Page 25

11

JUDE

I followed Nat through the near-empty streets, keeping close to his side. There weren’t many people out this late, just a few stragglers here and there. A guy in a wrinkled button-down stumbling toward his car, keys jingling, probably cut off an hour ago. A couple arguing quietly outside a closed pizza joint. Most of the sidewalks were ours alone.

Once or twice, people shivered when we got too close. The arguing couple going quiet mid-sentence, the drunk rubbing his arms like someone had walked over his grave.

A man bundled in a sleeping bag in a recessed doorway glanced up as we passed. His eyes swept over me, then snapped back, widening. He crossed himself quickly and muttered something under his breath, pulling his blanket tighter.

“I think he saw us,” I whispered.

“He’s dying.” Nat’s voice was calm. “The soon-to-be-dead can see us. The rest only sense something wrong when we get too close.”

I stopped, looking back at the man, wondering if there was a way I could help. He flinched and backed away, hiding himself further into the doorway.

“He’s not ours,” Nat offered lightly. “Not tonight anyway.”

I looked down at myself. Still in my pajamas. Which was weird enough for downtown St. Paul at, I glanced at a bank clock, one in the morning. But apparently, to the eyes of the dying, I looked like something else. Nat tugged me forward, likely to keep the man from having a heart attack.

We passed a darkened office building, glass doors like black mirrors, and I caught my reflection.

I froze.

The man in the glass was me. Same face. Same tired eyes. Same stupid pajama shirt, an old Nirvana tee with holes and faded print. But for a split second, as I watched, my reflection changed. Flesh melting away. Bones showing through. Eye sockets hollow and dark.

“Holy shit. I’m Death.”

“In training,” he corrected.

I looked down at the sleep pants covered in ghosts reading romance novels. “Is there a dress code for reaping souls, or is bedhead and questionable fashion choices acceptable?” I spread my hands. “When do I get the cool cloak made of shadows and broken dreams?”

Nat groaned, then sighed. “Maybe when the training wheels come off. Maybe after you’ve guided a soul or a thousand.”

I stopped; eyes wide. “A thousand?”

Nat gave my pajamas a pointed look. “Perhaps if you’d spent less time ignoring the grimoire I provided, you would have mastered a form more suited to inspiring reverence. Instead, you’ve cultivated the ‘friendly bedroom specter’ aesthetic. Very approachable. The departed will no doubt find you quite comforting. Zombie chic without the moan of ‘braaaaaains.’”

“You have a sense of humor.” I pressed my hand to my chest. “Wait, that’s allowed? I might actually be having palpitations. Metaphorical ones. Because dead.”

“Mostly,” Nat said, sounding amused.

Nox sat as a warm weight on my shoulder. “So, you’re saying you can control how others see you? It’s not just how solid we can make ourselves?”

“Partially.” Nat’s voice was thoughtful. “Reapers take on a form that aligns with the cultural expectations of death when performing our duties. The appearance shifts depending on who is looking. It’s shaped by tradition and expectation. Mostly of those you reap.” He frowned, hesitating as he glanced over at me. “And partially by your manifestation. All Reapers have similarities, but are hardly identical.”

“So right now, to the dying, I look like...”

“Apparently, for any soul who perceives you, death wears pajamas and looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Very dignified. I don’t even remember wanting to be in pajamas. Maybe it was because I snuggled with Angel?”

“Focus, Weaver. We have work to do. Before we get called away to take someone’s soul. Could you even take someone’s hand to guide them right now?” Nat asked. He held his palm up, as if offering it to an invisible soul. “Most Reapers can manifest enough substance to comfort the dying. To let them feel a hand in theirs as they pass. If you can’t do that, you can’t do this job.”

Nox meowed from my shoulder. It sounded like a command to get moving.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I grumbled as I followed, but he wasn’t wrong. “This goes back to the whole manifesting ghost thing, right? If I can change how I look, I can change how I interact with the world. Change someone’s life… or death, in our case.”

Nat led us through downtown, past a homeless man arguing with no one outside the Landmark Center, through a pocket of drunk college kids spilling out of a karaoke bar, down an alley behind a shuttered restaurant where the smell of old grease clung to the air. The night was cold, the sky a bruised purple over the capitol building. A few streetlights flickered. A car honked somewhere in the distance. No one seemed to see us, though occasionally we got too close and someone shuddered—a woman locking up a bike, a guy sleeping against a dumpster—and jolted awake or crossed themselves, even though they didn’t seem to see us at all.