Page 62 of Grim Tidings

At least for Gabriel, death doesn’t weigh down his bones. At least he doesn’t have to curl his hands around that power and hold it within his body.

“You can’t fight it,” I whisper, understanding better than most what that crumbling darkness feels like. Gabriel turns to look at me. “If a Reaper was there, then death had already been called. People die, Gabriel. We died. They can’t expect you to save everyone. They’re setting you up to fail.”

“Is that why you’ve decided to try and cheat death this time?” He raises his eyebrows. “Because you don’t think it’s possible?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

Gabriel shakes his head. “It’s my job to protect them.”

“Is it?”

His face darkens.

I sigh and change tactics. “Why would they take your wings?”

“Because I wouldn’t deserve to keep them.”

“And what happens to you after?”

He shrugs and picks up another bottle. “I don’t know.”

I understand now. His reasoning. His guilt. How he’s been conditioned to believe that he’s responsible for keeping every person alive and well. He’s only ever lost two souls, and he’s been punished severely for it.

And then I show up, and he fears he’ll lose everything. My job is to claim death, and he believes his is to prevent it from happening.

I feel my resolve strengthen. I’m not just saving this life for me. I’m going to save him for Gabriel, too.

He tosses another bottle, and it lands with a thud at the base of the couch. Tater Tot lifts his head, ears perked, and I shake mine. He settles his head back on his paws with a short huff, his brown eyes watchful.

“I think I have something in the cabinet,” Gabriel mumbles. He stalks into the kitchen, his shirt still in my lap. I let my eyes drag down the smooth column of his spine, all that bare, golden skin. His tattoos curl around his rib cage, scattered along his back in the same chaos as the rest of his body. Nonsensical. A sparrow. A sprig of lavender. A ribbon and a spool of thread. Two faint red marks cut parallel to his shoulder blades, slightly uneven with one another.

His wings, I presume.

“You don’t have to hide them,” I call.

Gabriel ducks halfway out of his kitchen, his face a question. I gesture at him with my empty bottle. “Your wings. It must be uncomuncom—” I can’t manage to articulate the word, the alcohol making the connection between my brain and my mouth tenuous. “Uncomfortable,” I finally say. “It must be uncomfortable to keep them hidden.”

He studies me for another moment, one arm pressed above him on the half wall that separates the kitchen and the living room. His body is one long, lean line of muscle and skin. It is a monumental task to keep my eyes on his and not trail them along the tattoos that decorate his arms. The smooth cut of his torso. Those two lines at his hips and the way they cut down into the frayed hem of his jeans.

Gabriel drops his arm without a word, and disappears back behind the wall.

“Fine. Never mind, then.”

There’s banging sounds in the kitchen. Doors opening and closing. A muffled curse when something falls. When Gabriel reemerges, he’s holding a half-full bottle of tequila, a shot glass, a lime, and—

And his massive gray wings are draped behind him. They’re pulled close to his back—not spread the way they were in the alley—the tips of them barely skimming the floor.

He drops himself back in front of me, and I have to actively stop myself from reaching for the soft-looking feathers.

“No commentary,” he orders.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Sure. That’s why your face looks like that.”

I quickly try to school my features.

The tattoos. The hair. The broad strength of his chest and arms and torso. The wings that curve up around his shoulders, rustling when he rolls his neck, exposing the long line of his throat. The hollow of his collarbones. Warm skin and smooth lines. Dips and curves hidden by shadow.