Chapter 9 Grim
After my unceremonious slaying of Cedric and my subsequent release of his soul, he did not return to the Hallowed Halls.
Had the circumstances been anything other than what they were, his failure to reappear would have brought me rare solace. But since I didn’t know the extent of his knowledge regarding the librarian, his prolonged absence sent me into an unending state of red alert.
My anxiety over where he had gone and what type of retribution he was planning put me in the habit of checking on the librarian nightly.
Best-case scenario, Cedric had woken up six feet deep in a box or some other precarious state and was now tasked with the tedious assignment of exhuming, extracting, and possibly reassembling himself—something that could potentially keep him busy for a spell.
Worst-case scenario, my knee-jerk wrath had confirmed his suspicions regarding the librarian, and he was now biding his time with a new and more thorough plan to use her to ensnare me.
So far, I had not again felt the pull of her imminent death. Something I kept waiting for: an unstoppable event I simultaneously anticipated and dreaded.
The anticipation part should concern me. So should the dread. But I refused to let them. Examining the roots of either emotion too closely would just complicate the already-unmitigated clusterfuck I’d found myself in.
So would another non-vital interaction with her. Which was why I kept my distance.
Between making my rounds, I stopped by her building just after midnight every night.
After assuring myself that her car, an offensively yellow Volkswagen Beetle, slumbered in its usual spot, I checked her fourth-floor living room window.
Almost every night since the elevator incident, I’d glimpsed the pale blue flicker of television light flashing between the curtains that she kept parted. As if, perhaps, she sometimes searched for me, too.
Except that was an idiotic thought. On the off chance she was searching for me, her terror alone would be the sole motivator behind such an action.
Not that I hoped for a different motivation. I didn’t. I sure as fuck wasn’t in this job to make friends.
On the rare nights that the television failed to verify her presence, I sent a call to her phone, something that, due to my powers, I needed no device to accomplish.
Always, she answered, her quiet and curious “Hello?” soft as it resonated through my empty skull.
I never said anything in response. Just ended the connection.
One night, when I glimpsed her pacing and talking to some visitor, I floated up to her window, making sure I stayed back so she wouldn’t catch sight of me.
She used her hands a lot when she spoke, and whoever she was talking to seemed to be getting quite a story. Hopefully she hadn’t told anyone about me. For some reason, I was less worried about that than I was about who she had to be yammering at.
Finally, she turned out the light and left the room, probably to go to bed.
Wait. Was someone staying over? Sleeping on her couch?
Before I knew what I was doing, I unspooled to vapor, then rematerialized in front of her sofa.
And glowered down at… a stuffed pineapple?
The fuck?
I tilted my head at the thing, which wore a dopey smile, and I had to resist the urge to tell it I knew of a bird it might get along with.
The shower kicked on. Followed by a radio blasting some folkie, touchy-feely, Twilight-soundtrack-sounding, acoustic “Kumbaya” guitar shit.
Ugh. I should get out of here.
But hand tightening on my scythe, I lingered.
Because the librarian started to sing along. To Taylor fucking Swift—of course.
Not like me not to want to cover my nonexistent ears and maybe, I don’t know, melt.
But… the librarian had a good voice. A beautiful voice, actually.
On a nearby armchair, next to a tote stuffed with picture books, sat a ukelele covered in goddamn glittery stickers, one of its strings popped. A packet of unopened replacement strings lay on the coffee table next to a pair of reading glasses.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
The librarian went into the chorus, her voice carrying over the rush of water.
I deliberated.
Because it wasn’t like I didn’t have time.
She sure didn’t.
Damnit.
Grinding my teeth, I left my scythe standing where it was while I went to pluck up the instrument. I examined it, turning it over between bony hands. The other strings seemed okay.
I sat down next to the fucking pineapple, and balancing the ukelele on my knees, I replaced the broken string. I’d snapped enough in my afterlife—more than I could count—that the repair only took a minute.
As the librarian’s playlist switched over to some lively and unbearable show tune, I stood and replaced the instrument. Then I returned to collect my scythe.
Glowering down at the pineapple, I aimed a bone finger at it.
“Not a fucking word,” I said, before vanishing.
