Page 22 of Reaper's Pack

But he hadn’t acknowledged me.

And that made the cold hand in my chest clench just a little tighter, the sting of Knox’s brusque dismissal flaring all over again.

Gunnar gave an inch with the slight turn of his head in my direction, the planes of his handsome face smooth, his sharp cheekbone catching the sun, and I responded by taking a full mile, marching over and planting my scythe next to the piano, then perching beside him on the bench. The hellhound scooted over so that our bodies only touched briefly, thighs aligned, arms nudging, and the separation threatened to hurt me all over again if I let it.

But I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to survive all this.

“It’s out of tune,” I told him, scanning the keys. “It’ll sound better when I fix it.”

Not that I knew anything about tuning a piano, but magic was a beautiful gift—once I figured out the appropriate kind.

Gunnar tapped absently at a black key—D-flat, C-sharp. I licked my lips, hating the silence, hating the off-tune melody punctuating it like he was counting down the seconds until I left.

“My grandmother taught me how to play before she died, then Mum took over,” I said, pushing through the awkward air around us. Both of my hands found familiar keys, fingers working on muscle memory as they played the first few chords of “Heart and Soul.” I had a recording of Bea Wain singing it in 1939, and there was nothing more uplifting than unconditional love crooned to the tune of an old big band.

Heart and soul, I fell in love with you heart and soul…

Heart and soul, the way a fool would do, madly…

“I… I can teach you.” The notes faded slowly, my hands in my lap. I shrugged. “You know, if you want.”

Gunnar and I looked at each other at the same time, and his nostrils twitched like he was breathing me in—not unusual for a creature with an exceptional sense of smell, but I still fidgeted self-consciously, wondering what I, a dead thing reanimated, smelled like to him. His royal blues roved my face briefly, up to my hair, down to my hands, before he faced the piano again with a shake of his head.

“No,” he remarked as he rolled his shoulders back. My heart plummeted at that one word, only to flutter softly back to life when he copied the chords I’d just played, making a few little errors along the way. Gunnar rested his fingers over the keys when he finished, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “No, I prefer to teach myself.”

I battled back a smile. Finally—a rejection that wasn’t about me. I could work with that. “Do you like music, then?”

“It’s soothing,” the hellhound murmured as he trailed a finger over the keys, not pressing hard enough for any to sing off-key. “Something you can do alone, enjoy alone, but you aren’t really alone.”

A lovely sentiment, that. Gunnar had always struck me as the hellhound with the sharpest mind, one that raced and worked, always spinning beneath the surface. Here, as I studied his defined profile, those cheekbones begging for my caress, I wondered if music made the waters still—just for a little while. Even if the notes were out of tune, music offered respite to a mind that was always on.

And that was beautiful.

He possessed even more depth than I’d thought.

“I think I have something you might like,” I said after listening to him replay the same few bars I had, this time nearly perfect. “One second.”

My gifted magic allowed me to teleport anywhere I imagined. It was how reapers whipped across cities to collect new souls, with Death’s somber voice slithering around their skull. He gave a name, a location, a cause. We always knew what we were walking into, and as I gripped my scythe and teleported upstairs to my bedroom, I was suddenly acutely aware of how silent it had been in my head for the last few weeks. Technically I was off duty to train my hellhounds, but I missed Death’s sullen, seductive rumble—because his whisper gave me purpose, set my heart on fire, made me feel alive in the afterlife.

Anyway. It didn’t matter. I’d hear him again soon like we had never been apart, and I could already envision my pack staring at me like I was insane, listening to the voices in my head.

Voice. Singular. Perfect in every way.

But that was an issue for another day. Today, I grabbed my record player, which sat tucked away in its leather case, unused since I had moved into this house. I’d stolen the 1930s phonograph in New York and had lugged it around with me for ten years. Case tucked under my arm, I also nabbed my box of old records, records I had collected—stolen, popping out of the celestial realm in shops and human homes just long enough to take what I wanted and vanish—over the years.

Hands full, I barely managed to get ahold of my scythe, but when I did, I disappeared from my empty bedroom and materialized in the first-floor sunroom in the time it took to blink. Gunnar jumped this time, my sudden return probably more than a little jarring, and I shot him a grin as I set my scythe against the piano, then dumped the rest on its closed lid.

“I loved listening to the phonograph when I was alive,” I told him, popping open the case and lifting the needle. “We didn’t have the technology of today. Music wasn’t a given, you know? And I know you can listen to it on the laptop or the tablet, even the TV, but I just think there’s nothing like a record.” With the player set up, I thumbed through the box of vinyl, then plucked one of my favorites from the bunch. “The sound is just… better.”

Gunnar stood while I slid the disc out of its worn cover, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled around to the other side of the piano, as if to keep his distance. He watched me almost warily, like he didn’t trust the machine—or, more likely, me—but then I dropped the needle and out purred a young Bob Crosby and the Rhythm Boys, and I had him. The hellhound’s jaw went slack as a jazzy big band tune filled the room, so rich and pure, so extravagant, its sound unlike anything the music industry had to offer today.

Wanting to let him explore, to sate his curiosity without a reaper over his shoulder, I grabbed my scythe and drifted back. As soon as I left the piano, Gunnar darted around it, his head cocked as he watched the record spin.

“I need to get started on lunch,” I told him, not wanting to delay this afternoon’s retrieval training because of this—bonding over music. Gunnar ignored me, utterly transfixed on the record player, and I nodded. Right. Back to silence. But at least this wasn’t a purposeful silence. He hadn’t called me inconsequential. I headed for the door, already working through the recipe for today’s midday meal, when suddenly—

“Hazel.”

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