Chapter Three
Jackson
I 'm back in the lift, feeling deflated after failing my test. As the lift ascends, I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. I stare out at the world through the window. The view seen through the glass is different depending on who's looking through it. Scythe HQ exists in the Death realm, inside the fabric of reality that protects the living world from what comes next. A place both real and not real. Solid but also as malleable as clay. And Death has made us all its sculptors.
Whoever was in this lift last looked out onto the golden, dusty outback of Australia. I stare, mesmerised by the way the orange sun scorches the landscape until the view sharply shifts into Paris. My Paris. Elegant sepia-toned buildings, the Eiffel Tower puncturing the skyline, and the midday sun shimmering along the Seine. My chest aches, and my mind is drawn painfully into the past.
The intricate golden hand reaches my floor, and with a ping, the lift stops. I rush out into the hallway, heading towards Jeanette's office. The long hallway is more black stone walls, and silvery-mottled marble stretching out across the floor. At the end, in a semi-circle-shaped room of more glass and gold gilding, sits Vera, Jeanette's assistant. She’s perched like a feeble guard dog at her neat charcoal desk in front of Jeanette's door. Vera pushes her glasses back up her nose as her eyes gaze at her screen. She picks up her coffee mug, takes a sip, and leaves pink lipstick smudged around the rim. When she sees me, she flinches. Coffee sloshes onto her desk.
“Mister Mort!” she splutters, brown liquid dripping down her chin.
I smile kindly, but she continues to look at me like a deer caught in headlights. Frank was right. Death's absence was putting everyone on edge.
“Hey, Vera … is Jeanette around?”
She shakes her head nervously and starts dabbing the desk with a tissue. She pushes up her glasses again.
“She's due back any second, but she'll probably be late. Those Milk Carton meetings tend to overrun,” she mumbles, her eyes darting nervously around the room even though we're the only ones here.
“Milk Carton?” I roll my eyes and sink into one of the chairs that form the waiting area in front of Vera's desk. She nods, the jowls of her chin shuddering wildly.
“Project name for the Death-is-still-missing meetings,” she squeaks, looking wide-eyed in fear as if the very concept of the meetings terrifies her.
Jeanette rushes past us both towards her office, talking rapidly on her phone. Vera desperately pats down the papers fluttering on her desk in the gust of efficiency and perfume created in Jeanette's wake. Jeanette jabs her finger towards the door, and I stand up to follow.
I sink into the familiar soft leather as I watch Jeanette pace the room. Her office is spacious and decorated with furniture that would be retro or kitsch now but would have been modern and classy in the 1940s when Jeanette was a young woman before Death recruited her for Scythe. The vast collection of antique weaponry hanging around the office seems designed to intimidate, but it's as nostalgic as everything else—Jeanette worked in factories, building these weapons during the Second World War.
“OK, OK. I'll get a couple more reapers on the search, but that's it. I can't afford to lose anymore.”
She looks at me and mouths 'sorry'. I shake my head, making sure she knows I don't mind the wait. I've known Jeanette a long time, and she's someone I consider a genuine friend.
“No … you know my views on doubling shifts. When we start putting extra pressure on our teams, we're putting ourselves at risk. Look, I've gotta go, OK? No, I need to go. Yes. Bye.”
She groans loudly and drops like a stone into her seat, banging her head dramatically on her desk before pulling up to look at me.
“If I have to go to one more of those meetings, I think I might go into hiding too.”
I lean back, getting comfortable. “That bad, huh?”
She gets up and paces the room, her eyes drawn to the view outside her window.
“It's been three weeks. Yes … this is the longest he's ever been gone, but it's not like he hasn't gone missing before. It's pretty much a regular occurrence here, like Christmas or the hellhounds getting loose.”
I chuckle and let her rant. It was a good reminder of why I always turned down any opportunity to move into an office job. Jeanette had been desperate to get away from reaping, but I can't stand the politics or the bureaucracy of people who've long forgotten what we're here to do. In Jeanette's defence, she's never forgotten. She's great at her job, and she might drive me crazy sometimes, but she's the best boss I've ever had.
“He'll show up,” I say with a shrug I don't feel, and she purses her lips. “He always does.”
“Of that, I'm certain, but I'm worried about the chaos caused in the meantime.”
“What kind of chaos?”
“The board is getting antsy. They're talking about bringing in one of Death's siblings to run things. Can you imagine?” She chuckles a little manically. “And then there's all this talk of a successor?”
My body stills. My mouth dries up till my tongue is sandpaper.
