Page 86 of Grim Tidings

I dip my head at the elder Guardian. “Hello, Rafe.”

“Been a century or two, hasn’t it?”

I nod, then tip my chin up. “The scar looks better.”

The last time I saw it, it was bleeding profusely all over a muddied battlefield.

His eyes crinkle in amusement. He’s wearing some sort of green linen pants. An obnoxious tie-dye shirt that has an unidentified stain in the middle of it. His long hair hangs loose around his face, a collection of braided bracelets up and down his wrist. He looks like he just rolled out of a minivan or a commune in the middle of the woods.

Knowing Rafe, either could be true.

“And your chest seems to have healed just fine. Just like I said it would.” He takes a pointed sip from his glass. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Rafe was the one who dealt out my punishment for my last failure. He’s been the enforcer of the Guardians for as long as I’ve been one, and I’ve always gotten the impression that he doesn’t particularly enjoy his role.

“It’s fine.” I round the edge of the bar and resist the urge to glance at the staircase. The last thing I need is Rafe getting suspicious about what I’m keeping hidden upstairs. “What are you doing here?”

“I think you know what I’m doing here, Gabriel.” He swivels in his seat, finishes his drink, then reaches for one of the taps. He refills his own beer with an arch of his bushy eyebrow. “You’ve been a naughty boy.”

I drag my knuckles across my jaw. “What do you mean?”

Rafe snorts. “Well, that’s a dead dog, for one.”

Tater Tot bares his teeth. He’s moved in front of the staircase, his big body stretched out across the threshold. It won’t do much to stop Rafe if he wants to check for himself, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

Rafe chuckles, warm and throaty. The most deadly of the Guardians, and he looks like a guy who could play Santa at the mall.

“Additionally,” he says, all sarcasm, “this place reeks of death magic. So do you.”

I don’t say a word. My wings itch to expand in the middle of my back.

He grins like he knows it. “You can relax. This is not an official visit. More of a … friendly check-in.”

I pour myself two fingers of scotch and lean against the back counter. “Yeah? How friendly?”

Rafe laughs again. “There’s a boat show close by that I’ve been meaning to check out.” He smacks his lips. “Coincidentally, while I was in the area, I thought I should let you know—as your friend—that Gideon has made a reappearance at the department.”

I go still, my glass halfway to my mouth. “Gideon,” I repeat.

“Mmhmm.”

The very first Reaper. Darcy’s boss. Many say he’s older than death itself. He’s been overseeing the Office of the Grim Reapers since the department was established.

I might be old, but Gideon is ancient. Powerful, too.

“Last anyone heard,” I say carefully, “he was in Barbados.”

“I suppose he got bored with island life.” Rafe’s smiling eyes are serious now. “It’s curious, isn’t it? The head of the Reapers returning now, at the same time reports of … inconsistencies are emerging from a coastal town in Maryland.”

I lift my glass to my mouth and drain it in one heavy swallow. “It is curious,” I murmur.

Rafe hums. “Thought you’d think so.” He finishes his drink and drops it over the bar. “Anyway.” He slaps his palms against his thighs. “I’ve gotta see a man about a Sea-Doo. Be good now, Gabriel.” He nods at Spud who snarls in response. “Dog.”

He strolls across the bar and through the door without another word.

I’m still staring out the window when the stairs creak. Tater Tot hops up, his tail wagging madly as Darcy pads down the stairs and into the bar.

She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts, the hem skirting mid-thigh. A pair of my boxers peek out from beneath. She tucks a yawn into the crook of her elbow as she shuffles over to me, peering at the empty glass I’m still holding in my hand.