Page 41 of Grim Tidings

For once. The simple, honest truth.

Frank nods. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then. Ten a.m. Don’t be late.”

He closes his door with one last parting wave, and I tip my head back, smiling at the star-flecked night sky, boundless above me. Hope, or something like it, pricks at my magic, humming just beneath my skin. I try to curl my hands around it. Remember this feeling for when the dark starts to creep in again.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ll see you then.”

Chapter Ten

Gabriel

I only have to drive around town for fifteen minutes before I find her, walking with determination down one of the crooked side streets with her arms wrapped around a massive pumpkin. She looks like an ad for one of those discount Halloween stores that appear with the changing of the leaves every autumn, haunting old strip malls and the ghost of Best Buys past.

She’s in all black again, her hair tied back in a long, dark braid.

I slow my truck down to a crawl, reaching over to crank the window.

“Where the hell did you find that?”

She jumps, sending the pumpkin flying. It drops to the ground with a wet-sound thump, cracking straight down the middle. She stares at it mournfully, then slowly lifts her eyes to mine.

“What happened to Hello, Darcy. How are you?”

“Hello, Darcy. How are you?” I lean across the seats, staring at her pumpkin scattered on the street. “Are pumpkins on your list?”

“It wouldn’t matter if they were, would it?” She kicks at one of the bigger pieces. “Since you’ve destroyed mine.”

“Hardly. I said hello, and you tried to launch it on the roof of the hardware store.” I shake my head. “On edge, Darcy?”

“With you? Always.” She bends down to collect the two broken halves, then deposits it in the closest trash can. Some of the seeds stick to her black sweater.

“Were you looking for me, or is this a happy accident?”

“Happy?” I ask.

She shoots me a look. “You know what I mean.”

“I was looking for you.” I shift in my cracked leather seat, not liking how much that sounds like a confession. “C’mon. Get in the truck.”

She hesitates, suspicious. “Why?”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“To a remote location where no one can hear you scream.”

Another unimpressed frown.

“I’m joking, Darcy. Get in the truck.”

I watch her deliberate her options, then slowly step off the curb. I half expect her to take off at a dead sprint down the street. But then the passenger door opens with an angry-sounding creak, and she slips into the cab. I wait until she’s settled with her seat belt buckled before I inch us forward, tires rumbling over cobblestone.

I spent last night thinking almost entirely of Darcy. Specifically, the tears on her cheeks and the tremble in her bottom lip when I accused her of being a soul-sucking monster. I was jittery with discomfort, a feeling that only abated when I focused on trying to remember the items on her little list. I do well when I’m distracted with a plan, and Darcy’s is straightforward enough.

I might not understand her need to complete basic, seemingly mundane tasks, but I’ll play the game if it gets me what I want.

I can’t lose another life.