“What the fuck,” I rasp, yanking back so fast I nearly lose my balance.
Ugh. Disgusting.
Substances don’t cling to me like they used to when I was alive. Blood, dirt, and filth—they pass right through, dissolving before they can stain. But touch? I might not feel it, but I can still imagine it. It’s one of those annoying little remnants that never quite fade.
Pain knows it.
And the bastard threw me out into the trash on purpose. Because it’s angry with me.
I shake off the filth, scanning the area for that slimy little shit. Sure enough, Pain is perched on the mailbox next to me, looking way too pleased with itself.
I narrow my eyes before pressing a hand to the hollow of my stomach.
It still hurts—the pull. And we’re not even close to the dead soul yet.
“You are the absolute worst,” I mutter.
Pain ruffles its feathers and tilts its head.
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes. “I know. If I don’t move, the next wave’s coming. I get it.”
This time it’s for real.
With a final shake of my hands, I step away from the trash bin and into the street. Rolling my shoulders, I zero in on the one thing I can never escape.
The pull hums beneath my skin, crawling up my spine, tightening around my ribs, guiding me.
The soul I’m supposed to reap isn’t here. Not in this house. Not on this street. Not even in this neighborhood.
It’s farther. Somewhere past the rows of pristine, uniform houses, beyond the tidy sidewalks and neatly trimmed hedges. Somewhere past the place I once called home.
I listen to it and start walking.
Pain flutters above me, its shadow skimming across rooftops and power lines. I don’t look, but I know its beak isn’t empty anymore. Between those black, hooked talons, something gleams—a miniature weapon, white as bone. It belongs just as much to me as it does to Pain.
Our instrument. Our scythe.
My fingers itch to grab it, to feel the power humming inside as I close in on my target. It’s the only thing I enjoy, aside from watching the remnants of my past—holding the scythe and feeling a soul pass through. It's thrilling. Addictive, even.
Most Grim Reapers are hooked on the job. They never stray, never hesitate, never get distracted.
Unlike me.
Most Grim Reapers spend every waking moment reaping souls, or waiting in the dark, lingering at the edges of death’s door for the next name to fall into their hands. They don’t watch the living. They don’t sit on trees, whispering curses at men who should have shown at least a little bit of guilt by now. They don’t waste time.
And I suppose if I weren’t so hung up on the injustice of having my life stolen before my time, I’d be the same.
But unfortunately for me—and for Pain—I’m different. My little hobby of supernaturally stalking my living ex-husband is too tempting to give up. The routine has remained the same for five years.
I get distracted, Pain yanks me back to my job, and we repeat the cycle.
Always.
Except today… I got distracted by something other than my ex-husband, didn’t I?
Today, I got distracted by that strange man—the one with the shovel.
That’s never happened before. I’ve never been interested in anything buthim.
