Gina Grant: Scythe Does Matter

“Sign first, then we’ll talk.” Conrad waved a thin sheaf of papers at her. His fingers covered the heading, but I knew exactly what it read: Contract Amendment.

“Sure, Dad.” Shannon’s voice had a “don’t make the crazy person crazier” tone. She picked up an ordinary pen. “Where do I sign?”

“Not with ink,” Conrad grabbed up another office item from Shannon’s temporary workspace. Even dented and speckled with Liquid Paper, I’d know it anywhere. He pressed the little release button on the bottom, allowing my old stapler to swing open like a huge, gaping jaw. My heart pounded, but even so, I could still hear the click of the staple dropping into place, its chiseled points reflecting light like a pair of vicious fangs—the vampire of the stationery world. “It has to be in blood!”

He hoisted the stapler as Shannon shot a hand up to protect her face. In a flash, Conrad slashed the stapler across her upraised palm.

“Dad, what the hell?”

“Now sign it!” he ordered, shoving all the other papers to the floor and dropping the contract amendment onto the bedside table. “Sign it,” Conrad repeated, tossing a fountain pen on top of the document. He brandished the stapler in a threatening manner. She examined her hand, her palm seeping blood from the fresh scratches.

“Okay. Okay.”

He moved toward her. She reared back, the plastic chair back creaking like a cry for help.

“Use that.” He pointed the stapler toward the fountain pen. “Draw the little lever back to get some blood inside.” He raised the heavy metal stapler again. Surely he wouldn’t—couldn’t—bash Shannon’s head in to get the blood he needed. How could he do that to his own daughter? Originally Conrad had sold his soul to save his infant daughter’s life, but now he was willing to sacrifice hers to save himself.

He’d changed in the year I’d been in a coma. He’d grown desperate and afraid, willing to give up everything that had ever meant anything to him just so he could keep control of Iver Public Relations.

Fear clogged my throat and panic filled my lungs as I realized Conrad, this man whom I had once revered and admired, really could club his own daughter to death.

Frightened and confused, Shannon cradled her wounded hand to her chest, a trail of blood trickling between her fingers.

They hadn’t noticed my return from the dead. I took a quick inventory of my situation. No feeding tube; I must have just had my massage therapy. I could feel an uncomfortable pull between my legs, though. Uh, oh. I was still leashed to that embarrassing bag.

I tried to imagine what I’d be thinking if someone wanted me to sign a contract in my own blood, wanted it badly enough to injure me for it. Shannon was probably thinking, “I should humor him.” No way was I going to allow that to happen.

“Don’t do it!” I shouted, finally getting my voice box in gear. What came out was more like, “Nnngghl,” and possibly some saliva. I tried again. “Shannon.” Closer. Close enough to get her attention.

“Kirsty! You’re awake!” She half rose from the guest chair. “You’re okay!”

Conrad strode over to the bed, waving the stapler at me menacingly. “Sign it or she won’t be!”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll sign. I’ll do whatever you want.” She took a step toward me. “Kirsty, I . . .” She sniffled. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’ve been deader,” I managed, stalling. I sat up on the third try. “Don’t do it, Shannon,” I begged, croaking the words out in the direction she’d been before the room started spinning. “You’ll be signing the rest of your life away.”

“It’s okay, Kirsty. It’s just a piece of paper.”

“It’s so much more than that.” I held my head still with both hands. I succeeded in stopping the room from spinning but without my hands to support me, my spine went spineless and I flopped back down on the pillow, panting with all the effort.

“Sign it or Kirsty dies.”

Killing me wouldn’t serve Conrad’s purpose, since he couldn’t use my soul twice and the first time was still in question before Hell’s courts. But threatening me might extort Shannon into giving him what he wanted.

“Please, honey. Do it for Daddy?” His face twisted into something that should have been a smile.

My gut twisted, too.

Selling your soul is supposed to slow the aging process so he should only have looked around forty. And he did, except that he’d put on weight and developed a shifty, smarmy appearance. His face was bloated and toad-like, a reflection of the man he’d become. No company would have trusted him with their public image if it hadn’t been for his soul Deal. Maybe they never would have.

I tried to recall what he’d looked like when I’d first met him. Maybe he’d always been this creepy and it was the Deal that had made me feel so warm toward him. He’d always been a father figure to me, and look what kind of father he’d turned out to be. One ready to trade away the life of his own daughter!

Willing strength into my limbs, I tossed back the sheets. The hospital gown slid down—who bothers to tie the gown on a coma patient? My arms felt rubbery and there was nothing fine about my motor skills, but I managed to disengage myself from my remaining medical tethers. Ouch!

I shoved myself to the edge of the bed using my hands to get my legs in gear. I slid off the bed and directly onto the floor, blue cotton pooling around me. I yanked the gown up over my flabby body. Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.

Shannon knelt on the floor beside me, pulling the gown up and beginning to tie it behind my neck.

I shrugged her off; covering my pale and saggy breasts was not our main concern at the moment.

Through gritted teeth, I told Conrad, “You’re going to have to kill me or I’m going to tell the world what you did to me.”

Conrad threw back his head and laughed. “Who’d believe you? It’s just some coma-induced hallucination. Reapers. Scythes. It’s quite a good story, though. Maybe you should write a book.”

I squinted at him, unfocusing my eyes and surveying the room. Skegging Reapers. They’re never around when you need one. I was on my own here.

“Shannon will believe me.” I turned to meet her gaze. “Won’t you?”

She looked confused and skeptical.

I doubted she’d buy my story, but the way Conrad pulled back a little told me I’d hit a guilty nerve. “Shannon, your wonderful dad here made a Deal with the Devil. He’s actually lousy at public relations.”

“Why, you ungrateful bitch! I made you everything you are today! Without me—”

“Yes, you did! You made me the incapacitated, atrophied coma victim I am today. Without you, I’d still have a life. You stole a year from me!” I looked down at my out-of-shape body. After a year of lying still, moving proved painful. I hurt. (Especially “down there,” and I didn’t mean in Hell. You try removing a catheter yourself.) I sagged. I had no home. No family. No career. No friends. Everyone and everything I cared about, and everyone who cared about me, was back in Hell.

Except I did have one friend left on the Mortal Coil. One person who’d remained loyal to me through thick and thin, through sick and sin. I was going to do whatever it took to keep her from suffering the same untimely demise I had. Plus, there was no way I was letting Conrad get any more time on Earth. Lucy Phurr had totally screwed up my original plan with her stupid gift of life. I needed a new plan. I had always been fast on my feet—well, not literally at the moment, but . . . Ah-ha! Got it. Now I just have to . . .

With grim determination and a little help from Shannon, I managed to haul myself up. It was a short distance from where I swayed to where Conrad stood, wielding the stapler. With every bit of strength and willpower I possessed, I put one foot in front of the other. I moved like a zombie—dead gal walking—but I moved.