Page 132 of Grim Tidings

I gather up all her things while Tater Tot inspects every inch of the living room, trying to find traces of her scent. He paws at a floor-board, probably hoping Darcy is hiding somewhere beneath. He’s been inconsolable since she disappeared in the graveyard with Frank, and I haven’t been much better.

We make a fine pair.

He whines and noses at a scarf she left draped over the arm of the couch. I reach for it and place it in the box on top of everything else.

“I know, bud.”

I’m trying to maintain my faith that she’ll come back, but the silence is starting to wear thin. There’s been no word since Halloween. No Reapers. No Guardians. I expected a flurry of punishments to rain down upon me as soon as Darcy disappeared, but it’s been … quiet. Suspiciously so.

November has drifted by, silent and gray. Some days I wake up and wonder if she was ever here at all.

I close the top of the box and wedge it under my arm, whistling for Tater Tot to follow. He does so obediently, weaving around me and trotting toward the front door.

The front door, where a figure is standing, one arm braced against it, his face creased in confusion.

“Uh,” he says. “Hello?”

Tater Tot rumbles out a low growl in warning, his ears pinned back and his tail stick-straight. The stranger trips backward onto the porch.

“What the fuck?” he whispers, the faint hint of an Irish accent teasing the edge of his words.

I call my sword with my magic, the hilt pressing into my palm. “Who are you?”

“The guy who lives here,” he answers, bewildered. “Who the hell are you?”

Ah. I twist my wrist, and my sword sinks back into inked lines. Darcy did mention this place was on loan.

“You the Ghost of Christmas Past?”

“Aye, though I prefer to be called Nolan,” he answers slowly. His attention is still firmly fixed on the dog. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”

“I’m Gabriel. This is Tater Tot. A—” I trip over my words. “A friend of mine was staying in your place while you were on sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical.” The ghost in the hallway snorts, dragging his hand through his hair. “More like an elaborate series of errands with no end in sight.” He gives a pointed look to the box of odds and ends balanced in my hands. “I’m starting to believe that was intentional. Did the bed-and-breakfast offer my home as lodgings once again?”

“This has happened before?”

He closes the door behind him and strips out of his jacket. He tosses it on the coatrack, then moves past me to the kitchen. “More often than I’d like,” he grumbles.

He’s a tall man, with light brown hair and a smattering of facial hair, thicker over his top lip. The Holiday Spirits tend to be harmless, though this one does seem to be missing a certain sense of wonder-ment.

“Tea?” he asks, searching through the cupboards for a suitable mug. The last one Darcy used is still in the sink, and I stare at it for a beat too long before I can answer.

“Ah. No. We’ll be on our way.”

He waves his hand, and the kettle starts to whistle. A box of peppermint tea appears next to the empty mug. “Should I expect more strangers roaming the halls?”

At my silence, Nolan turns and gives me an arch, unamused look. Maybe a Holiday Spirit should haunt him this December. He looks like he could use a little merry in his afterlife.

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “Will she be returning?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Oh. Well.” Nolan plucks a tea bag from the box and drops it in the mug, then pours the water over top. “My condolences, then.”

Condolences feels like exactly the right word. I’m grieving all the things we won’t get to have. Darcy was barely here and now she’s barely gone, but she left a mark on me as sure as my tattoos. As sure as the scars that are carved over my chest. Some mornings I wake up and swear she’s still in the space next to me, her long body curled against my side, her dark hair splayed over my chest.

Those are the easiest mornings, when I get lost in my own lie.