Dustin waited for a punchline.
None came.
“A reaper,” he repeated.
“Yes. I collect souls. Guide them through the transition from life to death. It's sacred work and I take it very seriously.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were supposed to die today.” Clipboard guy—the reaper, apparently—looked genuinely distressed. “The file said so. The inflatable duck was supposed to kill you. But it didn't. And that's never happened before. And my supervisor says I have to fix it but I don't knowhow, and I've been standing here for twenty minutes trying to understand why you're still alive and I still don't have an answer.”
He said all of this very fast and very earnestly, like he believed every word.
Dustinstared at him.
Greg had made a tactical error.
Several, actually. Coming to this establishment had been error number one. The noise was overwhelming. A relentless thump that seemed to vibrate through his entire being. The lights kept changing colors for no discernible reason. Someone had offered him something called a “Jägerbomb” and he still didn't know what that meant but the name sounded threatening.
He'd materialized so he wouldn't freak Dustin out if the mortal saw people slide right through him. He’d thought he could hide in plain sight. He’d thought that he could blend in.
He was not blending in.
He was holding his clipboard and watching Dustin from across the room and trying to formulate a plan, because Morrith had saidfix itand Greg had no idea how he was going to do that. He needed more data. More information.
And then Dustin was walking toward him.
No. Not walking.Prowling. There was no other word for it. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, like everyone else was just scenery, and his eyes were locked on Greg with an intensity that made something in Greg's chest malfunction.
He winked at someone as he passed, didn't even slow down.
And then he wasright there, leaning against the wall, smiling like he knew a secret Greg didn't.
“Well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”
Greg's voice abandoned him.
This was fine. This was fine. Dustin didn't know anything. He'd just seen Greg at the shoot—as a visible,normal, human person. There was no reason for him to suspect anything. Greg just had to act natural.
How did natural people act?
“I—you?—”
Not like that.
The conversation that followed was a disaster.
Dustin asked why Greg was following him. Greg said research. Dustin asked what kind of research. Greg's mouth, operating independently of his brain, said “I'm a reaper.”
And then—because the disaster was already in progress and Greg had apparently decided to commit fully—he explained everything. The file. The duck. The failed collection. Morrith's orders. All of it, spilling out in one panicked breath while the bass thumped and lights flashed and Dustin stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
When Greg finally stopped talking, Dustin was quiet for a long moment.
“Okay,” he said. “First of all—the duck? Really? That's how I was supposed to go out?”
“I don't choose the method. I just collect.”
“A twenty-foot inflatable duck sponsored by an energy drink. That's what the universe picked for me.”
