Page 118 of Grim Tidings

He levels me with a sharp look, then turns back to his peonies with a grunt. “Fine.”

“It smelled like the sea,” I tell him. “That day when the door was opened, it smelled like sunscreen and salt water. I could hear waves crashing. Seagulls in the distance. I only got a glimpse of the sand and the water, but there was a—I could see a massive rock, nestled in the middle of the surf. It was hollow in the middle, in the shape of a—”

“Bridge,” Frank interrupts. “The rock was in the shape of a bridge.”

His back is to me, a single white peony held between his fingertips.

“There are two bridges formed by rocks at that beach. The water moves around them. Sometimes when the water is calm, the bridge reflects in the water. It looks like a perfect circle. My daughter, she—” Frank lifts a hand to his face. He has to pause for a long time. “My daughter used to say it was a window to another world. One where fairies exist. She said she wanted to live there with them and learn how to fly.”

Tears fill my eyes. “That’s where they’re waiting for you, Frank.”

He turns to me, his glasses dangling from his fingertips. He doesn’t even try to wipe his tears away.

“How do you know that?” he asks.

I manage a smile. “Because I’m the one who took them there.”

I leave Frank shortly after, not wanting to overstay my begrudging welcome. The afternoon sky is dull and gray as I step out of the shop, a brisk wind funneling down the street and lifting the edge of my coat. I wrap it tighter around me and cross my arms over my chest, setting off toward the docks. I’ve been avoiding the pull of my magic, but I lean into it now, letting it guide me where I need to go.

Jack-o’-lanterns line the streets, their grotesque faces watching in silent vigil. Kids run back and forth between the shops in their costumes, bursting in excitement for the festivities to come. The wind is unforgiving as I get closer to the docks, the bite of it punishing against my cheeks.

Good, I think. This is how it should be.

Nate is halfway down the dock, standing at the edge by his boat, cording some rope around his arm. He hears my boots against the wood and turns to look, squinting against the melting autumn sun.

You don’t have to do this, a voice that sounds like Gabriel’s whispers. You can turn around. Pretend you were never here.

But I can’t. I can’t. I thought I could outrun being a Reaper, but I can’t pull myself free of my responsibilities without implicating someone else. I won’t be the reason Gabriel loses his wings.

No. This is how it has to be.

Nate raises his hand with a grin. “Hey, Darcy. Need a lift?”

I barely manage a smile in return. “Actually, I was hoping you could come somewhere with me.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Gabriel

I hate Halloween.

The costumes. The noise. The complete abandonment of everyone’s goddamn common sense. It’s a nightmare for my instincts, my magic bucking in my chest every time someone in a mask pushes through the front door of the bar.

By the jukebox, a woman screams. I turn sharply, but it’s just a girl in a red leather minidress, devil horns perched on top of her blond hair, fucking around with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

I set down three shot glasses, harder than I need to. “I fucking hate this holiday.”

“Tell me about it.” A little girl in a rainbow sequin tutu climbs up onto the stool in front of me. “Everyone is giving out the cheap shit.” She lifts a pillowcase and rattles it around. “Someone gave me raisins. Can you believe that?”

I frown and glance over the top of her head, looking for the adult who should be monitoring her language and candy consumption. “Sorry, honey. You can’t sit at the bar.” I scratch my jaw. “Actually, you can’t be in here at all.”

“Relax. I’m just waiting for a friend.” She picks up one of the menus. “What are your appetizers?” She frowns. “And why isn’t there anything seasonal on this menu?”

Because I have a fundamental opposition toward cutesy cocktail names and anything that involves gummy worms suspended in alcohol. “Uh. We have pumpkin porter from the brewery down—”

“Great,” she says, kicking her sparkly boot-clad feet back and forth. “I’ll take one of those.”

“You will not take one of those.” My forehead creases. “Where is your mom?”