Don't Fear the (Not Really Grim) Reaper

by Carole Cummings

  Morose—and teeth now glued together—he shoots a look at the fridge. The door obediently opens, and the milk comes floating out.

  Lisa raises her eyebrows as the carton heads toward her. “Your control has improved.”

  It has. Not only from the practice he’s been getting with his street act, but his superpowers seem to have decided overnight that they’re way more biddable than they thought they were. If he’d tried this trick two weeks ago, he’d have been liable to get a carton of juice dumped over his head while the milk sat stubbornly on its shelf.

  More things he doesn’t want to talk about, so he asks, “So why are you home instead of out getting arrested with the rest of your class?”

  Lisa shrugs as she twists to grab two glasses from the cabinet behind her and set them on the counter. The milk starts pouring itself.

  “’S not like I actually like those people.”

  Which means she hasn’t yet gotten over the embarrassment of the last time she’d been drinking and ended up calling Emery at ass-o-clock in the morning to use his superpowers to figure out where she was when she’d managed to wander off from the rest of her group and gotten lost. He’d found her in someone’s barn, cuddling with the cows and muttering “puppy!” over and over.

  Lisa doesn’t hold her drink well. Also, she really wants a dog.

  The milk politely pours them each a glass before it retreats back into the fridge. Emery hadn’t even had to think about opening the door for it this time. One of the glasses floats docilely across to Emery and sets itself on the table. He almost feels like he should pet it and tell it “Good boy!”

  “Who cares, anyway?” Lisa leans into the cabinet at her back and pulls her legs up to sit tailor-fashion. Their mother would smack her with a spatula if she were home. “How’d you get here? You’re not supposed to be home until summer break.”

  Emery slurps at his milk to get the peanut butter off the roof of his mouth. “I took a bus.”

  Actually, he’d taken four different buses, in four different directions, changing at random depots and hoping to throw anyone who might be looking for him off whatever trail he might be leaving, and then transported here from the last one. He has no idea if it might actually work, but it’s as James Bond as he gets.

  Although, come to think of it, Emery doesn’t think James Bond ever tried hiding out at his mother’s house. He finishes the sandwich and gulps the milk. James Bond’s sister probably never made him peanut butter sandwiches or beat up bullies for him either.

  Lisa frowns. “What’s going on, Em? You look like someone rolled you in an alley.”

  “Someone kinda did.”

  If by “someone” she means “Angel of Death,” and if by “rolled” she means “killed. Again.” But she probably doesn’t.

  “What d’you mean kinda?” Lisa sits up straight. “Em, did you get mugged?”

  “No. Yes? I… well, I guess you could….” Emery shakes his head then rubs at his face. “Oh God, Lisa, I don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t get mugged, I got—”

  He can’t do it. He can’t say it out loud.

  “All right.” Lisa sighs, put-upon, and slides down from the countertop. She sits in the chair across from Emery and leans in. “Start at the beginning.”

  Somehow, Emery does. There’s a lot of stopping and starting. There’s a lot of babbling. There’s some going off on tangents—

  Jesus, Lisa, you should have seen this guy. I’m talking Alfred Enoch levels of hot.

  ….Who the hell is Alfred Enoch?

  He was Dean Thomas in, like—all the Harry Potter movies. Duh, Lisa. How do you not know that?

  Not every guy in Harry Potter is hot, Em.

  Lies and slander.

  —but mostly there’s a fairly circuitous but nonetheless clear exposition of the last several days of Emery’s life. And deaths. But whatever.

  By the time he’s done, Lisa has finished half the jar of peanut butter, and Emery is calm enough that the slapdash sandwich isn’t roiling away in his belly. In fact, it seems to have piqued his appetite. He doesn’t remember eating much in the past few days. But since he spent good portions of them being not-alive, he supposes it only makes a macabre kind of sense.

  When he’s finished, Lisa just stares at him for a while before she says, “So you were actually dead? You didn’t just think you were?”

  “What part of ‘woke up on a slab in the morgue’ implies I was imagining it?”

  Lisa sits back with a frown, stabbing the spoon into the peanut butter over and over again, thoughtful. “Was that bag lady there both times?”

  Emery has to think about it, but he eventually shakes his head. “I don’t think so? I mean, she was pretty free with the rambling and unnecessary information the other morning. I’m assuming if she saw the time with the bus, she would’ve mentioned it.” He slumps back with a heavy sigh. “Anyway, it wouldn’t have been her. It was Hot Angel-guy. I felt something when he touched me. My superpowers kinds of… surged.” He looks away from Lisa and sucks in a long breath before he admits, “I think he’s the Angel of Death. And maybe it was my time, and when the bus didn’t work, he went with the fire escape. And if he finds out that didn’t work either, he’s just going to keep killing me until I stay dead.”

  “So you ran away from school.”

  “I didn’t run away. It was a strategic retreat.”

  “To the place you’ve lived all your life. To the place anyone could find you with a Google search.”

