Page 57 of Grim Tidings

“Then it’s what we agreed on. I’ll give you another detail of the soul I’ve been sent to reap. Easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy,” I mutter under my breath. Nothing about this sounds easy. I’m already walking a tightrope between good and reckless decision-making. Adding alcohol won’t lead anywhere good.

But I need that information. I need to know who she’s here for. And I need to know it before she does.

It’s a race against the clock with someone’s life in the balance.

My future, in the balance.

“Fine.” I dump my tonic water behind the bar and steal her soda, gulping it down in three heavy swallows. Her face pinches, and I probably shouldn’t like that as much as I do either. The stool, her eyes, her arm braced on the bar three inches from mine. All of it.

I need to stop noticing these things.

“Let’s get drunk.”

“A Reaper and a Guardian Angel walk into a bar,” Darcy slurs, flat on her back in the middle of my living room floor. She has a bottle of wine in her hand and a halo of empty bottles around her, a sleepy-drunk smile on her face. “A—a Reaper and a Guardian Angel walk into a bar, and—”

She descends into bright giggles, curling onto her side with her knees tucked to her chest. She is well and truly sloshed and I am—

Well.

So am I.

We started down at the bar with fancy cocktails and blended shots that tasted like gumdrops, but then the bar filled up and I decided two immortals didn’t need to be testing the bounds of sobriety while in the presence of so many humans. So I handed the bar over to Jessie, grabbed the wine crate I never bothered to put away, and brought Darcy upstairs.

Another bad idea, in retrospect. Because having a bar between us was curbing a lot of my inappropriate thoughts.

A lot of them.

I crawl across the rug toward her, anchoring myself with my hand against her ankle. The room is spinning, and for some reason I feel like if I don’t hold on to her, she’s going to spin away, too. Darcy shrieks and tries to kick me, but I hold on tighter, collapsing onto my shoulder and curling myself around her leg.

Darcy snickers, nudging me with her knee. “What’s happening right now?”

“M’flying.”

Except it comes out in a low mumble that sounds like schmying. Or maybe I’m dying.

Because when I’m sober, it’s easy to hold on to my anger and distrust. To use it as an immovable obstacle between us. But right now, with alcohol swimming through my bloodstream and Darcy poured across my living room floor, all I feel is affection. Possession. A desire to hold on to her and never let go. My magic is still besotted with the idea of her, and I fear when I’m like this, the rest of me is, too.

She laughs, and I nuzzle the curve of her knee through the material of her pants.

We should touch like this more often. All the time. Forever. “You’re clingy when you drink.”

“No,” I sigh, but my grip wanders. I squeeze at the spot above her knee. Drag my thumb over the arch behind it. “Your pants are just—really soft.”

“They’re jeans.”

“Soft jeans.”

Darcy flips over onto her back with effort, staring up at the ceiling. She drapes her leg over my shoulder, the outside of her thigh pressed to my ear. I don’t have the strength or desire to move.

“How much have we had?” she slurs.

“Enough.” Even as I say it, I hold out my hand for the bottle. She slaps it into my palm, and I tip it to my mouth, taking another heavy pull. I can taste her lipstick against the rim, and I hold my mouth there, right where hers was pressed a minute ago.

If I’m clingy, then she’s enthusiastic. Affectionate. Her smiles are easy to earn and easy to keep. It’s endearing and maddening in the same labored breath—a juxtaposition just like everything else seems to be with her. My thoughts are foggy at best, but I try to chase the thread.

Maybe, I tell myself, she’s not what she seems.