stairway, blue eyes blazing an icy stare, white-blond hair stirring in the wind.
The man, one who was supposed to be dead, one who I had seen die, stared straight at me, the faintest of up-to-no-good smirks tugging at one corner of his mouth.
All of Reaper Man’s warnings came rushing back to me, making far more sense than they had before because he must have known this man would be back.
Blondie had already seen me, though, and with that smirk he was wearing, “engaging” with him was certainly the last thing I wanted to do.
Hide, Reaper Man had told me.
But what if there wasn’t anywhere to hide?
Not with my car barreling straight at me, headlights blazing.