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I followed his gaze and spotted the group of girls that had been gossiping near the coffee machine.
Charon studied them for a moment before he shook his head as if deciding something for himself. He continued to eye up every person on the floor, one by one.
I was in no rush to meet my maker, so I let him be.
The elevator swished open, but Charon didn’t turn to look as the doors revealed Rome, with his dark hair and leather jacket. He wore sunglasses inside, like the mega-douche he was. His hair was mussed, and his collar was crooked. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have taken that secretary to a closet somewhere.
My lip curled in an unnatural sneer—I wasn’t a sneering person, but then again, it was rare that I encountered someone that hated me right off the bat. My appearance usually inspired excited screams, enthusiastic waving, and people demanding selfies.
Plus, Rome had called me Wisp several times, which I got the impression was an anti-ghost slur.
Rome stepped off the elevator and ran his hands through his hair like he was in a shampoo commercial.
Charon made a noise of approval and seemed to make up his mind about something.
“Not him,” I pleaded. “Whatever you’re thinking of, and I have no fucking clue what it is, please don’t,” I warned.
Charon gave me a long look. “I’m not holding your hand through this.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I replied, placing both my hands on my hips. “I can go my own way.”
Charon spluttered a laugh. “You don’t have a clue what is going on, and you’re so full of false bravado that you won’t even ask. I need someone to train you. Take you under their wing. To make sure you don’t fuck up.”
Rome looked between us and quirked a dark brow. “No.” He stated plainly before turning left at the elevators and sauntering away, disappearing from view.
“Well, that settled that,” I held out my hands, trying not to be offended that I had been rejected by a James Dean wannabe.
“I need to find a Grim to train you.” Charon adjusted his cuffs. “I need you out of the way.”
“Thanks?” I drawled. “Isn’t a Grim that death omen from Harry Potter?”
Charon blinked slowly as if he thought I had lost my mind. “A Grim is a collective noun for a group of Reapers.”
“Got it,” I did the finger guns. “Like a group of crows is called a murder.”
“Or a rhumba of rattlesnakes.”
“No way is that real,” I would have punched his shoulder, but I didn’t have a body.
A strange sound from the ceiling interrupted our conversation.
Charon removed one of his Italian dress loafers, and threw his shoe at the ceiling tile a few meters down from where we stood. A resounding bang drew everyone’s attention, and the ceiling tile dropped to the floor with a puff of construction dust. A yelp and a grunt followed as a flash of yellow and pink fell to the floor.
Fletcher.
I had wondered how he had disappeared so quickly after I had tried to follow him.
He’d been in the ceiling.
Fletcher’s Pikachu hood had flopped in his eyes, and he pushed it back, blinking at the light as his eyes adjusted.
Charon squared his shoulders and feet and looked down at the man on the floor.
Fletcher shot him a wide grin. “Need anything, boss?”
Charon continued to glare. “Take Ms. Rossi down to wardrobe, please.”
It was not a question but a command. I guessed that Charon was done with the newbie.
