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Kim met Death when she was fifteen. She knew, even before the shadowy figure appeared, that this was the closest she’d ever been to dying; the world was blurry around her, and the fallen wall pressed against her chest, and she could feel her blood sliding from her forehead to her temple to the ground.
And then the hooded figure was there, wearing black robes like something out of a movie. Like Halloween, if the blood was something more than paint.
“You’re the Grim Reaper, aren’t you?” The hooded figure didn’t reply. “Does that mean I’m going to die?”
She didn’t have the strength to blink back tears, and they dripped next to her blood on the ground. This wasn’t fair. She was only fifteen, she didn’t even have her driver’s license, she wasn’t ready yet. “I don’t want to die.”
“No one does,” Death told her, and Death was a woman. Every Grim Reaper was supposed to be a man, but Kim already knew that evil didn’t have a gender, and the storybooks sometimes lied. “You know, most people can’t see me.”
“Oh.” Kim coughed weakly and let her head roll back against the ground. Death’s form split in front of her, two copies hovering side by side, fuzzy around the edges. “Why are there two of you?”
She imagined Death smiling under her hood. Did Death have a mouth?
“You’re not going to answer, are you?”
When she blinked again, the fuzzy double figure was gone, but someone was calling her name.
Death didn’t come back for seven years. Seven years, with two dozen moments when Kim thought she was about to die, two dozen times when she looked for a black cloak that wasn’t from a costume store. And now, she was at the mouth of a volcano with a bullet in her side, and Death was standing over her again.
In a movie, the volcano would be bubbling, and the air would burn her lungs. The bullet wound would be hidden under a jacket, like all near-fatal wounds, and she would stagger down the side of the mountain and collapse dramatically into someone’s arms.
“Oh. You’re back.”
“You got shot at the top of a volcano. Most people don’t survive that.”
Drakken hadn’t been so lucky, and she would mourn him, probably, if she survived. Maybe she would tell other villains to stay away from volcanoes.
Had Death collected his soul before she’d come for Kim’s? Would Kim have seen it if she’d looked?
“Are you here to push me in?”
“You don’t need the help.”
Kim managed a laugh, but her chest felt raw. Maybe the air had burned her after all. No jacket though, nothing to hide the blood soaking through her shirt. “I have to die on my own?”
“I can’t do all the work for you.”
How could anyone write Death as a man? What man would wait for souls to come to him? What man would be this patient, would stand at someone’s side and gift them their final breaths?
But the stories were written by people who thought force meant strength, who thought restraint was weakness, who believed women were too gentle to tear a soul from its body. If Kim died on this mountain, Death would take her soul, but she would wait. She would be patient. She wouldn’t steal Kim’s last breaths, even if Kim was too weak to savor them.
“You said most people can’t see you.” The hooded figure didn’t answer. “What do they see?”
“Someone they love. A parent. A child. A friend. They think I’m bringing them home.”
Kim smiled weakly. “You make dying sound fun.”
“Are you having fun, Princess?”
“Loads.”
A helicopter flickered in the corner of her eye, and she wanted it to wait; she wanted a few more moments in this in-between. But when she looked back, Death was gone, and she hadn’t even said goodbye.
Kim could barely make out the shadowy figure, its robes camouflaged perfectly against the smoking plane. “You again?” The words scratched against her throat. Smoke inhalation wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
“Don’t sound so thrilled to see me, Cupcake.”
“You left last time.”
“I don’t stick around for people who aren’t dying.”
“You didn’t say goodbye.”
Death went silent, and Kim imagined her watching with wide eyes, or maybe glaring from under her hood. What color were her eyes? Most of the books said black, or red, or a pure, ghostly white, but Death seemed too human for that.
Green, maybe. Not olive green like Kim’s, but bright like an emerald. Or the deepest chocolate brown, or bluer than the sky. Sharp and vibrant, a color that held you hostage.
“Believe it or not, I’m a little rusty at this whole ‘conversation’ thing.”
“Is it lonely?”
Death turned away, casting her imaginary gaze over the plane. “I’ll say goodbye this time, but you won’t be around to hear it.”
“You’re probably right.”
She tried to follow Death’s gaze, but she couldn’t see anything but smoke. The flames burned behind her, too close for comfort, but she was still so comfortable. The smoke was a warm blanket wrapped around her.
Kim closed her eyes. She wasn’t awake to hear Death’s goodbye.
Kim watched the monitor next to her bed as the numbers ticked down. There were alarms, weren’t there? For when her pulse was too low? Wasn’t it already too low?