  “Well, what was I supposed to do? Helen showed up at my dorm last night, and the only reason she didn’t find me was because my roommate is so stoned all the time, I don’t think he even knows I live there.” Emery swears he’s gotten a secondhand contact high more than once just by touching the weed-smoke residue on various things in the room. “I only had time to grab my bag and transport away without her seeing me because he thought she was the pizza guy, and he kept asking if she remembered the bacon this time.”

  Lisa scowls. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be doing that transport thing? Didn’t Mom say—?”

  “Not the point, Lisa!”

  “It will be if Mom finds out.” Lisa rolls her eyes. She huffs, then sticks the spoon in the peanut butter and sets it aside. “Whatever, okay, you’re right. The important thing is you’re here and you’re safe now. But you’re going to be too easy to find if—”

  There’s a knock at the front door. Lisa and Emery both freeze. They stare, wide-eyed, then look toward the door. This time, the doorbell goes off.

  “It could be anyone.” Lisa gets up and sets a hand to Emery’s shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll go see.”

  It makes sense for about thirty seconds, long enough for Lisa to make her way to the front door and for Emery to hear the knob turn. And then his stomach drops, and he lurches up hard enough to send the chair skittering across the linoleum.

  “Wait!” Emery reaches out with his superpowers and seals all the doors and windows shut as he runs to the front door. He shoves Lisa away from it.

  “Ow, Em, what the hell are you—”

  “You can’t open it.” The sprint wasn’t exactly a long one, but Emery’s panting, and his heart is hammering against his breastbone. “If it’s him, and he touches you….” He plasters himself between Lisa and the door. “I don’t even know if I’ll wake up again, Lisa. What if he touches you?”

  Another knock vibrates the door at his back. Emery nearly has a heart attack.

  Lisa tries to push Emery aside. “Like I’d let some strange guy touch me. Em, move! I’m just trying to get a look.”

  Emery inches a bit to the side so Lisa can peer around the curtain on the little window to the side of the door. She frowns, mouth pressed tight.

  “Well, there are no wings, but holy shit, you weren’t kidding about the hotness.” She tilts her head. “I guess he does look kind of like… uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh? What uh-oh? What’s he—?”

  Lisa dra
ws back quickly and takes a step away. “Dad’s home.”

  Crap!

  There’s no choice now. There’s less than a minute before their dad gets out of his car and makes his way up the walk to where the Angel of freaking Death is currently cooling his heels.

  Emery grabs hold of Lisa, ignoring the fact that she’s officially taller than him now, and gives her a forceful look.

  “Okay. If… if he….” Emery shakes his head. “Just tell Mom and Dad not to panic and to put me somewhere… uh… inconspicuous. If I’m going to come back, it’ll be a few hours, but wait for… I don’t know. A while. To make sure. Okay?”

  Lisa rolls her eyes. “Em, I’m not about to let this guy—”

  “Yeah, that’s why I have to do this.”

  Emery gives his sister a weak little smile as he lets his superpowers curl gently around her. It takes Lisa a second to realize what he’s done, but when she does, when she tries to move and can’t, her gaze goes murderous.

  “You sneaky little—”

  She shuts up when Emery lifts her without touching her and places her safely away from the door. She doesn’t stop glaring, though. “Em, I swear to God, if you—”

  “I just have to keep him away from Dad, and then I’ll let you go.” Quickly Emery drops a kiss to Lisa’s forehead as he unseals the door so he can open it. “You can’t beat up all my bullies,” he tells her and lets the door swing open fast enough to startle—yep, definitely—Angel-guy, though sans wings this time, or… no, Emery can see the ghosts of them at Angel-guy’s back, like he’s deliberately trying to hide them.

  Emery’s father is halfway up the walk, already smiling when he sees Emery—“Emmie! What are you doing home? What a nice surprise!”—and putting out his hand toward Angel-guy. “Hi, are you a friend of—”

  “No, Dad, don’t!” Emery shouts, flinging himself between his father and Angel-guy.

  Angel-guy puts up his hands and says, “Wait, wait!” as Emery shoves at him with all his might. It barely moves the guy, but when Emery’s hands make contact with Angel-guy’s chest, Emery’s superpowers surge.

  Angel-guy says, “Damn it!” and Emery’s dad says, “Emmie, what—look out!” and Emery says, “Not enough vodka in the world,” just as the chimney shakes loose and great chunks of brick slide down the slant of the roof and land on Emery’s head.

  EVERY TIME Emery touches him, John remembers a little more. Which is probably rather beside the point, since every time Emery touches John, Emery dies. But still. Emery touches John, something kind of explodes between them, and abruptly, memories pop up in John’s head like bright little mushrooms.

  He ignores the fact that he’s just mentally compared the workings of his brain to fungus and focuses on the man who must be Emery’s father. The man who’s currently glaring murder at John and being held back by Emery’s sister.

  One of the more inconvenient things John remembers right now is the thing about making a good impression on the parents of the guy you think you might kinda like. He doesn’t think this is the way to do it.

  “You can’t kill the Angel of Death, Dad,” says Lisa.

  “Watch me.”

  Lisa Sutton, sister. David Sutton, father. John knows this because he’d known where to look this time. He’d known how to look.

