Chapter Nineteen
Gabriel
She looks impossibly small in the middle of my bed.
This ferocious, immortal being. The embodiment of death. Snoring gently with every exhale and cuddling one of my discarded sweat-shirts like a teddy bear.
The plan was to tuck her in, then give her some privacy. But I’ve been sitting in the armchair in the corner for the last hour, watching her like a creep.
My brain is stuck in a loop. I can’t stop seeing her run off that side-walk. The way the car swerved. How I could see her braid and then I couldn’t. I know, logically, she’s already dead. But logic is a poor companion for the bone-deep fear that gripped me by the throat as soon as she went down.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, dragging my hand down my face.
I am so fucked.
Darcy makes a small noise in her sleep and rolls to her back, one arm splayed above her head, the other still tangled in the strings of my hoodie.
I want to crawl into that bed with her. Undo her braid and press my face into her hair.
Fall into a deep sleep where there are no consequences or choices to be made. Just me and Darcy, and nothing else.
I stare at her for another minute, then drag myself out of the chair. She’s safe here. Nothing will happen to her. I don’t need to keep watch.
I retreat to the living room and busy myself with straightening up.
Now that Darcy has accomplished her task, what happens next?
Will she stay? Will she return to the department?
Will she need to take on another assignment?
How long can she go on before she’s caught? And what will she endure once she is?
For me, they used a blade. How do the Reapers handle failure?
My wings burst out of my back, spreading wide, knocking over my coatrack and a rogue mug of tea.
I roll my shoulders and drop my head back to the ceiling, trying to find some semblance of control up there in the copper tin tile.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to protect her.
But there are too many unknowns. I don’t know which direction to look.
I’ve already healed her wounds that didn’t need healing.
Piled the bed with blankets. There’s nothing I can do about the department and the choices she’s already made, but I could—
I could make her soup.
I stride toward the fridge and wrench it open, almost pulling the door completely off the appliance. All I have inside is a six-pack of Natty Boh and two blocks of cheese. And a head of lettuce that is slowly turning into a sentient being in the crisper drawer.
I need to go to the store.
I glance at my stove.
I should also probably get a pot.
Oddly enough, the direction soothes my frazzled nerves. I’ll make her soup. I’ll bring her another blanket. I’ll figure out what the fuck we’re going to do now that she’s single-handedly dropped a grenade on the department’s precious protocols. I’ll keep her safe.
But we’ll start with soup.
An hour later and I’m balancing two full bags of groceries, a dog leash, and an obnoxious bouquet of flowers in my arms while fishing in my pocket for my keys.
Halfway to the grocery store, I realized I should probably collect her dog, and then after I got the dog, Frank chased me down the street with a mason jar full of daisies.
Trying to balance it all is an exercise in patience I don’t have, and Spud is absolutely no help, sitting on the front stoop of the bar with his head cocked to the side, staring at me like I’m the one keeping him waiting.
“You could have carried something,” I tell him. “A carrot, at least.”
He holds eye contact, then lifts his leg and pisses directly on my yellow mums.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
He drops his leg, and his tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth. It looks like the fuzzy little fucker is laughing at me.
I shove the door open, and the dog hip-checks me as he trots happily through.
His nose raises in the air, and his tail starts to thrash, obviously scenting Darcy close by.
He weaves his way through the empty bar tables, only to stop abruptly by the bar.
Ears raised, tail low. He rumbles out a warning growl, and I see a stranger hunched over the end of the bar.
I set down my groceries in a rush, the hilt of my sword pressing into my hand. The door was locked when I left and it was locked when I returned.
“Sorry, man,” I call, watching the line of his back. The stranger is slumped over the bar, one hand curled around a mug he clearly helped himself to. “We’re not open.”
The man turns halfway, his long salt-and-pepper hair curtained around his face. Irritation flares swift and hot.
“The bar is closed,” I say again, a little louder.
Tater Tot prowls closer, still growling. The stranger turns fully on the stool, and I can just barely make out his features, shadowed in the light that filters in from the window. It’s been a couple hundred years, but I recognize that scar that cuts from ear to cheek.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
The stranger who isn’t a stranger at all booms out a laugh. “Yeah. Thought that might be what you have to say.”
He balances his elbows on the bar behind him, a half-consumed glass of something dangling from his fingertips. “Hello, Gabriel.”