“If you’re going to visit so much,” she mumbled, “you should just follow me around.” Her own voice sounded slurred and strange, like she was holding a shell to her ear and hearing words instead of the ocean.
“Can’t. Bosses will get mad if I don’t reap enough souls.” That was enough to turn her eyes away from the monitor, even if she couldn’t lift her head.
“You have a boss? Are there other Reapers?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Kim tried to answer, but her mouth wouldn’t open. Her eyes drifted towards the monitor again.
Fifteen.
This wasn’t too bad, was it? She wasn’t even in pain. They must have given her the good stuff.
Ten.
She was outside her body, watching her own eyes drift closed. Would it hurt when Death took her hand?
Seven.
A shadowy hand pressed a red button, and an alarm screamed to life above her.
Kim stared at the figure next to her bed, and imagined those vibrant, no-color eyes staring back. “Am I dying again?” She didn’t feel like she was dying. Her shoulder ached where it had been wrenched from its socket, and there was a sharp pain at the back of her head, like someone had driven a nail through her skull, but she wasn’t in that hazy in-between.
“I don’t normally visit people who are healthy.” Death drifted to the foot of the bed and brushed her fingers along Kim’s medical chart. “But no, you’re not dying.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To give you a choice. You’re about to go through hell. If you want a way out…” Death drifted back to her side, and her fingers hovered less than an inch from Kim’s wrist. Kim pushed back against the urge to lean closer, to take Death’s hand in hers. If Death didn’t have blood, was her skin still warm, or would it feel like touching ice? Did other people’s souls keep her warm?
“I can claim your soul early.”
Kim swallowed. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
Cold, Kim decided. Her skin would be colder than ice.
She looked at her legs, at the pins and casts and the way one was tied up above the bed. They should have hurt. They should have been worse than her shoulder; they should have been the worst pain she’d ever felt.
“Are there really more Reapers?”
“Reapers aren’t real, Princess. It’s just me.”
“How much of you is here?”
“Seventy percent, give or take.” More than half of her — almost three quarters of her — in Kim’s room, touching her medical chart and remembering how to speak.
It would be so easy to give in, to spare herself the hell she was about to face. Had Death ever offered this before? Had she given anyone the choice to escape the pain, or had everyone else had to work for it?
But Kim had parents. She had brothers. She had friends. She had a job to do, and she had people who would fight with her through this, and she wasn’t selfish enough to take Death’s hand.
“Thanks for the offer, but I think I have to stay.”
Kim looked at the dark figure looming above her. She’d read a dozen books about Death, but the books were full of lies. “Can I ask you something?” The shadowy figure didn’t answer. “You saved my life.”
Under Death’s hood, Kim imagined her scowling. “You should get backup. Stop trying to die.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”
Death sighed. “You take ‘flirting with death’ too literally.”
“Do you want to hear my question?”
Instead of answering, Death crouched next to her. Her fingers trailed over Kim’s wrist, just half an inch from her skin, tracing the path where blood travelled through her veins. Up over her shoulder, and Kim wondered if Death could touch her clothes. Would she be able to feel the pressure, or would it be like touching smoke?
Death’s fingers followed the curve of her still throat. Was she holding her breath, or had her lungs finally given up on breathing? Death’s hand stopped, just a hairsbreadth from Kim’s face. If Kim lifted her head, Death’s hand would be cradling her cheek.
“Would you let me take your soul, Princess?” she asked gently. “I won’t make you wait.”
Kim laughed shakily. How much of Death was in this room, crouched next to her, asking her to go? How would it feel to have Death’s palm pressed against her face?
“Let’s see how this plays out. After all, you can’t do all the work for me.”
Kim wasn’t surprised when Death met her in her bedroom. She’d probably arrived last night, but Kim had been unconscious before she’d hit the ground, and she couldn’t imagine anything worse than that — dying cheated and alone, without a chance to say goodbye.
“It’s time, isn’t it?”
Death held out her hand, and Kim remembered the ghost of her fingers waiting next to her wrist, gliding past her throat, hovering over her cheek.
Death was patient, and she didn’t tear souls from living bodies, but she didn’t let them linger past their last breath. When she told them to leave, it wasn’t a question. How often did she offer her hand and wait for someone to take it?
“Come with me, Kimmie.” Death’s voice was soft, and it was the first time she’d ever used Kim’s name.
Kim thought about her brothers. Her friends. There was still so much to do, if she stayed, but she was tired. She was always so tired.
Someone they love. A parent. A child. A friend. They think I’m bringing them home.
They were right. She reached out and took Death’s hand.