Chapter 24 The Present
Istep out of the room and back into the hallway.
If Cassian, Nathaniel, and Talon had stumbled on any other Grim Reaper without a proper burial back in the day, they’d be completely screwed right now. No one else would be doing this for them. Not unless they were forced to.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re not forcing me anymore. Haven’t for a while. I’ve been helping them because I want to.
So where’s that gotten me?
I’m about to risk everything to protect a living soul.
Am I insane?
Yeah, probably.
Death never said a word about protecting humans.
His instructions were clear: destroy the wraith, protect other Reapers.
And I’ve already broken more rules than I can count to get on his bad side—bringing Cassian back, helping create the wraith, tossing out half the laws I used to treat like gospel.
I got a slap on the wrist for all that. But this? This might be crossing the line again.
I’m a Grim Reaper.
I’m supposed to collect souls, not shield them from death.
And yeah, technically, if I hadn’t screwed up and created the wraith, I wouldn’t need to protect a human from it now. But even more technically?
I don’t have to do this.
But guess what?
I’m doing it anyway.
I close my eyes, trying to sense the wraith like I did back at the hospital.
My control’s gotten way better since the day I got this human body.
I don’t feel like a half-set jelly on a stick anymore.
Now it’s like there’s a tunnel running through me—narrow, but steady—and I can channel power through it.
The only problem?
Just how damn much power I actually have.
I tighten my grip on Cassian’s dagger. It’s still humming with a trace of the scythe it used to be. There’s real power in it. Not overwhelming, but stronger than mine.
I let that power settle into my hand, syncing with it. Feeling it. Trusting it. And it works.
I feel her. The wraith. She’s circling somewhere nearby.
But this time, she’s not just lashing out blindly, dumping all that soul-deep rage and looking for relief. No, this time she’s hunting. She doesn’t want Cassian’s mother dead. Not yet. She wants her used. Drained slow. And she wants Cassian to suffer for it.
“This harpy just keeps leveling up, huh?” I mutter, then open my eyes and start creeping down the hall.
I can’t pinpoint her exactly. It’s like she’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. But Cassian was right. If she shows up next to him or his mom, I’ll know. I’ll feel it.
It’s hard to explain. It feels more like pressure than presence. But deep in my bones, I know she’s here. And for now, she’s hiding.
I slip past an old linen closet and pause by a narrow doorway leading into another room. The doors are closed, and whatever’s behind them feels heavier than the rest of the house.
I raise the dagger. My other hand moves to the doorknob, fingers trembling just a bit.
I twist it slowly.
The hinges creak as I push the door open.
The second that heavy air hits me, I know exactly what this room is. I’ve never seen it before, but I can taste the grief in the air.
Cassian’s sister’s room.
Sabine’s room.
It’s a little smaller than his mother’s. The walls are soft blue, the furniture white and carefully chosen. A vanity sits under the window. Dust covers old perfume bottles, a dried-out mascara wand, a jewelry box with the lid half-open like someone left in a hurry, and never came back.
God.
It looks frozen in time. Like Cassian’s mom couldn’t bring herself to touch it.
That weight I feel? It’s grief, I think.
She was murdered, wasn’t she?
Maybe what I’m sensing is the pain she left behind.
A photo on the wall catches my eye. It’s Cassian and Sabine, both younger. She’s laughing at something off-camera. His arm’s draped protectively around her shoulders, his expression unreadable. Even as a teenager, Cassian looked like he was always on high alert. Makes me wonder why.
He mentioned today that his dad was an asshole, and I haven’t seen a single photo of the man in this house. When I read his soul earlier, it was only tethered to his mom—no sign of the father at all.
Maybe he’s been in protector mode since he was a kid.
He seems like that type.
One thing’s for sure: if we’d met when I was still alive, we wouldn’t have had much to say to each other. He was a soldier, a man of action, a brother, a son—and back then, as devastatingly handsome as right now. Me? I was an orphan. A married woman. Closed off. Wrecked by my husband’s treatment.
We’d have passed each other in a grocery store without a word. I would’ve looked away. He wouldn’t have noticed me. Or maybe he would’ve thought I looked haunted—and he wouldn’t have been wrong.
But now? Now I’m standing in his dead sister’s untouched bedroom, holding a dagger that used to be his scythe, hunting down a nightmare I helped create.
That’s more of a connection than I’ve had with anyone—maybe ever.
Him, and the other two.
