Guarded by the Reaper (Monster Security Agency)

Chapter One – Grim

Chapter One

Grim

The floorboards creaked under my boots as I stopped in the doorway of Norman’s office at the Monster Security Agency branch in Seattle. The scent of lemon air freshener assaulted my senses. It was always pristine in here, the kind of cleanliness that screamed it was more for show than actual use.

Norman was my handler, and he was currently hunched over paperwork, his comb-over gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. He waved me in absentmindedly, a practiced smile plastered on his face. I already knew whatever job he had lined up for me was going to be a pain in my ass, and given the second thoughts I’d been having lately, I was going to refuse it and instead discuss with him how I might want to quit the MSA.

“Well?” I prompted him.

He sensed my sour mood, because he shook his head and went straight to the point.

“Before you argue with me, I just want to say this job is no big deal, even if it pays like it is. It’s just fourteen days,” he said from behind the monstrosity of an oak desk he used as a shield between himself and the rest of the world.

I hated the way Norman kept this office – disgustingly perfect, like a showroom no one was allowed to touch. It reeked of lies. Which suited him too well. He was a man who’d divorced his wife when she got sick. It made my non-existent stomach turn. But Norman liked his life in black and white, saw everything as simple equations, and when things got complicated – which a sick wife most certainly was, a complication – he chose to subtract them out of his life. Just like that, like removing an unsightly stain.

“Fourteen days, Grim. Easy peasy,” Norman repeated, drawing out the vowels. He finally set the pen down and clasped his hands on the surface of the desk. “So, what do you say? You want to keep a pretty little thing safe for two weeks? The client is Camellia Aster. Yes, she’s one of those Asters.”

I had no idea what he was talking about and who the Asters were, so I suppressed the urge to scoff. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move a muscle, just stood there, my boots a steady presence on the fluffy Persian rug that looked like it had never been walked on. I’d always wondered, why bother with a rug if you wouldn’t let anyone walk on it? Norman was full of such nonsensical displays of abundance – things meant to impress, but missing the point entirely.

“Grim?” he prompted, his voice laced with a touch of annoyance. “Cat got your tongue?”

Humans and their figures of speech. I had a feeling if a cat got my tongue, Norman would clutch his pearls and faint. And that would make two of us, because the day I let a furry creature get close to me was the day I’d let Norman cut my cloak to pieces and sell it as souvenirs.

I watched him watching me and fought back another sigh. Even eternity had its limits. Mine were wearing thin. This whole bodyguard gig, once a defiant middle finger to Death and their soul-reaping monotony, had lost its charm somewhere between protecting a politician who’d sold his soul, literally, for a second term, and a pop star whose idea of a threat was a pimple on the day of a music video shoot. How pathetic were the things humans clung to, the power they craved, the fleeting moments of what they called “fame”... It was laughable. And exhausting.

“No, Normal,” I said flatly, the nickname slipping out before I could stop it. I always made sure it sounded unintentional. “The cat hasn’t gotten my tongue.”

Norman’s brow furrowed, but he let it pass. He usually did, mostly because he thought I was calling him “Normal” or “Normie” by mistake.

“Then humor me,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s got you all twisted up?”

Oh, where to even begin? The never-ending parade of human folly? The utter futility of it all? Or maybe the fact that after a century, I was starting to feel… nothing. Not the sharp bite of cynicism, not the flicker of anger, just a vast, echoing emptiness. I was a reaper who no longer wanted to reap, but who also didn’t want to do this. I was adrift.

He cleared his throat. “Look, Grim, all you need to know is she’s loaded, scared, and needs someone like you. Someone… discreet.”

“Discreet.”

“Yes, discreet,” he insisted. “See, Ms. Aster, well, she’s dealing with something… unusual.” He paused, shuffled some papers on his desk, like he was buying time for a big reveal.

As if I cared about any of this. I should’ve just left, flown right out the window and never looked back. Problem was… I didn’t know where else to go.

“Unusual how, Normie?”

Another wince from him at the nickname. Good. He cleared his throat again, then pushed a piece of paper towards me.

