He shakes his head and gives me a look. “You’re not just any reporter. You’re a Grim Reaper. That is, and should always be your first priority. Playing reporter is a hobby, nothing more.”
“How do you think I can afford a luxury suite like this without that job?” I bite out, my nerves quickly being replaced by burning anger. “It’s not like you pay us for our work. I need that job to survive here.”
Death looks around my apartment, his nose scrunching up with disgust. “You call this luxury?”
Right. Of course that’s what he’d pick up on.
“Sarcasm, bud,” I say. “You should probably learn it. Humans live by it.”
“You’re not human,” he shouts, and then stalls, taking a deep breath. When he continues, his voice is soft, and maybe a little sad. “Alexa, do you have any idea what a story like this could do to the timeline?”
He cannot be serious.
“Are you kidding me right now? It’s just a story.”
“You pointed out things the humans hadn’t put together.” Death throws his hands in the air, then points a finger at me. “You broadcasted the patterns. What if the man responsible sees this? It could change everything. You’re being reckless, Alexa.”
I balk at his words, cringing, pressing myself deeper into the couch. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“You’re trying to cheat me.”
A manic laugh bubbles up my suddenly dry throat and spills out. “Cheat you? That’s what you think?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You tell me, Alexa.”
“You think I’m trying to stop tonight’s reap,” I say breathlessly, suddenly realizing exactly where he’s going with this. “You think I’m trying to catch the killer before he kills again. That’s crazy. I would—”
He doesn’t let me finish, abruptly cutting me off. “Did you or did you not intentionally try to sabotage your assignment?”
“No, of course not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d never do that.”
“Then why did you send a text message to that detective? Along with the article, it all looks pretty damning, don’t you think?”
I blink. I thought it was all pretty brilliant, myself, but what do I know?
I laugh nervously. I have no idea how to respond. Death’s gaze is icier than when he first grabbed me.
After a moment, he blows out an exaggerated breath. “You’re trying my patience, Alexa.”
“I’m not trying to alter the set timeline. I’m not trying to stop tonight from happening. I’m just...” I rake my fingers through my hair. “I don’t know. I’m trying to give the next victim a chance to not be a victim. It’s not cheating. Not when the name isn’t even on the list yet.”
“And how, exactly, do you know the next person isn’t already on the list?” he asks, just short of a snap.
I hadn’t thought of that. I probably should have clued in that Death wouldn’t be too happy about my story on The Clown Maker, but in my defense, I was more worried about making sure no one else made it on the list. I hadn’t considered that publishing my theory could make the killer change things up, or that his next victim had already been decided.
I hesitate. “Is there someone else on the list?”
“That’s not really the point,” Death says, and this time it is a snap.
“Sure it is,” I say, sounding far more confident than I feel. “If The Clown Maker hasn’t chosen his next victim yet, then I haven’t tampered with anything. A loophole, bud. I found it.”
He cuts a glare at me, holds it for an impossibly long moment, and then grunts, most of the anger dissipating from his gaze. “I hate it when you call me that.”
“I know you do. But I hate calling you Death. It’s so... Death like. You really need to get a friendlier name.”
Death chuckles, and once again scrubs at his face. He looks tired, I think, tired and stressed out. That should make me feel better because usually, he’s so intimidating, but instead, it makes me feel bad and a little guilty.
“You’re messing with things you don’t understand.” He looks at me and a second passes before he adds, “It’s not just about the rules. Your choices here can have a drastic effect on everything, including you. I’d hate to see you lose your spark.”
My spark? There is a change in his tone when he says it. Softer. Warmer. I shift on the couch, squirming a little, not entirely sure how to feel about his words.
“Look, you want me to deal with murders, and this is my way of doing that,” I say after a moment. “If you want to send me to Purgatory for trying to do something good, then do it. Send me. I’m fine with it knowing I tried.”
And I’m pretty sure it’s true. I’m almost certain I am okay with it.
Death doesn’t believe me. He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Be careful, Alexa,” he says. “You haven’t broken any rules yet, but you’ve come close. Don’t do anything stupid. I’d hate to see something happen to you.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, standing and stepping over to me. Then, he gives me a kiss on the forehead and vanishes, evaporating into the air, his laptop disappearing with him. I sit there, alone, staring at the empty space he filled moments ago, wondering what the visit was really about. Surely Death didn’t come to warn me that I’m close to crossing the line. He really isn’t the warning kind of guy.
I try to shake off the unease, reminding myself that I’m doing something good. I’m not reckless; I’m helping people. That has to count for something.
EIGHT
DROOL SPILLS OUT ONTO my pillow, and I open my eyes seconds before my alarm clock goes off. I wake up at two o’clock, which seems like more than early enough to find the location, get in and settled before the killer arrives.
I reach over and turn off my alarm, just as it begins to sound, and swipe my hand across my chin, wiping away the dampness. I shower and get dressed, settling on basic black jeans and a black long-sleeved top.