I crouch beside the vanity and run my finger along the edge of the dusty mirror. Where my fingertip trails, the reflection clears, revealing my face—tired, pale, way too human. There’s a smudge of dirt on my cheek and a streak of dried blood at my temple.
I don’t bother wiping it off.
The drawer beneath the vanity creaks when I tug it open. Inside are a few hair ties, a broken bracelet, a lip balm worn down to the base, and a notebook with peeling stickers on the cover. I pause, then pull it out.
The first few pages are filled with doodles, a to-do list, a work schedule. Normal, harmless things. But toward the back, her handwriting starts to change. Messier. Less patient.
I think someone’s watching me.
I saw a man by the fence last night.
I want Cassian to come home. I don’t feel safe without him here. I’d never say it. He has his own life now. But truth is, I only ever feel okay when he’s with us.
I stare down at the page.
This wasn’t some random murder.
She had a stalker.
I flip to the next page. More scattered thoughts, more fear spilling out in ink.
Fuck.
A breeze brushes against my back.
I spin around.
Nothing’s there.
But the pressure? It’s building. Thickening. That tunnel inside me crackles. The wraith’s moving again.
Something flickers.
Just behind the bed.
I whisper, “Come on. Show yourself.”
I slip the notebook into my pocket, silently thankful Cassian’s pants have oversized pockets, and tighten my grip on the dagger.
“Let’s cut the bullshit, yeah?” I mutter.
But she doesn’t show. Not yet.
Instead, I hear it—
Nails on wood.
Like straight out of a damn horror movie.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
I stand by what I said earlier: no other Grim Reaper in their right mind would be doing this unless they were forced to. Not one.
But I didn’t come here to cower. I came to end this.
So I don’t wait around for her to play games.
I make the first move.
I inhale sharply and zero in on the spot where the pressure’s thickest.
Behind the bed.
I lunge. The dagger slices the air with a quiet hiss.
The second I round the corner, the temperature drops. Hard.
My fingertips go icy, and my limbs lose their fluidity, like something’s freezing me from the inside out.
The bed frame rattles violently. Sheets whip into the air like caught in a phantom wind, and a shriek reverberates through the walls.
She appears. Her form pulls together like smoke trying to become solid, bones coalescing out of shadow. That faceless face locks onto me from the space between the bed and the wall.
“You can’t stop what I’m about to do,” she says in that awful, otherworldly voice. “I’m stronger than you.”
She starts to say more, but I don’t let her.
I slash upward, aiming to hurt her—force her to vanish, to break, to something.
But of course, nothing with this bitch is ever that easy.
She twists unnaturally, like a shadow turning inside out, and vanishes, reappearing behind me in a blink.
Her clawed hand swipes through the air, raking across my shoulder. I gasp and stumble forward, something vital draining from me just from a shallow scratch.
The scratch sends a cold so deep I swear it slices through bone. I stagger, choking back a scream. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges. My soul curls inward, like it’s trying to shrink away from her touch.
Whatever that kid did to patch me up after the last fight—yeah, it only fixed the outside.
Inside? I’m still broken.
I stagger, bracing myself on the dresser. My palm leaves a smear of blood on the wood. I press my free hand to my wound, breath ragged.
I need to think. I need to feel through this.
I shut my eyes.
And reach inward again.
That tunnel of power running through me? It’s unstable. Wider than before, but cracked. Like her blow rattled something loose, split the seams of what’s holding me together.
I should be terrified.
But I’m not.
There’s something else now.
Not fear.
Understanding.
A jolt of clarity. Hot, sharp, and undeniable.
The wraith lives in limbo, right? Like a Grim Reaper. She's just a soul. Not some ancient force blessed by a god or anything. She is what she’s always been. A soul. Just like the ones I’ve reaped before.
So why is she different?
Why can’t I banish her?
No. I know why.
It’s the pain. Not in that usual, "unfinished business" kind of way. She doesn’t hurt because she’s stuck.
She craves pain. She lives for it. That’s why she killed. That’s why she did all those horrible things.
Pain is her fuel. She needs it like air. And just now, when she scratched me, she tried to feed on mine.
Fuck.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Then inhale again.
I can feel her circling me like a vulture, soaking up the power she thinks she has.
And the thing is, if she really wanted me dead—or Cassian—she could’ve done it already.
Fast. Clean. But she didn’t. She’s toying with us.
Showing up, threatening his mother, making him relive the worst moments of his life.