“She made a sketch of what’s been bothering her.”

I stepped closer to his desk, the heel of my scythe dragging behind me, leaving a deep mark on the plush carpet. I stretched my bony hand out from inside the long, wide sleeve of my cloak and gripped the piece of paper between sharp fingertips.

The sketch was of a creature – a grotesque mockery of a child’s doll, except full-sized. Slender limbs made of twisted branches, a head roughly molded from clay, the hollow sockets where eyes should’ve been filled with a chilling darkness. And the straws. Everywhere, woven into the clay, jutting out at odd angles, like brittle bones pushing through decaying flesh. The creature was crude, almost childish, but there was something about its simplicity that made my skin crawl. A deep, primal fear, the kind that echoed with the memory of a thousand nightmares, vibrated down my spine.

I shoved the paper back across the desk. “Not interested.”

Norman just sat there, his gaze steady, a smug smile on his lips. He knew I’d reacted. He always enjoyed making me react.

“This thing… it’s been leaving gifts,” he said.

“Gifts.”

He nodded, eyes gleaming. “Dead animals. Arranged in patterns. Ritualistic.”

My grip tightened on the scythe. Dead animals. There was only one… No. I wouldn’t think about her, not here, not now.

“Two weeks, Grim,” Norman pressed. “Fourteen days to babysit a scared little rich girl, and then you’re free. Big fat bonus at the end, think of what you could do with that.”

“Think of what I could do with that?” I echoed.

It was almost funny, the way these humans thought money could fix anything, buy them anything, even time. Money couldn’t buy back his wife’s health, could it? Money couldn’t change the fact that he was a soulless husk of a man who’d traded love for comfort.

“Yeah,” he said, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside me. “Think about it.” He gestured towards the door. “She’s waiting in the conference room down the hall. Maybe you two can work something out.”

The thought of talking to her, the one who’d summoned that… thing, sent a shiver down my spine. There was no way I was going to do it.

“I’m not going to talk to her,” I said. “Find yourself another bodyguard.”

He sighed. “You haven’t even met her, Grim. Give the woman a chance. Fourteen days, that’s all she needs.”

Pity, I thought. He was asking me to babysit a dead woman walking because... what? She could pay? Pathetic. I turned towards the door, scythe bumping against the doorframe.

“Suit yourself then, Grim,” Norman said. “But you’ll regret this.”

I didn’t bother answering him. Regret was for the living.

The door slammed shut with a resounding boom, shaking the framed diplomas on his walls. I stalked down the hallway and towards the stairwell that led to the roof.

The MSA building was all glass and steel, a monument to human arrogance. I hated it. Hated the way the sunlight glinted off the polished floors, the sterile silence broken only by the click of heels and the muffled drone of conversations that meant nothing. I made my way to the roof access door, my boots thudding against the concrete stairs. The roof was my escape, the only place I felt even remotely at peace in this concrete jungle.

The door swung open with a groan, and a blast of cold air hit me, carrying with it the scent of rain and the faint, metallic tang of the city below. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with unshed rain, and the wind whipped at my cloak, tugging at the darkness that clung to me like a shroud. It was a good day to fly. Maybe a good day to disappear.

I walked briskly towards the edge of the roof, my boots crunching on the gravel, spread my arms, feeling the wind pulling at my cloak, lifting me.

“Wait!”

A hand grabbed the hem of my cloak, and it was as if the fabric was an extension of my body, because I felt the intruder’s fingers dig into it and pull. I froze, a jolt of surprise, of something akin to fear, shooting through me.

My cloak shifted, began to slip down my back, exposing the raw flesh and bone beneath. Panic flared, hot and bright, for the briefest of moments, but I tamped it down, forcing myself to remain still. I’d spent decades mastering the art of stillness, of blending into the shadows, and I wouldn’t let some… some what?

Who dared to approach me like this? Invade my personal space, grab me like I was... like I was...

Whoever it was, they pulled at my cloak again, and this time... it truly slipped off.

Slowly, I turned.