As I get ready, I rack my brain for anything I may have missed. I’m already walking a fine line with Death, and I want to make sure that I’ve done everything I can to ensure tonight doesn’t end up with me being banished to Purgatory. It’s as I’m slapping on some makeup that I decide it’s too late to worry about it now. What’s done is done. As long as Detective Kelley shows up at the right time, I should be okay.
My assignment isn’t far from my home, only about a fifteen-minute walk. The area is full of apartments and townhouses, an odd choice of location if you ask me. I always thought serial killers would prefer dilapidated buildings or abandoned warehouses. Somewhere out of the way and quiet, but in this area at this time of night, the sidewalks and roads are full. The criminal world of Redport, awake and working.
As I walk, I check out my surroundings, mentally creating a map of access points and escape routes. Best to be prepared just in case. I can feel my hands fidgeting, a mix of excitement and dread settling in my gut like a brick.
I pass by a small park, noticing the group of young men gathered near a picnic table. By the way it’s maintained, I suspect it’s rarely used by children. Across the street, a public library with a sign announcing a book club. I see a girl who looks barely twenty-one stumbling out of a pub, and another group crowded by an alleyway. Each person I pass glances at me and assesses me. If I weren’t already dead, I’d never consider walking through this part of Redport at night.
I swing my gaze around, watching for the killer. I’m not even sure I’d recognize him if I passed him on the street, although I suspect he’d stand out if he wears his usual business suit.
I find the building—a high-rise in the center of a group of apartments. The buildings look well maintained and quiet, the balconies recently painted. Most likely the management’s attempt at charging higher rent in a low rent area.
As I approach, my pace slows, and I glance around, shivering. I try to blame it on the cool fall night air, but I know it’s not that. Flashes of spraying bloo
d and laughing clowns keep invading my mind.
Shaking it off, I duck around back, looking for a sheltered place to use my cloaking spell. Although I can activate it anywhere, most humans don’t like seeing someone disappear into thin air, and I don’t particularly want to cause any heart attacks tonight.
Behind the building, set off to the side, I find a community fitness center. A quick scan of the glass enclosure shows it’s empty. Perfect. I move into the shadows, searching the grounds for any movement, and when I’m confident the coast is clear, I let myself fade and disappear under the spell.
I make my way back to the front of the apartment building. The door is locked, but that’s not a problem for me. Death’s magic opens any door that stands in a Reaper’s way. For half a second, I consider waiting outside, curious as to how the killer will manage to break in, but the thought doesn’t last. I don’t want to chance bumping into Detective Kelley, so I need to make sure I’m in there and ready before the killer arrives.
Inside, I find the stairwell. It’s at the end of the hall. The building has been kept reasonably clean, another attempt by the management to charge more, I suspect. There are a few spots on the stairs, and an odor that I believe is from dirty mop water, but all in all, far better than I expected from this part of town. Much cleaner than my building, that’s for sure.
As I walk up the stairs, I spot security cameras on every floor, though I don’t believe they’re actually recording. There is no light blinking, no indication that they are on. A deterrent most likely.
The apartment is three doors down from the stairwell. I survey the edges of the door, looking for any sign of light from the inside, and I listen hard for the sounds of a television or music. There’s nothing worse than scaring a victim more than needed, and seeing a door open on its own freaks out pretty much everyone. Nothing. All is dark and quiet. Holding my breath, I open the door and slip in.
The apartment is a bachelor pad—one room, a bed on the left, with a man sound asleep in it, and a kitchen on the right. Still holding my breath, careful not to make a sound, I ease the door shut. Near the bed, a door leads to the bathroom, and beside that another narrow doorway, a closet, most likely.
I search the area for a place to hide, careful not to bump into anything. The killer should be here any moment now, and although he can’t see me, the apartment is so small, I don’t want to be continually dodging him as he works.
With no good place to hide, I settle for tucking myself into the corner beside the bed. It’s a crappy spot, I know, but it’s the only place where I’m out of the way and still able to see everything.
And then I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait some more.
Straining my ears, I listen for any sounds of movement in the hallway when suddenly, I hear a scratching at the door. Not the door, I realize a moment later, but the lock. The killer is using a lockpick.
The lock disengages, and I swallow thickly as the door creeps open and the killer walks in. I’m pressing myself deeper into the corner as he shuts the door softly. His gaze swings my way, and I swallow down a gasp, remembering nearly too late, that he cannot see me.
The killer looks around and circles the room. He’s holding a small, well worn, black overnight bag which is entirely at odds with his pressed and crisp look. Dressed in black pants and matching jacket, and a white shirt, with the top couple buttons undone, he looks as though he should be carrying a leather briefcase, not a scuffed-up bag.
I shift my gaze to the bed. The man is still sleeping soundly, the covers pulled up to his neck. I’m thankful for that. Glad that he doesn’t realize what awaits him.
The killer walks right past me and plants himself in front of the bed, setting the bag on the floor at his feet. Then, he just stands there and stares.
Seconds turn into minutes.
The killer doesn’t move an inch.
My stomach rolls. I’m starting to feel as though I picked the worst spot to hide in the history of hiding spots. Although I know he’s not looking at me, it feels as though he is.
