Chapter 11
“What in holy hell?”
Chan’s words break the stunned silence as Death sits calmly in our midst. An ominous bolt of lightning flashes in the dark sky outside the window, and a moment later, a loud rumble of thunder shakes the glass in its frame.
“You’re real?” Danny exclaims loudly, and Tristan turns to look at his boyfriend in surprise.
“Wait, what? You know who he is?”
I wonder how any of them know who this is.
“I had a weird dream about him.” Danny stares at Death. “We were drinking tequila in a bar somewhere in Mexico.”
Tristan turns to Death with a frown. “Why did he get tequila in Mexico, and I got tea in bone china at a stuffy restaurant in Mayfair?”
Drinking tequila with the Grim Reaper in Mexico, having tea with him in Mayfair? I wonder, and not for the first time, what the hell I’ve walked into.
Death doesn’t answer Tristan’s question. Instead, his gaze seems to be fixed on…Chan. His gaze slides over every dip and curve of Chan’s body. I mean, it’s not as if that flesh-coloured body stocking hides a damn thing.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not the question needed here, Tris.” Chan returns Death’s gaze with an almost defiant one of her own. Seriously, why isn’t she afraid? Why isn’t anyone afraid? This is Death. “Shouldn’t you be asking who he is and how he appeared in your kitchen?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico,” Tristan mutters sulkily, although I don’t think anyone’s paying attention.
“Tristan,” Dusty whispers, her eyes wide, “is that who I think it is?”
“Everyone, this is Death.” He points to each of us in turn. “Death, meet Harrison, Sam, Dusty, and Chan. Apparently, you already know Danny.”
I swallow hard, nerves dancing in my stomach. This is the actual Grim Reaper, the supernatural entity known throughout the ages as Death, and Tristan is acting like he’s just a regular person.
I really don’t understand the dynamic here. Knowing it’s probably a bad idea, I allow my iron grip on my empathic abilities to loosen just enough to get a read on the room, and what I find surprises me. Half of them I can’t read at all, and the rest of them are very faint.
Huh.
I relax a little further but no, nothing changes.
Death, I can’t read at all. Unsurprising.
Tristan either. Danny, I get hints of amusement, confusion, worry, and hopeless love for his boyfriend.
It’s kind of sweet how much he loves Tristan, and if I’m being perfectly honest, it makes me a little jealous.
I wish someone would feel that way about me.
My gaze drifts over to Sam, I still can’t get any kind of read on him at all. But if I had to go by the expression on his handsome face, I’d say it was similar to Danny, equal parts amused and worried.
Dusty is broadcasting loud and clear as she inches nearer to Chan. Judging by the way Dusty hovers over Chan protectively, I’m guessing the two of them are close. But beyond that, I can feel her deep love and concern for her fellow drag queen.
That just leaves Chan herself, and what I sense from her is…surprising.
It’s attraction.
To. Death.
Her gaze is pinned on the eons-old entity sitting calmly on one of Tristan’s kitchen chairs, and rather worryingly, he stares back.
“Death?” Chan’s gaze flicks to me as her brows rise in disbelief. “What, the Death? Like the Grim Reaper?”
“Apparently,” Tristan replies.
“Apparently?” Death turns his head regally toward Tristan and gives a disgruntled snort.
“Apparently? I have existed since before the dawn of time. I have always been and always will be. I have collected countless souls, have seen time and reality beyond anything your underdeveloped human minds can comprehend. Do none of you know how to show deference?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Tristan huffs. “What do you want us to call you? Mr Death?”
Death sighs loudly. “Mortals.” He shakes his head. “I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the screaming. There was a time when I only had to appear before one of your kind and they would be frozen with terror. The mere mention of my name was enough to incite the deepest dread. In fact, I…”
His voice trails off, and I follow his intense blue gaze to where it rests on Chan once more. She’s unhooking the chin strap of her sequined and feathered skullcap. She slides it off and shakes her long, shiny black hair free so it spills elegantly down her back.
She looks up to find everyone staring at her. “What?”
“Nothing.” Tristan shakes his head.
“You know, Death…may I call you Death?” she says conversationally, setting the huge headpiece down on the counter and covering nearly half of Tristan’s kitchen in feathers.
“If you want all the little humans to be afraid of you, you might want to dress the part. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the whole appearing in the dark and the bolt of lightning were nice touches, but—”
“Chan, I don’t think–” Tristan begins, but she carries on as if he hasn’t spoken.