“A successor? I don't … there's a successor?”
She turns back to me and meets my eye, a hooked eyebrow raised. She walks back to her desk and perches on the edge, crossing and uncrossing her long legs. Her voice dips low and becomes a whisper.
“There's a rumour that Death built a failsafe in case anything ever happened. Someone who could take over running Scythe …”
“Who?” I say sharply, too sharply. But Jeanette is too distracted to notice.
“No one knows.” She throws her hands up. “It's a rumour, just a rumour, but … it would certainly make life easier if it were true. We've tried to get into his office, tried to prove or disprove it either way, but … only Death or an Ethereal can access his office. And maybe this successor, in theory. But either way, we can't.”
She doesn't know it, doesn't know how her words have turned my blood to ice. How my heart is a thudding drum behind a cage of bone.
“Depending on who it is? If they want that kind of … responsibility.”
“Well, yes, but I would take someone from Scythe over an Ethereal any day of the week. Death is many things … but batshit is not one of them.” She shudders as if the very idea of them running Scythe is freaking her out. Silence descends as her thoughts drag Jeanette away.
I find my fingers clenching on the arms of my seat, my nails digging into the leather till they sting.
“We'll be fine. We're always fine. They have me, right?” she utters confidently, more for herself than me, I think. She throws her arms wide as she gets up from her desk and slips back into her chair. Her laugh is a little frayed, but I join in regardless.
“Exactly. There is no one better than you, Jeanette. And if the board doesn't realise that, then they're idiots,” I say sincerely, and her cheeks flush.
She puts a hand to her chest, to her heart, and smiles warmly at me before inhaling deeply and sitting up straight—Boss Mode activated.
“OK, then. Why are you sitting in my office, Jax?” Her eyes narrow, and she types rapidly on her laptop, the only modern thing in her office.
“You failed the evaluation? Well, I have to say I'm a little relieved. Much longer, and I would have …”
I huff. My fingers tap on the arms of the chair impatiently.
“I know, I know. I was due a fail. In which case, can we get this over with so I can go?”
I've said the wrong thing, and I know it the moment I open my lips. She looks up at me, her piercing blue eyes making me feel rooted to the spot. Her dark-blonde hair, styled in victory rolls as always, and her neat pencil skirt made her a classic woman of the 1940s. Only her recent collection of tattoos and piercings betray the decade.
She says nothing but reads something on her screen with deliberate slowness. I know it's the report Thomas sent up after my evaluation. Her eyes narrow as she reads.
“Let's take a look at your last assignments, shall we?” Her rapid tapping resumes, and I bite my lip, trying to hold back my frustration. Her lip curls, and I know she's enjoying how close I am to losing my temper.
She stops when she reaches the one she's looking for. I don't even need to look to see the one she's reading through. She makes me wait, and I can do nothing but squirm in my seat. The air in the room feels too warm, too close.
“Jeanette?”
She still says nothing, and I grumble slightly under my breath. Finally, she looks at me and smiles. I notice the touch of sadness lurking there, replacing the amusement. It makes me look away.
“She's cute.” It's my turn to fall silent. “So … you failed your evaluation …” Her eyes flick back to her screen. “According to Thomas, you were showing mild signs of distress, remorse, and sadness. He believed it had to do with your empathy for this girl. It was her mum you were reaping, wasn't it?”
She doesn't need to read the file to know the answer to that question. She twists her laptop towards me, and Millie's photo fills the screen. I try not to react to seeing her face.
She purses her lips and shuts the lid with a click. Placing her forearms on the desk and tilting her head to one side, I can feel Jeanette watching me closely.
“It's totally normal, you know. To feel something, occasionally … something more, something unexpected when you're on the job. It's a good thing; it shows you still have your soul.”
“It's nothing.”
Her lips twitch at the corners, and I roll my eyes. I know better than to lie to Jeanette.
“You know … Lizzy in accounting is still single? Weren't you two a thing for a while? And Jen in IT …”
“Jeanette.” Her name comes out somewhere between a groan and a growl.
“Or Ginny? You know, the waitress at Grim Grub? She's very pretty and …”
“Enough. Just stop.”
“You could rejoin the soccer team again? You were our best striker in the eighties?”
“I was your best striker in every decade, but the answer is no.”
“I know why you choose to live the way you do, but … you're missing out on so much, Jackson. Why not make the best of this second chance we've been given?” Her eyes glance at a photo on her desk, and a subtle smile plays on her lips as she looks down at her wife, her thoughts clear.
