The Grim Reaper's Tidings

Chapter One

Darcy

I died on a sunny Tuesday in March at the age of twenty-seven.

I could hear the bumble bees buzzing beneath my window, dancing through the sprigs of lavender planted in small, clay pots. I remember thinking it was especially cruel, how I could hear life creeping forward, even when mine was coming to a close.

Scratchy sheets. Sore throat. An ache wedged beneath my rib cage that radiated out until I knew nothing but pain.

Most of my life was spent in hospital beds, but I could feel the difference this time.

So I tipped my face into the single beam of sun that managed to filter through the hospital-issued canvas curtains and I rattled out my last breath.

I thought death would mean an end to my suffering.

Not so much.

“Can I touch it?”

“No.”

Behind me, Brad makes a noise that settles somewhere between aggravated and amused. To him, I am an adorable kitten with no claws, hissing through my teeth.

I try to sharpen my scowl.

“I’m not asking to hold it,” he says. “I just want to touch it.”

“And I said no.” I study the half-peeled sticker on the side of my water bottle. It’s a smiley face with looping words underneath. Good Vibes Only. Someone probably put it there as a joke during a staff meeting.

Brad shifts closer, oblivious to my subtle attempts to put space between us. I don’t usually come to this side of the department, but no one has bothered to replace the water filter on my preferred fountain for almost a month.

“You know we don’t actually need to stay hydrated, right?”

“Just because we don’t need to do something, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

I’ve had a hard time letting go of my mortal habits.

Roughly ten decades in and I still drink my water.

I still have a doughnut for breakfast and the occasional cigarette after dinner.

I like holding on to these simple things.

They make me feel human in a way I haven’t been for a very, very long time.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Brad laughs. “Technically, we’re dead. Dead things don’t need water.”

“It’s not a technicality,” I mumble under my breath, not understanding why I’m still engaging with this idiot. I’m already running late, and my patience is razor-thin. “We are actually dead.”

“Right. Reaper status. The best of the best.” A fist appears in my peripheral. I think he wants me to … bump it?

I ignore him.

“You’re not a Reaper yet. Technically”—I bite down around the edge of the word, my frustration manifesting with a heavy hit of sarcasm—“you’re still a Ferryman.”

It’s what all Reapers start as when they enter the Department of Hauntings and Spirits.

A transport officer who ferries souls from one side to the other.

It’s supposed to give new arrivals a better appreciation for the fragility of man, or something, but I don’t think the lesson has landed with Brad.

Brad and his pastel-colored polo, the collar popped in the back.

I don’t think a single lesson has landed with Brad since the dawn of time.

“Such a stupid rule.” He leans his shoulder against the wall next to the cooler, boxing me in. “Bet I’ll get my blade soon enough, though. Then we’ll be out in the field together.”

Great. The last thing I need is Brad in the field, trailing after me like a puppy, armed with a scythe.

“Grim Reapers work alone,” I tell him.

He inches closer, fingers reaching for the front of my dark robes. He gives them a playful tug, then bites his lip and looks up at me through his lashes. “They don’t have to, though, right?”

I fist my robes and yank them out of his grip. “I prefer it that way.”

His smile drops.

“Fine, I get it. Darcy prefers to work alone.” He gives me an ex-aggerated pout. “Darcy doesn’t need any help with her all-powerful reaping.”

“I’m not all-powerful.”

Far from it. I’m barely holding it together and hoping no one notices.

While most souls cross over to the place beyond, some are saved for employment here at the Department of Hauntings and Spirits.

I was assigned the office of Grim Reapers, but there are others, too.

Poltergeists, Holiday Spirits, Possessions, Cupids.

I don’t even know all that exists under our departmental umbrella.

Some spirits think they’re anchored to this place because of unfinished business, while others believe it’s the final test before they move on to whatever is next.

I think that if no one can bother to change a water filter regularly, there isn’t much hope for some grand plan.

We’re being used as cheap labor. Indentured servitude, our immortal souls tied to this bureaucratic afterlife as glorified pencil pushers.

I don’t know what I expected would happen when I died, but it certainly wasn’t this.

An office with too-bright fluorescents, incompetent coworkers, and a stack of overdue paperwork on the edge of the desk I’m never at.

“This place is hard enough, don’t you think?” The expression on Brad’s face shifts. A flash of petulance beneath all that good boy charm. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting some company.”

