Nathaniel, still elbow-deep in corpse management, lets out a short, deeply exhausted snort. “Guys. We have better things than experimenting with the Grim Reaper's weapon-turned-supernatural-phenomenon in the middle of a crime scene. We have clean-up to do.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t clean up properly while dragging around a giant death sickle, can I? Cassian shoots back. “And in case anyone forgot, this thing is our best bet at beating the scary-ass flying motherfucker when it comes back.”
He turns to my raven again. “Pain. Shrink it.”
Without a second thought, he flings the massive scythe at my bird like it's a goddamn snack instead of a weapon explicitly designed to sever souls from flesh.
Pain lets out an extremely offended squawk, fluttering its wings in what I can only describe as deep personal offense. The scythe doesn’t hit him, thankfully—because if it had, I’d be drafting Cassian’s obituary right now—but it does crash onto a shelf, toppling over a jar of something that looks like Satan’s own phlegm. A syrupy, pus-colored goo dribbles down, hitting the floor with a plop.
Cassian arches a brow at me. “Well?”
I stare at him. Then at the scythe. Then back at him.
“Are you brain damaged?” I say flatly. “Did you seriously just throw a fucking Grim Reaper weapon at a bird and expect magic to happen?”
But before I can start listing the ways in which this man is a walking safety hazard, Pain—my alleged spiritual other half—hops onto the scythe, gives it a long, judgmental once-over, and lets out a gravelly croak that sounds suspiciously likewatch this, bitch.
A ripple ofsomethingpulses through the air.
I know how my scythe shifts when I will it to change—it’s smooth, intentional, like it’s folding in on itself with purpose. But this? Thise one flickers, as if it’s being rewritten in real time, the carvings along its blade twisting like ink bleeding across a page.
And then, with a sound like a blade sliding back into its sheath, the damn thing collapses into itself.
Three daggers drop where it once was.
I gape at them.
Pain, that absolute little shit, plucks the first dagger up in his beak and hurls it at Cassian.
Cassian, to his credit, catches it midair without missing a beat. He glances at the blade in his palm, turns it over, weighs it like he expected this.
“Nice,” he mutters.
I blink. My eye twitches.”Nice?” I shriek. “WHAT THE—oh, you traitor.”
Pain doesn’t even pretend to care. I know we’re supposed to be one—me and the bird, partners in crime, bonded in fate—but this? This is some Judas-level betrayal.
Cassian, meanwhile, takes his sweet time flipping the dagger between his fingers, testing the grip, before finally—finally—he smirks.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, glancing up at me. “Looks like there's one for each of us.”
I inhale sharply through my nose.
“That’s not—Pain doesn’t just—” I throw my hands up. “You don’t even know how to use those!”
He blinks.
“I don’t know how to usedaggers?” He blinks at me, like I just suggested he doesn’t know how to breathe. Then, like a maniac, he casually tucks the dagger into his belt before sauntering over to scoop up the other two. “Funny.”
He flicks a glance at Pain, who is preening smugly on the shelf, clearly pleased with himself.
“Good bird,” he purrs.
I feel physical betrayal at a molecular level.
And worse?Worse? I feel a very inconvenient sense of satisfaction creeping into my chest at the praise. Because that’s the real problem with having my soul split in half—when that other part of me does something to piss me off, I hate it. But when it gets praised?
Ugh.
