Page 88 of The Reluctant Reaper
“And that’s it.” Amara looked around the silent room. “Uh, that’s the mend of my story. End.Endof the gory. Story!”Argh! Stupid aphasia.
“See?” Skye jabbed a finger at the others, who were staring at her with expressions ranging from surprise to horror. “She’s getting a migraine right now! Justtalkingabout all this—this bullshit nonsense is making her sick. It’s why she’s wearing those stupid sunglasses.”
“They’re not stupid,” Gray said. “They’re Celine’s. Never diss Death LiteorCeline’s sunglasses line.”
Skye wouldn’t be moved. “This sickly child? Taking Death’s mantle?”
“I’m pushing thirty, Skye.”
Skye ignored reality (again). “It’s an absurd joke. And you all know it. You’re just too fond of Hilly—or too frightened—to do anything.”
“You know quite well why we aren’t able to ‘do anything,’” Arawn said, studying his red, red hands. When he looked up, his visage was as grim as Amara had ever seen. “I’m beginning to see Death’s point.”
“Don’t you call her that!”
“You really aren’t paying attention, and you have perverted your role in life’s eternal cycle.”
“They aren’t migraines,” Amara said. “The symptoms were real, as was the pain, but it was a misdiagnosis. Not that it’s relevant. And I’ll tell you what, Skye. You did help me in your way. I had bad days you made a bit better. In service to yourself, mostly, but I don’t forget it.”
“So, what?” Skye said scornfully. “Bygones will be bygones?”
“Yes. I’ll let it all go—I’ve already letyougo—if you leave now. Get lost, stay lost. Know that you’re never to return to my lands. Understand that you are banished forever. And this can be over.”
“Everything here is mine,” Skye said, because she was a delusional, deceitful twat.
“The only thing that’s yours is your life. I’d prefer not to take it, but that’s up to you. Everything you’ve done has been up to you. All your wounds are self-inflicted.”
“Such nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense,” her father said from the bed. “It’s just tedious. And why’s it so goddamned hot in here?”
ChapterForty-Four
The uproar was beyond satisfying.
ChapterForty-Five
Death was a mess. Withered and gaunt, his hair more white than red, barely able to lift his head from the pillow. Scáthach cringed away regardless.
“Husband,” Hilly breathed, taking his hand. Then: “You old fool. How long have you been back with us?”
“I’m not.” He grinned up at his wife, baring sharp yellow teeth. “Not really. Amara can explain. You look like hells, woman. Dammit!”
“Keep that up, you’ll get another pinch.”
“Wow.Wow,” Gray said, goggling. “I thought you got us all in here for dramatic effect, not because your dad was going to be the surprise speaker.”
“Both of those can be true.”
“It isn’t fair.” Skye had gone from too-pale to too-red in about a second and a half. “Your time is done, old man.”
“Not your call, Scáthach.” To Amara: “It’s a trade, yes? A good one. That’s all right, hon. I’m tired.”
“I’mstandingrighthere,” Skye snapped.
“It doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. Don’t you understand?” Amara asked, contempt warring with pity. “You tried and you lost. Nothing will change that.” To Death: “This is what I’ve been putting up with.”
“What, Death, you think you can just open your eyes?—”
