Page 23 of Grim Tidings

We’re quiet as he finishes the rest of his bouquet, admiring the small bundle of peonies and lavender tied with a simple bit of twine. He sets it to the side, away from the rest he’s preparing for the shop this morning. Then he reaches for the bucket of roses again.

“Heard they’re going to start doing those pumpkin muffins down at the bakery again.”

I allow the clunky attempt at a subject change, pressing my hip up against the side of his table, flipping through some of his seed packets instead of meeting his eye, giving him time to collect himself. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re doing a crumble this year instead of—” The rest of his recipe description drifts off mid-sentence.

I glance at him. “What about the crumble?”

He’s looking over my shoulder, out the massive window that stretches across the front of his flower shop. “Is that the woman from last night?” His eyes squint. “And did she domesticate a wolf in the past twelve hours?”

I turn to look. On the other side of the street, Darcy is walking down the sidewalk, a frankly terrifying-looking animal at her side. She stops at one of the lampposts and holds up her hand, urging the dog—if you can call it that—to sit. He drops to the ground at her feet, tail wagging happily.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

“Language,” Frank chides. “The flowers don’t like cursing.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s warranted in this case.” I drag my hand over my mouth. I don’t particularly want to confront her, but I can’t have a Reaper roaming around town. I need to set clear boundaries for where she is and isn’t allowed to be. Preferably, I need to encourage her to be elsewhere. I’ve been stationed here for almost a decade now.

This is my town. These are my people.

I bound through the front door of the shop, Frank’s call of be nice floating behind me. It’s never something I’ve had trouble with, but mentally, I’m still stuck in that alleyway, watching black magic curl around her wrists, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. She made me look like a fool, and I’m eager to return the favor.

Darcy is about three blocks ahead, but I eat up the distance like it’s inches, my magic buzzing beneath my skin. Her hair is in a braid again, and I hate that my palms immediately itch, wanting to feel it wrapped around my fist.

“Hey!” I call. “Hold up!”

She doesn’t slow down. In fact, I think she speeds up.

“Darcy!”

On the other side of the street, an older woman holding a grocery bag in her arms turns to look, shielding her eyes against the autumn sun. But her balance on the edge of the curb is precarious, and she teeters sideways, her foot slipping.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath, quickly changing direction and cutting across the street instead. I grab the bag and then her elbow, right as a teenager on a scooter goes whizzing past in the bike lane.

“All right?” I ask, frustrated that once again the mortals let their curiosity outweigh their common sense. I need to catch up with Darcy before she disappears, not swoop old ladies off sidewalks.

The woman smiles up at me, color high on her cheeks. “Just fine, thank you.” She holds out her arms. “I’ll take those.”

The edges of my frustration begin to dissolve beneath the weight of my guilt as I hand her the bag of what looks like pie supplies. It’s not their fault, I tell myself. It’s your job to protect them.

It would be selfish to be annoyed by their fragility. How they constantly seem to need.

I feel the weight of Darcy’s attention before I turn and catch her gaze. She’s watching from the other side of the street, her eyebrows practically in her hairline. When our eyes collide, she huffs and starts to stalk down the sidewalk again.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath.

I jog the rest of the way, pulling myself up short when the massive dog at her side intercepts me with a low growl of warning. Darcy reaches out, digging her fingers in the fur between his ears.

He immediately settles, plopping down at her side like a massive puppy, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

“That’s cute.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Did you bring a hellhound for your little murder spree?”

“Tater Tot is neither a hound, nor is he from hell. And I think you know I don’t murder people, Gabriel.”

“Tater Tot,” I repeat.

“Yes.”