I can hear his breathing, steady and deep, matching pace with the sleeping man. I have no idea what he’s waiting for. My fingers itch to pull out my phone and check the time, but I don’t, not wanting to risk making a sound.
Another minute passes.
My body begins to cramp, my legs, begging to stretch out.
And then, a soft vibration sounds.
The killer reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone, tapping the screen and silencing the noise. Then he crouches beside the bag and unzips it.
Sudden dizziness swarms my head as he pulls out a deadly looking knife. Long and sharp, the blade looks as though it should be hanging in a butcher’s shop, not hidden in an overnight bag.
Next, he pulls out a mask, the same mask I saw with the last two victims. I wonder, briefly, how many he bought.
Rising from his crouched position, he is remarkably quiet, his presence betrayed only by the occasional scuff of his shoes on the tiled floor as he moves beside the bed. He stands there, on the opposite side of the bed as me, staring down at the sleeping man.
And then, the soft vibration sounds again.
There is a smile on the killer’s face when he leans in and slides the knife across the sleeping man’s throat. I want to close my eyes. I don’t want to watch, but I can’t seem to look away, either. The force of the blood is violent, spraying upward, and hitting the ceiling.
The killer jerks back out of the spray, watching the splatter, his expression almost... euphoric. My stomach lurches and bile burns in my throat. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to vomit.
The massive gush only lasts about thirty seconds before tapering off, oozing out of the wound and soaking into the bed. The killer watches for another second, maybe two before laying the mask onto the victim, covering his face.
And then he laughs. It’s a sharp sound—heartless—and it sends chills racing over my skin. My chest hurts, a stabbing pain so intense, I can’t catch my breath.
Tearing my eyes away, I lock them on the door. Any minute now Detective Kelley is going to come in. My chest hurts a little less at the thought.
The killer shuffles around the apartment. I hear some rustling, the zip of the bag, the scuff of his shoes. And then, I watch as he opens the door and leaves.
I can feel the trapped soul, clawing, struggling, wanting to be free.
I strain my ears, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps or sirens or any indication that Detective Kelley is about to burst in, but I hear nothing. Nothing but the frantic, muffled cries of the soul, begging to be free.
I’m numb as I rise from my hiding spot, numb and cold and sick. I barely feel Death’s magic when I lay my hand on the victim’s shoulder, and I don’t notice if I’ve managed to hold my form or not.
I failed. I failed. I failed.
The words are on repeat, echoing through my mind. I feel the spirit release from his body, and I pull my hand away.
“Oh, dude, that is fucked up.” A pause. “Wait a second. Is that me?”
My eyes swing to the spirit, standing beside me. An average height male, with bleach blond hair and bright blue eyes, wearing black boxers and a white graphic tee, he shifts his gaze to me.
“Yeah,” I say and offer up a small nod. “I’m sorry.”
“Damn. I can’t believe The Clown Maker got me.” He shakes his head, and then his eyes harden. “Well, why are you just standing there? We need to go after that asshole.”
NINE
THE VICTIM’S SPIRIT is staring at me, waiting somewhat impatiently. I’m staring at the door, utterly shocked that my epic plan failed. My first shot at stopping a killer and I picked the dumbass cop who doesn’t take tips seriously.
Go figure.
“Well?” he asks, rolling his hand in a gesture that clearly says I’m wasting time. “We need to move. He’s going to get away.”
I don’t look at him, my eyes sta
ying locked on the door. Inside, I’m shaking. My whole world is reeling. It’s not just that the killer got away, though that really isn’t sitting well with me. I’m afraid of me. Of what I’ve done. Of how close I came to breaking the rules, and how little regard I’ve had for them.
What was I thinking risking my existence for people I don’t know? I thought I had it under control. I thought I knew what I was doing. But I don’t feel very in control right now. No, I feel lost.
Lost and scared.
What freaks me out the most, though, is that every fiber of my body wants to go after the killer. My heart doesn’t care if it’s reckless, neither does my head. Even my gut seems to be on board, urging me to move. Begging me to finish what I started.
Closing my eyes, I press my fingers to my eyelids and let out a long breath. “And what exactly do you think following him will do?”
“I don’t know,” the victim says. “Maybe we’ll find out where he’s going. We can track him, call the police. If we follow him, we can lead the cops right to my killer.”
I turn to him and spot the light filter in from the closet. His light. The victim is standing right in front of it. Surely, he feels it, the pull, the call, but if he does, he shows no indication. He’s standing there, staring at me, fearless, chin up, determination etched on his brow.
“Your light is here,” I say. I try to sound happy, but my voice comes out hollow. “It’s time for you to move on, bud.”
“Dude...” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Screw that. I’m not leaving until that bastard is behind bars.”
Shit. He’s not joking. His words leave me reeling for a minute. Not only has my plan failed, and I did not catch the serial killer, but I also pissed off Death in the process, enough so he even paid me a visit as a warning. And now my assignment is refusing to move on.
And part of me, a huge part, is thrilled about it.
I chew on my bottom lip. This is not good. It’s far from good.