Page 85 of Grim Tidings

The plan was to tuck her in, then give her some privacy. But I’ve been sitting in the armchair in the corner for the last hour, watching her like a creep.

My brain is stuck in a loop. I can’t stop seeing her run off that side-walk. The way the car swerved. How I could see her braid and then I couldn’t. I know, logically, she’s already dead. But logic is a poor companion for the bone-deep fear that gripped me by the throat as soon as she went down.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, dragging my hand down my face.

I am so fucked.

Darcy makes a small noise in her sleep and rolls to her back, one arm splayed above her head, the other still tangled in the strings of my hoodie. I want to crawl into that bed with her. Undo her braid and press my face into her hair. Fall into a deep sleep where there are no consequences or choices to be made. Just me and Darcy, and nothing else.

I stare at her for another minute, then drag myself out of the chair. She’s safe here. Nothing will happen to her. I don’t need to keep watch.

I retreat to the living room and busy myself with straightening up. Now that Darcy has accomplished her task, what happens next? Will she stay? Will she return to the department? Will she need to take on another assignment? How long can she go on before she’s caught? And what will she endure once she is?

For me, they used a blade. How do the Reapers handle failure?

My wings burst out of my back, spreading wide, knocking over my coatrack and a rogue mug of tea. I roll my shoulders and drop my head back to the ceiling, trying to find some semblance of control up there in the copper tin tile. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to protect her. But there are too many unknowns. I don’t know which direction to look. I’ve already healed her wounds that didn’t need healing. Piled the bed with blankets. There’s nothing I can do about the department and the choices she’s already made, but I could—

I could make her soup.

I stride toward the fridge and wrench it open, almost pulling the door completely off the appliance. All I have inside is a six-pack of Natty Boh and two blocks of cheese. And a head of lettuce that is slowly turning into a sentient being in the crisper drawer.

I need to go to the store.

I glance at my stove.

I should also probably get a pot.

Oddly enough, the direction soothes my frazzled nerves. I’ll make her soup. I’ll bring her another blanket. I’ll figure out what the fuck we’re going to do now that she’s single-handedly dropped a grenade on the department’s precious protocols. I’ll keep her safe.

But we’ll start with soup.

An hour later and I’m balancing two full bags of groceries, a dog leash, and an obnoxious bouquet of flowers in my arms while fishing in my pocket for my keys. Halfway to the grocery store, I realized I should probably collect her dog, and then after I got the dog, Frank chased me down the street with a mason jar full of daisies. Trying to balance it all is an exercise in patience I don’t have, and Spud is absolutely no help, sitting on the front stoop of the bar with his head cocked to the side, staring at me like I’m the one keeping him waiting.

“You could have carried something,” I tell him. “A carrot, at least.”

He holds eye contact, then lifts his leg and pisses directly on my yellow mums.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

He drops his leg, and his tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth. It looks like the fuzzy little fucker is laughing at me.

I shove the door open, and the dog hip-checks me as he trots happily through. His nose raises in the air, and his tail starts to thrash, obviously scenting Darcy close by. He weaves his way through the empty bar tables, only to stop abruptly by the bar. Ears raised, tail low. He rumbles out a warning growl, and I see a stranger hunched over the end of the bar.

I set down my groceries in a rush, the hilt of my sword pressing into my hand. The door was locked when I left and it was locked when I returned.

“Sorry, man,” I call, watching the line of his back. The stranger is slumped over the bar, one hand curled around a mug he clearly helped himself to. “We’re not open.”

The man turns halfway, his long salt-and-pepper hair curtained around his face. Irritation flares swift and hot.

“The bar is closed,” I say again, a little louder.

Tater Tot prowls closer, still growling. The stranger turns fully on the stool, and I can just barely make out his features, shadowed in the light that filters in from the window. It’s been a couple hundred years, but I recognize that scar that cuts from ear to cheek.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

The stranger who isn’t a stranger at all booms out a laugh. “Yeah. Thought that might be what you have to say.”

He balances his elbows on the bar behind him, a half-consumed glass of something dangling from his fingertips. “Hello, Gabriel.”