“I’m just saying, Mr ‘don’t you mortals know how to show deference,’ that we’re pretty simple creatures with our underdeveloped brains and all,” she says, her tone drier than the desert. “Our primal drives can be diluted down to the three F’s.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I murmur, and Sam snorts next to me.
“Fight, flight, or fuck.” Chan shrugs. “Right now, you don’t exactly look threatening.
If you show up looking the way you do, the last thing on anyone’s mind will probably be to run away from you.
They’re far more likely to want to hump you.
For future reference, you might want to try the whole death shroud and scythe thing.
Maybe a skull face, skeleton hands.” She wiggles her fingers.
“Jesus, Chan,” Tristan mutters, dragging his hand over his face.
“What? It’s a valid point.” She holds up her hands innocently. “If you’re gonna pitch up rocking the sexy CEO look, you can’t expect the poor humans to not want to bang you.”
Death suddenly disappears from his chair in a swirl of black smoke and reappears in front of Chan, crowding her against the counter.
Although she has those ridiculously tall heels on, he towers over her.
Honestly, at this point, I’m not sure whether to worry or grab a bucket of popcorn and settle in to watch the most bizarre situation I’ve ever been privy to.
“You interest me,” he states, his voice a deep rumble as he stares down at her.
“Whoa, back up there, big fella.” Chan pats his chest and shifts, forcing him to step back a pace. “I’ve been cornered by a six-foot bear wearing only a harness and leather mask at a sex convention in Brighton. You don’t scare me.”
“What were you doing at a sex convention in Brighton?” Tristan asks curiously.
“We lost a bet,” Chan replies, and Dusty sniggers.
“That was an eye-watering experience,” Dusty says.
“I think we’re getting slightly offtrack,” Danny interjects. “Death, why are you here?”
Death ignores Danny and continues to stare at Chan for several long seconds before dissipating into smoke again and reappearing in his chair.
“You’ve got to admit the smoke thing is cool,” Sam mutters to me.
Instead of answering Danny, Death fixes his pale blue eyes on Tristan. “You’ve run out of time, Tristan,” he says.
“What?”
“The bones have been uncovered, and the clock is now ticking.”
“Bones!” Danny exclaims, startling Tristan so much he jolts in his seat.
Danny rushes to explain. “Right before the accident, Maddie and I were called to an abandoned rugby ground in Surbiton because someone had discovered human bones buried beneath the pitch. Oh my god, how could I have forgotten?”
“Probably because you got hit in the head with a tree,” Chan mutters.
“You found bones?” Tristan says. “Human bones?”
Danny nods. “I don’t have any details. Honestly, the whole crime scene was strange.
The bones were laid out weirdly, all neatly stacked on top of each other.
And there weren’t any signs of digging at all.
It looked like the ground just burst open and spat the bones out.
Dr O’Hara said he wouldn’t be able to tell the age or gender of the victim until he’d got the bones back to his lab and examined them properly.
But that was a couple of days ago, so maybe he has some answers by now. ”
“O’Hara?” Tristan repeats. “Roger O’Hara?”
Danny nods. “That’s him. Odd bloke with a comb-over. Do you know him?”
“He works in the forensic anthropology department.” Tristan bites his lip and glances back at Death. “It’s just like you told me.”
“What’s going on?” Danny asks. “Do you know something about the bones?”
“Um. I think I know who the bones belong to.”
“What?” Danny frowns. “Who?”
“Bruce Reyes. He’s one of the ghosts at the bookshop in Whitechapel I told you about,” Tristan replies, and my gaze shoots to Dusty.
Does he mean the same Bruce who’s Dusty’s not-boyfriend with the thick thighs and tiny shorts?
“He’s Dusty’s–never mind. Anyway, he nearly always appears in a rugby kit.
We think he died sometime in the eighties. ”
Clearly yes. The one and same.
Maybe Dusty was right about the Upstairs Management, as she likes to call it.
Perhaps I’m meant to be here. I mean, what are the odds?
I came to London looking for answers about my mother and the bloodline I come from, only to be thrown into the middle of a supernatural crisis with a bunch of people who are connected to her and her building…
and her ghosts, apparently. Not to mention Death’s involvement somehow.
“The eighties?” Danny scratches his jaw thoughtfully. “Can you narrow it down any further?”
Tristan shakes his head. “Bruce doesn’t remember anything about his death and his body was never recovered, so he’s never solved his unfinished business and moved on.
Instead, he guards the magic doo–” He breaks off and glances at Death, who raises a brow.
“I mean, the portal,” he amends with an eye roll. “He guards the portal.”
“Portal?” I blurt out. “What portal?”