Page 18 of Grim Tidings

“It’s a private message,” he says.

My fingers flex beneath his grip. “I won’t be roped into interdepartmental politics.”

Each office in the department operates under their own sets of rules and restrictions. While Poltergeists are bound to the place they haunt, Reapers can roam at will. Mortals might be able to sense our presence when they interact with us, but it’s often clouded by their own instincts. Spirits are easily forgotten. Their memories fade with time until there is nothing left of us at all.

“No politics. Just a little note to my supervisor explaining my circumstances.” He gives me a devastatingly slow smile, one that I’m sure has landed him in more than his fair share of trouble. “Siobhan and I have had some difficulty … connecting lately. I’d like a word.”

“Fine.” I pull my hand out of his grip and shove the note in my bag. “Can I have a room key now?”

Pleased with himself, he reclaims his chair. He picks up his book from the floor and flips back to the place he was.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot to mention.” Another self-satisfied smirk. “The room is … offsite.”

The room isn’t a room at all but a town house seven blocks away, nestled in the middle of a crooked cobblestone street. Unfortunately, the building itself looks one step away from being condemned. One of the shutters is hanging crooked. The small balcony on the second floor is missing its railing. The windows are boarded up, and over-grown weeds reach through the patchwork floorboards of the front porch.

I bet there’s not a single claw-foot tub inside this ramshackle building. Or if there is, it’s probably filled with … spiders. Hazard-ous materials. The blood of virgins. I gingerly press my fingertips against the curved gate at the entrance to the yard and one of the iron posts falls off, clanging loudly against the cement. I wince, then quickly glance over my shoulder.

The street is empty. Not another soul—living or dead—in sight.

This place belongs to a Ghost of Christmas Past, the man at the inn had said. He’s out of town on sabbatical. It can be yours until he gets back. No one will bother you.

Looking at this house, I firmly believe that no one will bother me. It’s barely tolerating gravity.

Still, though. If it was previously inhabited by a Ghost of Christmas Past, it should be at least somewhat cozy inside. Maybe he left candy canes. Or some of those twinkly lights. A nice, welcoming fireplace to curl up in front of.

Considering my only other option is drifting around until Gabriel decides to become more proactive in his desire to force me out of town, I can’t exactly be choosy. I’ll have to deal with my less-than-ideal accommodations. At least for tonight.

You’re a Reaper, I remind myself. You can handle a few cobwebs.

The first porch step creaks under my boot. The second one groans.

It’s an orchestra of Scooby-Doo sounds that would make me laugh if I wasn’t so concerned about the structural integrity of the foundation. I reach for the brass doorknob, and then I hear it.

A different sort of sound. Low and keening, coming from the direction of the alley. I pause and listen, holding myself still. Somewhere down the road, car tires bump against the cobblestone. Water laps at the edge of the docks and—

Once more. A whine. Something soft and … hurt.

I retrace my path to the gate that never closed right, walking along the perimeter to the narrow alleyway between the townhomes. It’s darker back here, the settling twilight painting everything purple and black. I have to climb over a rolled rug and a stack of broken boxes, but it’s not hard to miss the massive ball of brown and black fur. He’s huddled against the brick wall, his body unnaturally still save for the quick rise and fall of his chest.

“Oh,” I mutter, my hands already reaching. “Sweet thing. What have you done to yourself?”

The German shepherd lifts his head, a short growl of warning rumbling in his chest. I ease down to my knees.

“It’s all right.” I hold my palm out, inching closer.

My eyes adjust and I take in the way he’s slouched, holding himself against the wall like he needs the support. One of his legs is at an odd angle, the fur between his ears dark and matted with blood. He watches me with tired eyes as I let my hands hover over him. My magic hums, but I press down against it.

“I won’t hurt you,” I reassure the dog. “I just want to see what’s wrong.”

He studies me for another minute and then his cold, wet nose tentatively brushes against my palm. Whatever he smells must reassure him because he lets his head droop, his nose digging into my knee.

“That’s right,” I whisper, scratching gently behind his ears. I avoid the spot that’s dark with blood. “You can trust me.”

I smooth my hand over his back, keeping my touch light. It’s clear he’s been on his own for a while. Burrs and knots are tangled in his coat. His big body shudders under my hand, his paw lifting briefly to press at my forearm.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He makes a short, huffing sound.