Gina Grant - Scythe Does Matter

“Mary Sue?” I’d never heard the term before. Assuming it was a term and not an ex-girlfriend. One time, in the heat of passion, he called me Beatrice. I didn’t speak to him for days.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Mary Sue, or in my case, Marty Stu, is a writing term for when an author places themselves in their story as the best and brightest character. In my case, I wrote about myself being the only person on Earth so admirable and so worthy that Lucy invited me for a tour d’Hell. And when I got there I found all my enemies being sorely punished. I regret to say, Kirsty, that it went on and on and on.”

I yawned hugely. I hadn’t realized discussing poetry could be even more boring and obscure than the poems themselves.

“So,” he continued, somehow mistaking my yawning for interest, “my poem is circulated among our group, much like those emails of today in which you are directed to forward it to five friends or dire events will befall you. All my close friends found it hilarious. But as scribes made more and more copies and it traveled outside my immediate circle, people began to take it seriously. They thought I was that arrogant. That full of myself.”

“And in conclusion . . . ?” I yawned again, making the words sound weird. Hopefully that would hurry him up so we could get back to the cuddling.

“And in conclusion . . .” He laughed, leaning over to kiss my forehead. “In conclusion, now students today are forced to study it, scholars analyze it and academics deconstruct it. And no one realizes it was supposed to be funny. It’s like telling a joke and having it fall flat—flatter than the Coil.”

“Uh, Dante. You do know the world isn’t flat, right?”

“But of course I do. Galileo drops by regularly.”

“Oh.” I yawned again. “I guess you guys were contemporaries, eh?”

“I suppose you would consider us so. What’s a few centuries between scholars?”

I chose not to answer that. My eyelids grew heavy and I figured we might as well nap while we recovered enough for round two.

Just before I drifted off, Dante mumbled, “I love you.”

“I love you, too. You can scythe me anytime.”

“C’MON, BABY.”

I don’t know how many times my hellphone played the Reaper Corps theme song as I struggled up from the deepest, darkest depths of REM sleep.

“Baby, take my ha—”

I’d been sleeping the sleep of the dead, of course. How else would I sleep? Finally I surfaced into consciousness.

“ ’Lo?” I answered, silencing Blue Öyster Cult mid-lyric.

“Kirsty? You’d better get down here right away.” Kali’s voice crackled from the tiny speaker, sounding as distressed as I’d ever heard her. I half sat up, rubbing crusty dried gunk from my eyes, the corner of my mouth and . . . never mind. Despite having no psychic abilities at all, I clearly foresaw a shower in my future.

“Down where?”

“To Hell’s Cells.”

I thumped the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to dispel some of the got-some brain fog. I had a memory once, I just forgot where I put it.

A recent memory floated within reach. I grasped for it, almost had it . . . Ahhh. Now I remembered. Dante’s friend Monroe had told us the holding facility where he worked needed an extra pair of hands. And Kali was nothing if not handy. She had six of ’em, after all.

Obviously, she’d landed the job. Only Reapers need apply.

“So what’s up?” I asked. Dante rolled over and opened his eyes. I held a finger to his lips to keep him from speaking. He kissed my finger softly and my insides melted. No, not literally.

“What? I missed that, Kali. Say again, please.”

“I said, something weird went down with that soul you brought in. That Conrad guy. You didn’t use another Reaper’s scythe on him, did you? Because if you did, I think we’ve finally figured out what happens when you do.”

As Kali described the scene in the cells, all the blood drained from my face. My stomach flip-flopped and my heart clenched.

“Oh, skeg!”

To be continued in Book 3 of The Reluctant Reaper series, Esprit de Corpse: Hell Is Where the Heart Is.

THEY SAY WRITINGis a lonely profession, but that has not been my experience. I can’t remember exactly when, why or how I decided to write a book about a Grim Reaper, but since then, I’ve had help and encouragement from so many people that I’m worried I’ll miss thanking someone. So if you aren’t named here, please know that I appreciate your help more than words can say.

Over the years, several people read, reread and helped me rewrite various versions and chapters of this book. Great big thanks to Debra Jess, Kay Lynne Simpson, Lisa Stone Hardt, Lauren Stephenson and Joan Leacott for their feedback.

Thanks to the members of the QuinceApple brainstorming group for their input on bits and pieces and marketing materials along the way. Special thanks to creative stimulators Bonnie Staring and Tina Christopher.

Thanks to my awesome agent, Rosemary Stimola and her equally awesome assistant, Allison Remchek. The amount of time and effort they put into this series speaks of their faith in my potential. And thanks to my fabulous editor at Simon & Schuster, Adam Wilson, for liking my book enough to publish it and for working with me to make it the best book it can be.

Grazie to Elisa Rolle for the speedy Italian translations.

My biggest thanks to my friend and mentor, Kate Freiman, for not just giving me feedback and encouragement, but for always being there for me, sharing her wealth of knowledge and squealing with me at each milestone of success.

Thank you all!

I PUSHED OFFthe doorframe and got right up into Dante’s chauvinistic (but handsome) face. “Now you listen to me, bucko.” I was mad. Really mad. I’d never called anyone “bucko” before in my life. I wasn’t even sure what it meant, although it reminded me of an interesting four-letter word. “Just because you’re seven hundred—”

The lights dimmed and flickered. I clapped my hands over my ears to shut out the terrible screeching noise, like universes being ripped apart. Suddenly, a massive, horrific demon complete with horns and forked tail appeared before us. Shannon looked up from her client call: “Callyouback,” she squeaked. She didn’t so much hang up the handset as drop it somewhere near the cradle. I could tell from her trembling jaw and brand-new lack of breathing that she could see it, too.

As Dante had done, the demon had materialized facing Shannon, who cowered behind the big oak desk. With his back to us, he hadn’t noticed Dante and me.

I could see him clearly now, his personal twister left somewhere along the slippery slope or dusty red trail. Conrad’s dark red skin stretched tight over misshapen muscles. His hooves and the spike at the end of his tail were the same articulated gray chitin as his curved and pointy horns. The horns scraped the ceiling tiles, raining white flakes down on his shoulders like the dandruff of the damned. Pointy leathery wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. They didn’t look like they’d support his weight and might have evolved less as flighty appendages and more as extra places to stick talons.

From where I stood, I couldn’t see his face and I was very, very glad. I had enough to take in as it was. He was the most horrible creature I’d seen on the Coil or in Hell, the conservative business suit doing nothing to counter his overall ghastly appearance.