Before she can start salivating like an undead golden retriever, I swing.
I saw what happened when the last Grim Reaper tried to slice this thing—big mistake. The damn wraith just caught thescythe mid-air like she was in some kind of supernatural WWE showdown.
So… She’s strong. Stronger than I like. Then again, that Grim Reaper was already running on fumes, so maybe it wasn’t a fair fight.
Either way, I’m not about to test my luck.
I don’t aim for the wraith.
I aim for theairaround her.
My scythe slices through the air with a whispering swish, carving into the writhing, oil-slick shadows coiling at her feet. The blade hums—not the satisfying crunch of bone or the wet resistance of flesh, but something worse. Something unseen. Something existential.
The wraith spasms, her form flickering like a dying streetlight, and then—oh. Oh, there it is. That perfect little tremor in her expression.
Pain.
Good.
I bare my teeth, twisting the blade mid-swing, and shove harder.
We’re not done yet.
Her shape ripples, contorting like some deep-sea creature under water, but she doesn't disappear. No, she surges forward again, faster this time, her disfigured face twisted in fury.
“You're going to pay for what you did,” she rasps. “I'm going to make you feel what I feel.”
And that’s my cue to leave, except, nope—her claws, long and writhing like sentient ink stains, shoot toward my chest. I twist, dodging just in time, but it still hits me. Not physically, no—this is worse. It’s a gut-deep, soul-level wrongness, like a thousand hornets have entered my body, trying to burst it apart.
I grit my teeth. No. Fuck that.
I pivot, using the momentum to bring my scythe around in a wide, vicious arc, cleaving through more of her shadowy mass. The wraith jerks back, and the air itself screams—somehow both silent and deafening—like reality itself is cringing at her existence.
Nathaniel moves in beside me, his knife flashing. It's useless, of course—might as well be attacking a hurricane with a spoon—but miraculously, it works. She shifts, distracted for a fraction of a second, and that’s all I need.
This time, I aim higher.
I bring the scythe down hard, straight for the jagged, glitching mess where her shoulder should be. There's resistance——like cutting through thick, tangled roots—but then something gives. A chunk of her peels away. She screams.
Not just a spooky ghost noise—this is a real, guttural, full-volume, suffering wail.
Good. That means I'm making progress.
“You think I regret watching you die?” I bite out, yanking my scythe free and spinning it in my grip. “I don’t. If I had to do it all over again, I’d still stand there and watch you choke on your own sins.”
The wraith lunges.
I dodge—barely. Her arm sweeps past my face, and the chill of it seeps into my skin. My vision blurs for a second, a headache stabbing behind my eyes like a migraine that personally hates me. But I push through it, gritting my teeth because, well, I don’t have any other options.
I didn’t survive five years of monotony, just to give up now.
I need my ex-husband killed.
And I want these three men to do it.
As if they hear my thoughts, are moving now, flanking her and trying to drive her toward me.
“There!” Nathaniel shouts. “The Grim's scythe is still here!”