This nightly check-in, touch-and-go setup was hardly ideal. But I was convinced Cedric had somehow deduced the missing soul was my doing, and that I was now trying to cover my tracks.
His plan perhaps was to catch me in the act of rescuing the librarian or to somehow capture evidence to present against me, thereby paving the way for him to get rid of me and, at long last, assume my role himself.
If so, that was indeed a surer plan than informing Sir White outright of my impudence.
In that instance, I would at least have the ever-useful tool of plausible deniability on my side. If, however, Cedric managed to produce evidence—or even somehow the missing soul itself? Well, at the very least, he would be providing proof that I’d been willfully derelict in my duties.
All of this increased the pressure to find a way to smuggle the librarian’s soul into the White Basin.
I dared not remove said soul from its living vessel, though, until I devised a way to deliver her to that Basin undetected.
Something I was still working on. Because it would be far worse for me if I was found in possession of the missing soul.
So long as the librarian lived, I could, at the very least and as a last resort, feign ignorance in the event of an inquisition.
When midnight came again, I approached the librarian’s apartment building, the glow of too many streetlamps forbidding all but a few patches of shadow for me to hide in should she happen to glance outside.
Per usual, her absurd car dwelled in its designated slot tucked beneath a long port.
But her darkened living room window did not flicker with pale light.
Stationed in the cover of a willow, its curtaining screen of golden leaves half illuminated by the streetlight, I hesitated—then called.
She answered right away, her voice having grown familiar to me—something decidedly unfamiliar since I only ever spoke at length with Flora, Johann, and, unless I could avoid it, Cedric.
“Don’t hang up,” she said, breathless. “Please.”
I should end the call. I had the answer I sought. Her car proved she was home. Her voice confirmed she was not in distress. That plea in her tone, though, had me acquiescing to her request despite my better judgment. A judgment I needed to start heeding.
Something about her had me throwing every “should” aside.
“I know it’s you,” she said. “And… I think it’s time we talked.”
Talk? That was not a good idea. Or an option. We’d spoken enough, and in that brief conversation, I’d already conveyed to her everything she needed to know about the situation at hand.
“I know you’re there,” she said. “Who else would always call after midnight with the ID listed as ‘Unknown’? Aside from that, I can feel it. And though I don’t know how… I can feel you.”
She should be afraid of me. Everyone was afraid of me. Why wasn’t she?
“Say something,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Why did I want to reply? I couldn’t.
“Am I going to die?” she asked when the silence only swelled.
Yes.
That was the answer. One that, if she was asking, she likely already suspected. But… why couldn’t I say it out loud?
“I admit I wasn’t sure before,” she pressed, her living room light flicking on, “but now I know you can talk. Just… say something. Ask me if I like scary movies. Or demand a ransom. I’d ask your favorite color, but something tells me it’s death-by-scythe black.”
I lingered on the line for just a moment longer. Just until she appeared in that window, her visage framed like a figure in a portrait, her form backed by golden light that set her matching hair aglow like a halo.
That light. Oddly, it seemed to be coming… from her.
“Can you see me?” she asked. “I think you’ve been watching me. I get this… funny feeling sometimes. Something like a spider sense. It’s spooky, but… kind of nice, too.”
Moving of its own accord, my hand went to my ribs, the place her fingers had sunk into that night on the balcony. When she’d fallen against me after I’d yanked her away from that ledge. For reasons I still didn’t understand.
An echo of that sensation rippled through me now.
“At least tell me your name,” she pleaded. “I… don’t know what to call you. I’m Helena. If… you didn’t already know.”
Helena. Fittingly, a name one letter more than that of the most beautiful woman in history. The name of a song I’d, years ago, learned to play, too. A song about grieving, yearning, the residue death hefts upon the living…
“Thank you, by the way,” she said. “For saving me. Both times. And I mean that. Even if… you can’t keep doing it.”
My soul gathered itself into a knot before thudding just once—its essence beating against my sternum, like a banging fist that brought with it the reverberation of some kind of murky remorse.
The emotion—less recognizable than all the others. I didn’t like it.
I didn’t like this.
Killing the connection, I unfurled, unwilling to risk catching her eye and confirming what she already grasped. That fate had dealt her a bad beat. That there was nothing that could stop that. That, despite what either of us preferred, I was coming for her.
And soon.