Gina Grant: Scythe Does Matter

Anyway, I’d been worried that the requirement for becoming a Grim Reaper would be that one needed to be actually dead. But apparently not. Thank G—er, someone.

I scanned the text, checking out the curriculum. “Reap What You Sew: Styling your Robe.” I hated to dress like everyone else and had plans to jazz up my robe with sequins or piping or something. I’d ask Charon for help with that one. I recalled Char asking Dante to help him re-glue some unstuck sequins to his horns during my very first crossing of the Styx. If he could glam up his big, scaly horns, then he could make my Reaper robe sparkle like a teenage vampire.

“Stick Handling: You and Your Scythe.” I’d played hockey in high school, as well as in my past lives so that class ought to be a piece of cake. She shoots, she reaps!

“Death Coaching: Don’t be the Rude of All Evil.” I was a PR professional. I could fake sincerity with the best of ’em.

There were other courses required to get your baccalaureate in Reapage, but I figured I could handle most of them. As Dante had told me a while back, Reapers did more than just reap. They were Hell’s SWAT team, Swiss Guard, customs agents, bounty hunters and apparently the referees in various sporting events. In short, they were the only trustworthy beings in Hell. And wasn’t I off to a great start by lying about my reasons for joining up? I planned to misuse my scythe the instant I got it.

I checked out the reading list. While there were a couple of actual textbooks, I was relieved to find that the required reading consisted mainly of photocopies of the relevant sections of the major religious tomes: the Bible, the Koran, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Torah, and a novel titled Good Omens. Go figure.

The more I read, the more I knew I could do this. The course lasted two semesters. The five-week classroom portion was already two weeks along. Then the practicum activities in the field took another two weeks. Seven weeks in total, five for me. That was cutting it close to the day when the judge would rule me dead if I didn’t show up with the stapler of the damned. If Coil time proceeded along the same space-time discontinuum I’d observed in the hospital, then I had only another two months to earn my scythe and get back to the Coil to rescue my aunt. And it might not even be that long; time was passing more and more erratically as, well, time passed.

It suddenly occurred to me I didn’t have enough Karma Kredit points for tuition and I said as much.

“All retraining courses are free,” Dante responded. “It’s covered under the GI Bill.”

“G.I.? Weren’t those the slippery things on the hill on the way in?”

“Nah, those were Good Intentions—other people’s. This is Grim Intent—your own. Same acronym, different meaning. Capisci? ”

Right. Because that’s not confusing at all. “So, you’re saying the courses are all free if you’re grimly intended?”

“That’s right. Life isn’t the only place where the best things are free.”

I nodded. That settled it, then. I had grim intentions. The grimmest.

“I think we’re ready now,” Dante called to three large creepy beings with leathery wings, pointy horns, forked tongues and tails who had been completely ignoring us. Now they descended on us like commissioned salesmen. That’s when I discovered that the “Demonic Procession” course had nothing to do with pomp and circumstance as I’d assumed when I’d seen that brochure a while back. Instead, demons were in charge of processing paperwork and they were devilishly good at it.

While the forms were confusing and the administrators scary, being processed by a demon turned out to be pretty painless. After only a couple of hours (Hell time) I had a student card proudly displaying my student number (XXXIVb) and a cafeteria pass.

Dante had disappeared somewhere around the ninety-minute mark, telling me to wait for him in the nearby reception area.

I’d read the syllabus three times by the time Dante finally showed with another guy in tow. The man had Professor written all over him. Not literally, but he looked like something out of a publically funded version of Hogwarts. Long white hair merged seamlessly into a long white beard. A huge smile beamed from his kindly face, causing little laugh lines to crinkle around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He had on khaki pants and matching shirt under his Reaper robe, which he wore open like a suit jacket. There were even suede patches sewn onto the robe’s elbows. I didn’t know a robe could have elbows, but his did.

Dante gestured toward me. “Professor Colin Schotz, may I present your newest pupil, Kirsty d’Arc. Kirsty, Professor Schotz.”

From Dante’s deferential manner, I wondered if I should rise and curtsy. But they’d come to me and I was a woman (this time ’round), so I just held out my hand to be shaken or kissed or whatever passed for a formal greeting here.

“On your feet, student! There’s a professor present.”

I looked around. Hadn’t Dante said there wouldn’t be any cops or military here?

“Ten-SHUT!”

I hadn’t even been a Girl Scout, let alone a soldier, but there’s something about having those particular syllables shouted at you that makes you leap to your feet, backbone ramrod straight and be all you can be.

I stuck out my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Professor.”

Instead of shaking my hand, the professor saluted. But it wasn’t the professor now. Same body, different head. Apparently this guy had two heads like Bob the Barker, who worked with my friend Sue Sayer, except in this guy’s case they appeared only one at a time. The new head sported an extreme buzz cut and the body had lost its preoccupied academic stance and assumed a rigid military bearing. A jagged scar ran across his face, starting at the right side of his hairline and traveling down toward the left corner of his mouth, disappearing into the craggy frown lines on his clean-shaven jaw. A black patch covered his right eye. He had fierce blue eyes—I mean, eye—whereas kindly Professor Schotz had had warm brown ones.

Dante repeated his gracious gesture. “Sergeant Colin Schotz. May I present Kirsty d’Arc, your new recruit.”

Instead of shaking my hand, he hauled a raft of papers out from under his arm. “These are the required readings. The prof’s already distributed them in class. I’m doing a huge favor for Dante here, letting you enroll partway through the semester. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” He got all up in Dante’s face. “And she’d better not fail. Got that?”

Sergeant Schotz spun around and started away, black robe flaring out behind him. Suddenly he turned and came back to me as if he’d remembered something.

“Welcome, my dear. Welcome.” I faced the professor again. Mostly. “Don’t let him intimidate you. We’re all playing on the same team here. Or, at least, I am.”

“Only if you make the cut,” one half of his mouth said, corner slanting downward. “There’s no team in I!”

The professor winked at me with his good, brown eye. Half his face was now the sergeant’s, complete with eye patch. Could the sergeant still see? “Don’t pay any attention to him, Ms. d’Arc. I may be schizophrenic, but at least I’ll always have each other.”

This time when he turned, he did march away.

Okay, that was disturbing. And it was going to be distracting if he—they—couldn’t keep it together. I’d have to figure out a way to pay attention to lectures in class.

Dante rocked up and down on his toes. “So, what did you think of my boss?”

He looked so pleased I couldn’t tell him Colin was both odd and scary. “I’m looking forward to his teaching.”

“He’s a great professor. And a terrific drill sergeant. You’ll like them. He’s amazing.”