“I have a great life. I'm a reaper, I have great friends, my nightclubs. How many people can say that? I have a hectic life, and I'd like to get back to it; thank you.”
Jeanette exhales deeply, her body deflating, and she shakes her head.
“You don't think developing attractions to women you can actually date is a better use of your time than growing infatuations for ones you can't?” Groaning with relief, she slips off her high heels and stretches out her legs to place her stockinged feet on the desk. A tattoo of a mermaid on her ankle peers out at me in judgment.
“I haven't developed anything; she was …” I try to shrug, but my shoulders won't move, the heavy feeling in my limbs too much. “She … she reminded me of Camile. Just a little.” Jeanette is the only person I’ve ever told about Camile.
The amusement on her face drops, and I look away, adjusting my legs in the seat. Doing anything but meet her eye. As far as I'm concerned, Jackson Mort was born the day I died. The day Death asked me a question, and I answered. The day he made me a reaper. I left behind my past and every dark and heavy part of it. Left it to the mortal who bore it. Me, I'm as light as a feather, and I intend to stay that way. Talking about the past only anchors you to it.
“Jackson …”
“Look, I've never even spoken to the girl. It was a moment, and it's passed.”
She tilts her head as she watches me.
“And I don't need you to set me up with anyone. And Jen from IT is single because she smells like biscuits.”
Jeanette exhales, her face etched with disappointment. Then, her red lips break into a subtle smile.
“It's the fake tan. Seriously though, how long have we known each other?”
“Too long,” I add with a smile.
“Exactly. So I know that you've never let anyone here get close to you. Why is that?”
“Are you my therapist now? Thomas has already tried filling that spot today.”
“No, but … you need to talk to someone. You used to talk to Death. You were so close when he trained you …”
I groan and get up out of the seat, taking the knot in my stomach with me as I walk to the window. Because it's Jeanette's office, the view never changes from the one she sees. When I look down, I see Times Square in 1945—yellow taxis zooming through the streets, enormous billboards advertising Pepsi-Cola and Budweiser, and dozens of men in trench coats and umbrellas desperately trying to avoid the downpour of rain.
“Do you remember? My first Christmas party here? I got completely drunk and made a complete fool of myself trying to impress Carmel. You took me outside, filled me with water and coffee, and told me that yes, I'd made a fool of myself but that I'd done it for the only reason worth doing anything: for love.”
Turning around, I shoot her a shark-tooth grin.
“Did I really say something that cheesy?”
“You did.”
I chuckle, but the laugh is fake to my ears, and I turn back to the window.
“That was a long time ago.” The words sound bitter, and it surprises me.
I look back down at the people below. They're just ghosts, images torn from Jeanette's memories. Most of them will be long gone now, their lives used up and spent. And I'm still here, wondering if mine is ever really going to start.
“Jackson?” Her voice is soft, and I turn around to face her. She puts out her hand and motions for me to sit down again.
“You know the rules, and you know why we have them. This girl might have caught your eye, but that's it; that's where it ends. You know what happens to people who cross that line … I want you safe. I want to see you happy, Jax.”
“I'm fine, Jeanette. Seriously, my life is good.” I try to smile, but it feels more like a snarl.
She raises an eyebrow and curls her toes. “I'm suspending you for three months.”
“What! You can't be serious?” My hands slam down on the armrests, and I bite my lip to stop myself from swearing. She gives me a look and I know I've crossed a line.
“You want to make it six?”
I raise my hands in defeat. “No, no. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“That's better. Maybe you need a little change. That job in training is still going?”
“I'd rather look after the Ghouls,” I spit, and she laughs again.
“I'll let Carmel know she can take a vacation.” Her eyes glance again at the photo on the corner of her desk. It's of Jeanette and Carmel honeymooning in Egypt. Jeanette's blonde hair is wrapped in a silk scarf and oversized shades on her head, and Carmel's bronze curls flow around her bare shoulders. They look happy.
“Joking aside, think about that transfer. There's no shame in saying it's time.”
I rise from the chair, not waiting for Jeanette to say I can go.
“Except it's not my time. Three months, and I'll be back, right?”
She smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, and then nods.
“Absolutely. Just … think about what I said, OK? I care about you, Jackson … and I'm not the only person here who does.”
I open my mouth to say something but shut it quickly and move towards the door. As I open it to leave, I turn back to Jeanette, who is still watching me thoughtfully.
“Thanks, Boss.” I shoot her another mega-watt smile and walk out of her office feeling even emptier than when I walked in.