I dip my head at the elder Guardian. “Hello, Rafe.”
“Been a century or two, hasn’t it?”
I nod, then tip my chin up. “The scar looks better.”
The last time I saw it, it was bleeding profusely all over a muddied battlefield.
His eyes crinkle in amusement. He’s wearing some sort of green linen pants.
An obnoxious tie-dye shirt that has an unidentified stain in the middle of it.
His long hair hangs loose around his face, a collection of braided bracelets up and down his wrist. He looks like he just rolled out of a minivan or a commune in the middle of the woods.
Knowing Rafe, either could be true.
“And your chest seems to have healed just fine. Just like I said it would.” He takes a pointed sip from his glass. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
Rafe was the one who dealt out my punishment for my last failure. He’s been the enforcer of the Guardians for as long as I’ve been one, and I’ve always gotten the impression that he doesn’t particularly enjoy his role.
“It’s fine.” I round the edge of the bar and resist the urge to glance at the staircase. The last thing I need is Rafe getting suspicious about what I’m keeping hidden upstairs. “What are you doing here?”
“I think you know what I’m doing here, Gabriel.” He swivels in his seat, finishes his drink, then reaches for one of the taps. He refills his own beer with an arch of his bushy eyebrow. “You’ve been a naughty boy.”
I drag my knuckles across my jaw. “What do you mean?”
Rafe snorts. “Well, that’s a dead dog, for one.”
Tater Tot bares his teeth. He’s moved in front of the staircase, his big body stretched out across the threshold. It won’t do much to stop Rafe if he wants to check for himself, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
Rafe chuckles, warm and throaty. The most deadly of the Guardians, and he looks like a guy who could play Santa at the mall.
“Additionally,” he says, all sarcasm, “this place reeks of death magic. So do you.”
I don’t say a word. My wings itch to expand in the middle of my back.
He grins like he knows it. “You can relax. This is not an official visit. More of a … friendly check-in.”
I pour myself two fingers of scotch and lean against the back counter. “Yeah? How friendly?”
Rafe laughs again. “There’s a boat show close by that I’ve been meaning to check out.” He smacks his lips. “Coincidentally, while I was in the area, I thought I should let you know—as your friend—that Gideon has made a reappearance at the department.”
I go still, my glass halfway to my mouth. “Gideon,” I repeat.
“Mmhmm.”
The very first Reaper. Darcy’s boss. Many say he’s older than death itself. He’s been overseeing the Office of the Grim Reapers since the department was established.
I might be old, but Gideon is ancient. Powerful, too.
“Last anyone heard,” I say carefully, “he was in Barbados.”
“I suppose he got bored with island life.” Rafe’s smiling eyes are serious now. “It’s curious, isn’t it? The head of the Reapers returning now, at the same time reports of … inconsistencies are emerging from a coastal town in Maryland.”
I lift my glass to my mouth and drain it in one heavy swallow. “It is curious,” I murmur.
Rafe hums. “Thought you’d think so.” He finishes his drink and drops it over the bar. “Anyway.” He slaps his palms against his thighs. “I’ve gotta see a man about a Sea-Doo. Be good now, Gabriel.” He nods at Spud who snarls in response. “Dog.”
He strolls across the bar and through the door without another word.
I’m still staring out the window when the stairs creak. Tater Tot hops up, his tail wagging madly as Darcy pads down the stairs and into the bar.
She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts, the hem skirting mid-thigh. A pair of my boxers peek out from beneath. She tucks a yawn into the crook of her elbow as she shuffles over to me, peering at the empty glass I’m still holding in my hand.
“Did I drive you to drink in the middle of the afternoon?” She presses up on her toes, glancing in the grocery bag. “And why do you have so many carrots?”
I ignore her question. I’m waiting for a monster in the shape of a man to appear, Gideon come to claim his rogue Reaper.
“Another Guardian was here just now,” I tell her.
She stops messing with the groceries and stares at me. “Oh?”
I nod and reach for the bottle of scotch. I pour a little, then a little more, just for the hell of it.
I slant my eyes to hers. “Gideon is back. He’s been seen at the department.”
She blinks, then snatches the glass out of my hand. She downs it in one heavy swallow, then wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
“Uh-oh,” she rasps.
Yeah, I agree. Uh-oh.