Page 48 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

“I had a weird dream about him.” Danny stares at Death. “We were drinking tequila in a bar somewhere in Mexico.”

Tristan turns to Death with a frown. “Why did he get tequila in Mexico, and I got tea in bone china at a stuffy restaurant in Mayfair?”

Drinking tequila with the Grim Reaper in Mexico, having tea with him in Mayfair? I wonder, and not for the first time, what the hell I’ve walked into.

Death doesn’t answer Tristan’s question. Instead, his gaze seems to be fixed on…Chan. His gaze slides over every dip and curve of Chan’s body. I mean, it’s not as if that flesh-coloured body stocking hides a damn thing.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the question needed here, Tris.” Chan returns Death’s gaze with an almost defiant one of her own. Seriously, why isn’t she afraid? Why isn’t anyone afraid? This is Death. “Shouldn’t you be asking who he is and how he appeared in your kitchen?”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico,” Tristan mutters sulkily, although I don’t think anyone’s paying attention.

“Tristan,” Dusty whispers, her eyes wide, “is that who I think it is?”

“Everyone, this is Death.” He points to each of us in turn. “Death, meet Harrison, Sam, Dusty, and Chan. Apparently, you already know Danny.”

I swallow hard, nerves dancing in my stomach. This is the actual Grim Reaper, the supernatural entity known throughout the ages as Death, and Tristan is acting like he’s just a regular person.

I really don’t understand the dynamic here. Knowing it’s probably a bad idea, I allow my iron grip on my empathic abilities to loosen just enough to get a read on the room, and what I find surprises me. Half of them I can’t read at all, and the rest of them are very faint.

Huh.

I relax a little further but no, nothing changes. Death, I can’t read at all. Unsurprising. Tristan either. Danny, I get hints of amusement, confusion, worry, and hopeless love for his boyfriend. It’s kind of sweet how much he loves Tristan, and if I’m being perfectly honest, it makes me a little jealous. I wish someone would feel that way about me.

My gaze drifts over to Sam, I still can’t get any kind of read on him at all. But if I had to go by the expression on his handsome face, I’d say it was similar to Danny, equal parts amused and worried.

Dusty is broadcasting loud and clear as she inches nearer to Chan. Judging by the way Dusty hovers over Chan protectively, I’m guessing the two of them are close. But beyond that, I can feel her deep love and concern for her fellow drag queen.

That just leaves Chan herself, and what I sense from her is…surprising.

It’s attraction.

To. Death.

Her gaze is pinned on the eons-old entity sitting calmly on one of Tristan’s kitchen chairs, and rather worryingly, he stares back.

“Death?” Chan’s gaze flicks to me as her brows rise in disbelief. “What, the Death? Like the Grim Reaper?”

“Apparently,” Tristan replies.

“Apparently?” Death turns his head regally toward Tristan and gives a disgruntled snort. “Apparently? I have existed since before the dawn of time. I have always been and always will be. I have collected countless souls, have seen time and reality beyond anything your underdeveloped human minds can comprehend. Do none of you know how to show deference?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Tristan huffs. “What do you want us to call you? Mr Death?”

Death sighs loudly. “Mortals.” He shakes his head. “I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the screaming. There was a time when I only had to appear before one of your kind and they would be frozen with terror. The mere mention of my name was enough to incite the deepest dread. In fact, I…”

His voice trails off, and I follow his intense blue gaze to where it rests on Chan once more. She’s unhooking the chin strap of her sequined and feathered skullcap. She slides it off and shakes her long, shiny black hair free so it spills elegantly down her back.

She looks up to find everyone staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” Tristan shakes his head.

“You know, Death…may I call you Death?” she says conversationally, setting the huge headpiece down on the counter and covering nearly half of Tristan’s kitchen in feathers. “If you want all the little humans to be afraid of you, you might want to dress the part. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the whole appearing in the dark and the bolt of lightning were nice touches, but⁠—”

“Chan, I don’t think–” Tristan begins, but she carries on as if he hasn’t spoken.

“I’m just saying, Mr ‘don’t you mortals know how to show deference,’ that we’re pretty simple creatures with our underdeveloped brains and all,” she says, her tone drier than the desert. “Our primal drives can be diluted down to the three F’s.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I murmur, and Sam snorts next to me.