I don’t even have to ask. I already know where this is going.
For all their sins, the men at my side at least have some kind of reason behind their murders—twisted and batshit as it may be. But Laura? Laura Collins killed for fun. She collected victims, hoarded their bones in her fucked-up shrine of nostalgia, and probably ranked her kills on her entertainment fucking list with a red cozy pen.
I study the woman in front of me. Mid-thirties. Long brown hair. Soft features, despite the cold Grim Reaper act. And if I hadany lingering doubts about what she meant by someone, they disappear the moment she glances at Laura Collins’ body again.
“You’re her victim,” I say.
The woman doesn’t confirm it outright, but she doesn’t deny it either.
Which means we are so fucking screwed.
Because if we thought this was just about taking out a serial killer, turns out we’ve also stumbled into an afterlife revenge saga with more layers than a cursed wedding cake—and I have a feeling we’re about to be force-fed every single one.
Apparently, there are shades of grey in every situation.
And we? We’re about to find out just how many shades of them exist in this one.
“Fucking hell.” Cassian exhales sharply through his nose. “She killed you?”
The Grim Reaper just stares.
And yeah. Yeah, I get it now. Laura Collins didn’t just kill over a hundred people—she killed this Grim Reaper, too. And by the looks of it, someone the Grim Reaper loved. And now, after all this time, after waiting for justice, for karmic balance, after being the one who should have been able to personally escort Laura’s soul into whatever flaming pit of despair awaited her… she’s been robbed of that satisfaction.
A hollow, awful feeling settles in my gut.
“What now?” I ask the men, staring at the blue orb between Talon's fingers.
“Now?” Nathaniel turns toward me, eyes blank like I just asked if the sky was real. “What do you mean by now? Nothing changes.”
“But—” I try to say.
And that’s when the woman wobbles midair like a drunk. Her hand flies to her forehead, fingers digging into her temple likeshe’s suddenly hit by the worst hangover of her afterlife. The glow of her scythe flickers.
Not like mine does from time to time. Differently.
Talon notices it too.
“What's going on?” he asks her.
The Grim Reaper’s lips part, but no sound comes out. Then, finally, she forces out a whisper.
“I…” Her throat works around the words. “I don’t know.”
Talon’s fingers tighten around the orb—the soul of Laura Collins, trapped. “If you're expecting sympathy from us—”
“I'm not,” she snaps, sudden and sharp. But even as she glares at him, her form shudders again, and she sways. Her hand grips at the air, like she’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t there.
Nathaniel cocks his head, intrigued.
“We’ve seen this before.” He looks at me when he says it. “Haven’t we?”
But he's wrong.
“No, this is different,” I say.
It’s difficult to pinpoint the difference, but I feel it in my gut. This isn’t the same as what happened to me.
The way she flickers—it’s not like when I started tethering to the living world, not the same slow, creeping shift from incorporeal to something more solid.
