Page 18 of Riding the Reaper

“So it’s happened before.”

“Rarely.” She straightens her robe. “In those cases, the thread was... misread. The mortal was never meant to die. The assignment was a routing error. The system placed the reaper at the target’s location for a different purpose entirely.”

“A different purpose,” I repeat. “You’re saying that I was sent here to save him. That we were meant to find each other.”

“Please don’t make it romantic.” Morrigan pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m saying the system is not infallible. There are… anomalies. Your connection to this mortal appears to be one such anomaly. That’s the only logical explanation for your body temperature and…” she waves downward, “…other functions.”

Sam pipes up from behind me. “Wait, so this was all a mistake? A cosmic typo? I’m not supposed to be dead? That’s… a huge relief.”

Morrigan ignores him, her focus entirely on me. “Anomaly or not, you still broke Protocol. You missed a collection, you engaged in unauthorized physical contact, and you’ve potentially jeopardized the timeline.” She extends her hand. “Give me your scythe.”

“Why?”

“Your scythe, Graventhor.”

I pick it up from where it’s leaning against the wall and hand it to her. She turns it in her hands, runs a thumb along the blade, then offers it back to me.

“Swing it.”

I do. There’s no resistance, no satisfying whistle through the air, no pull from the Veil. It feels like that cheap, plastic prop Sam was carrying.

Morrigan nods, like she expected this. “It’s already done.”

“What’s already done?” Sam asks. He’s standing beside me now, pressed against my arm.

“You’ve been severed,” Morrigan says. She looks fascinated, the way she might study a rare specimen. “You’re no longer an agent of the afterlife. Your bond to the Veil is broken. The scythe is just metal. The robe is just cloth. Your body will age. It will tire. It will need sustenance, sleep, and all the other tedious requirements of organic life.” She tilts her head, and the next words land like a verdict.

“You’re mortal, Graventhor. Again.”

12

SAM

The heater in my truck is busted, but I’m not cold. Can’t seem to feel cold anymore. Not with Gray sitting next to me in the passenger seat, his long legs crammed in tight, knees pressed against the dashboard.

“So if I’m understanding this correctly,” I say, eyes on the dark road, “you’re stuck here?”

“That seems to be the case.” He’s looking at his hands like he’s seeing them for the first time.

“And the scary lady was your boss?”

“A superior, yes.”

“And she’s just… letting you go?”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t see it as letting me go. She sees it as a sentence.” He flexes his fingers, then looks at me. “Because of our⁠—”

“Fornication,” I say, and we both crack up.

“I was going to say ‘connection,’ but yes. That too.”

“So I’m your reason for being unemployed?”

“You’re my reason for being alive again.”

My stomach flips. “Damn, Gray. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking I’m special.”

“You are special.”