Page 13 of How to Survive Your Own Death

Bazel drew himself to his full height. This was a waste of time. His kind was not given to sentimentality. His duty was enough. It had been enough for centuries. He could not afford to indulge in such foolish emotions now.

He stepped from the shadows into the light and pointed a desiccated hand in her direction. “You owe a debt, Geraldine Melnyk.”

The cat hissed and darted away. Geri shouted, leaping to her feet. “Dammit, Jaxon! What is this?”

She wasn’t afraid. Surprised and angry, but not frightened. This made him feel lighter, somehow.

“No. Not Jaxon.” He pulled back the cowl, revealing his face. He had given a significant portion of his life force to save her, and it showed. He was drained, paper thin skin over bones. “I sacrificed my life for yours. It is time to collect.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The mask isn’t bad, I’ll give you that, but the mouth doesn’t move right. You’re not fooling me, Jaxon.”

“I’ve had many names. Atenro. Nitis. Nekaanah. Awaheya. Leimannen. Grimmige reaper. I am not Jaxon.”

She swung a pillow at him.

GERI

There was a brief moment of resistance before the pillow sailed through the reaper. He burst into dust and quickly reformed.

“Do not do that again. It is unpleasant.” He shivered, if a skeleton could shiver.

No. No. Not a skeleton. Not a reaper. This was another stupid prank. A very elaborate prank with a Hollywood studio level budget for special effects, despite the fact that Jaxon barely scraped by. Maybe one of his videos finally went viral and he had internet money.

Okay. Fine. This wasn’t a prank, which left only one option.

“You’re not real,” she said. “This is a hallucination brought on by the concussion.”

“I assure you, I am real.”

“Yeah, well, a hallucination would say that.”

Now that her heart had settled down, she took a moment to look at him. To really look at him. A skeleton wearing a tattered black cloak. Classic grim reaper.

The hallucination was remarkably detailed. She supposed all hallucinations were. Her only previous experience had been the lights and colors, which the doctors warned her about. No one warned her about a six-foot-something grim reaper in her living room.

“Where’s your scythe?” she asked.

A light flared in the depths of his eyes. “That is none of your concern.”

“I’m sure it’s not healthy talking to you like you’re real⁠—”

“I assure you, I am real.”

“But what corner of my subconscious did you crawl out from?” She circled around him, noting the way the light just seemed to avoid him altogether. He created a dark spot in the room.

“You died, Geraldine Melnyk.” His voice had a strange echoing quality.

“Well, obviously. You’re clearly a manifestation of my inner struggle with such a close brush with death.”

“I am an anthropomorphic personification of death and my existence has no bearing on your inner struggles.”

Geri wanted to laugh because her hallucination was funny but resisted. Laughing now would come off as unhinged. “You sound like you’re an actor in a period drama, kind of old fashioned and vaguely British. Why do you talk like that?”

“I speak as I have always spoken.”

“The grim reaper speaks as he has always spoken,” she parroted back, mocking him. “How old are you?”

“A grim reaper, not the grim reaper. I am one of many psychopomps,” he said, completely ignoring her question.