Hesitation pinches between my shoulder blades.

I remember what it was like when I first arrived.

I had spent months and months confined to a bed with sheets that smelled like disinfectant.

Pain sharp as knives and then … nothing.

A woman with a kind smile hovering over me, her hands holding on to mine.

“Are you ready to leave now, my darling?” she asked.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Please.”

And then we were here. Standing in an empty hallway lined with doors. Her with her black cloak draped around her shoulders and me still in my hospital gown.

Those first few weeks in the afterlife had been exhilarating. I thought it was a second chance. Another life, without pain.

But it wasn’t a life at all. It was a trick. An illusion.

The loneliness set in hard and fast, a hollow ache carved into my chest. I know what it’s like to crave something more.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Brad. “You’re right. It is lonely. I’m just—I think I’ve been working too much.”

His smile returns, encouraged. “Maybe you should take a break. Have some fun.”

I try to keep my face neutral. “Maybe.”

Where does one find fun? Not in this office, that’s for sure.

They say that those who become Reapers are the souls with the greatest potential for darkness.

It doesn’t matter that I had no say in my designation.

I’m treated like the second coming of the bubonic plague everywhere I go.

I’ve never once gone to one of the interoffice pot-lucks.

Never received an invitation to the Malevolent Spirits’ book club.

“Maybe”—Brad shifts closer, drawing out the word, trying to be coy but only managing a faint approximation of constipated—“we could have fun together.”

I tip my chin up, careful to keep space between us. “Our office has a no-fraternization policy.”

“Does it?”

I don’t know. But if we don’t, I’m going to drop a note in the suggestion box. I might be lonely, but I don’t intend to seek solace in the arms of candy-colored Brad. My standards didn’t disappear when I died.

“I should get going,” I hedge, avoiding the question. “I’m late for assignment selection.”

Brad’s eyes flare in interest. “That’s today?”

He looks far too eager for what is essentially the end of another person’s life. I manage a tight smile and start to edge around him and toward the door. “Yep.”

“Can I come?”

“Only Reapers are allowed in front of the tree.”

“I won’t tell.” He makes a cross over his heart, staying close. “Swear it.”

“It doesn’t matter. The tree would know.”

There are strict rules. To receive my assignment, I must appear in front of the massive yew tree that sits at the very center of the department. It’s private, and … discerning. Only one spirit may enter the room at a time. Only then will the tree grant a soul to collect.

“I can be quiet,” Brad insists.

“No.”

“I can—”

“No,” I say again, sharper. I never should have indulged him. Now he’s trailing after me like a lovesick puppy, playing twenty dumb questions.

Next time, I’ll replace the water filter myself.

The door to the break room swings open, and a small blond head appears.

I almost weep in gratitude. Aelia’s eyes shift between me and Brad, a knowing smile edging up one side of her mouth.

She tries to push up her sleeves, but they fall again almost immediately.

She’s swimming in her dark black robes, her hood up, her young face cast in shadow.

“Everything good in here?”

“Fine,” I mutter, using the opportunity to yank myself away from Brad. I readjust my scythe and my bag, making sure everything is in order. “Are you heading to the assignment room?”

She nods, then blows a hot pink bubble with her gum.

It obscures most of her face before she snaps it back in her mouth with a grin.

Aelia came to the department when she was eight years old and is one of the few spirits who was permitted to skip the mandatory Ferrymen training.

Her scythe is bigger than she is, strapped across her back with a thick leather belt.

She is small, adorable, and wholly terrifying.

“I have the slot after you,” she says. “And you’re late.”

I grab on to the lifeline with both hands. “Yes,” I agree. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, don’t make me late.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I won’t be penalized because you’re being chummy in the break room.”

“Yes, of course.” I slip out of the room and quickly link my arm with hers.

Brad calls a goodbye, but I wave him off, lengthening my strides. Aelia snickers under her breath as she meets my adjustment in pace.

“I can’t believe that guy was placed with the Reapers.” She snorts. “What an idiot.”

“I know,” I murmur. “I thought it was a mistake when he showed up.”

She pushes back her hood, shooting me a look from the corner of her eye. Her hair is braided into two neat pigtails, pale pink scrunchies at the end of each. She looks like she should be heading to the playground, not collecting souls for the afterlife.