Page 107 of Grim Tidings

My stomach lurches. “What?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ornate watch with a long gold chain. He flicks it open, then closes it with a snap.

“I got one of these from him. He said if I saw you, all I had to do was open and close the case. I’ve been doing it since you came over.” Open and closed. Open and closed. Open and closed. “He said I’d need to do it just once, but you can never be too—”

“Once was quite enough, thank you.”

Someone grabs the watch out of Brad’s hand, sliding it deftly into the front pocket of a perfectly tailored gray wool suit. A man stands in front of us, backlit by the sun. I try to get a look at his face, but I can’t make out any of his features.

I can see only that he’s tall, impatient, and seemingly has an affinity for high-end menswear.

And that his magic feels like the press of a very sharp knife, right at the softest part of my neck.

“Bradley, I suggest you find somewhere else to be.”

“Where should I—”

The man sighs, one elegant hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care. Not here.” He flicks his fingers. “Be gone.”

Brad stumbles over his own feet as he lurches from the bench, starting one way down the street only to turn around halfway and speed-walk the other. The man in the wool suit and I watch him wordlessly.

“I do believe I made a mistake,” he says, his deep voice aggrieved. “Allowing that one out of his cage.”

There’s an accent there, somewhere. Something vaguely British. Aristocratic. He moves to sit in the space Brad just vacated, crossing his ankle over his knee as he settles.

He has a lollipop hanging out of his mouth. Clubmaster sunglasses with a tortoiseshell pattern and opaque lenses that hide his eyes. His hair is so blond it almost looks white in the autumn sun, combed neatly back over his forehead and around his ears.

I’ve never seen someone belong somewhere less.

He turns toward me and I can feel myself being weighed and measured through the lenses of his glasses. He pulls the candy from his mouth and arches a brow, a devastating smile curling one side of his mouth.

“You seem surprised.”

I have to swallow twice before I can manage any words at all. “I am.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t expect you to be so …” I debate my options. Normal. Ordinary. Well-dressed. “Handsome,” I finally decide.

His smile broadens to a wicked grin. “I am the master of death, not a troll.” He wedges the lollipop in his cheek. “Though I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.”

I’m not sure I meant it as one. Gideon is the type of handsome that feels like a threat. Like the edge of a blade or the too-still waters of a pristine lake. I know something sinister lies beneath.

He leans closer. “You wouldn’t be buttering me up, would you, Darcy?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you, my dear, are in quite a bit of trouble.”

My stomach flips. It’s one thing to know, hypothetically, that you are making choices that fall outside the guidelines of your position. It is quite another to sit on a bench with the head of all Grim Reapers, facing the metaphorical guillotine.

It could be an actual guillotine. I really don’t know.

“Why am I in trouble?”

Gideon laughs. “Don’t play dumb, darling. It doesn’t suit you. Choose one of the many rules you’ve broken and I’m sure we can make it apply.”

It’s unnerving, having a conversation with someone when you can’t see their eyes. Gideon turns his face toward mine, and all I see is my own wobbly reflection in his glasses, far too pale in the dark lenses.