  He really is getting better at this Reaper thing. He’d even thought to throw a don’t notice me up around the house when the bricks started falling.

  “I’m not actually the Angel of Death,” John puts in, trying not to sound too petulant about it. “I’m a Reaper.”

  Well, Junior Reaper, but these people don’t need to know that.

  Lisa and David both stare, Lisa with a Are you still talking? scowl, and David with something that looks like it might be Are you fucking kidding me? but could very well be a simple Die, die, die!

  “Are you an angel?” Lisa snaps.

  John frowns. “Yes?”

  “And do you make people die?”

  This time John rolls his eyes. “I’m a Reaper.” Because he’s not the one being slow here.

  “Are we seriously arguing semantics?” David demands.

  “Em will wake up in a few hours,” Lisa says, though she’s glaring at John when she says it, and then adds, “Won’t he?” eyeing John with a look that says very clearly he’d better say yes.

  John nods and puts out his hands, calming, but he’s careful not to get too near either one of them. He doesn’t think he’ll have the same problems he does with Emery, but he doesn’t want to take a chance. Administrator Dagmar would be unhappy. Emery would probably be… a lot more unhappy.

  “I don’t think Emery can actually die,” John tells David.

  Which isn’t entirely true. Emery can die. He just doesn’t stay that way. John doesn’t think clearing up the difference is the way to go right now.

  John had taken care of removing Emery from beneath the bricks and, under the rather hostile direction of Lisa, putting him in his bedroom. And because there is no reasoning with a parent who thinks they’ve just seen their son thumped by a chimney in front of them, John had first been moved to set David to sleep out in the yard until it was done. Which had moved Lisa to start chunking bricks at John when she thought John had killed David. To be fair, John hadn’t thought to warn her. And he is a Reaper after all. It’s kind of what they do.

  “It’s already happened twice,” Lisa puts in, still gripping her father tight and keeping herself between him and John. “And he woke up both times, Dad.”

  “It’s true.” John tries to make his expression earnest and his tone soothing. “I didn’t even bother to look for him in Transition this time, since I knew he wouldn’t be there.”

  Lisa and David stare some more. John doesn’t even want to interpret their looks this time. Neither one of them look friendly.

  John shifts uncomfortably and looks around the living room to which they’d all adjourned once David woke up. And to which they’d readjourned after John had tried to explain what happened, and once David had gotten done chasing John around the kitchen with the fireplace poker.

  There are family pictures dotting the walls and surfaces, Emery and Lisa in various stages of childhood. John is rather in love with the one of a blue-eyed grinning toddler Emery wearing a bowl of spaghetti like a hat. John smiles, charmed, and his gaze once again collides with Lisa’s and David’s. They’re both still staring. David is frowning now, bemused.

  Lisa just says, “Man, Emery sure can pick ’em,” then shakes her head and sighs at her father. “Sit down, Dad.” She gives him a little shove toward the fat-cushioned chair, then nods John toward the couch. “You too. Maybe we can figure out what’s going on before Em wakes up.”

  The way she says it, like it’s a certainty, seems to calm David. He slides into the chair, though he sits straight-backed and still eyeing John warily.

  John sits too, a little happier about it when he sees Lisa surreptitiously nudge the poker beneath the coffee table with her toes before she positions herself behind her father’s chair with a hand on his shoulder. John doesn’t know if it’s for comfort or restraint, but he figures either could be a potential win.

  “You’d probably better tell us what’s going on,” Lisa tells John, a scary bit of a glint in her eye. “And you’d better do it before my mom gets home.”

  John gulps. Another bit of inconvenient memory: a mom won’t generally take to the potential suitor of her son when said potential suitor has accidentally caused a chimney to fall on top of said son.

  John starts talking.

  THERE’S NO confusion when Emery wakes this time. Well, there’s confusion, but there’s no confusion. He knows what happened, he knows what’s happening now, and he knows where he is. What he doesn’t know is why everything’s so loud.

  There’s enough ruckus coming from downstairs to wake the dead—ha ha ha, not funny—and he can distinguish most of the voices—

  “Well, he’s ours now, so you’re all just
going to have to deal.”

  —except that one. Mostly because he refuses to believe Crazy Helen is in his mother’s living room arguing with his entire family and a hot angel.

  “I… beg your pardon,” Emery’s mother says slowly, and holy crap, the woman can pack enough “excuse me while I dismember then kill you” into her tone of voice to terrify God Himself.

  Emery launches off the bed and out of his room. He’s halfway down the stairs when he sees Angel-guy step between Helen and Emery’s mother, a hand on—

  “Hey!” Emery shrieks shouts manfully and lets loose his superpowers, shoving everyone away from each other as he leaps down the rest of the steps and skids to a stop in the middle of the living room.

  Emery’s dad slumps in obvious relief and wheezes, “Oh thank God.”

  “Told you,” says Lisa, smug out of all proportion for someone who’s still in her pajamas.

  Emery wants to give his dad a hug—he looks ten years older than he did this afternoon—but it’ll have to wait. Emery stares at Angel-guy.

  “Did you just…?” He almost can’t say it. “Did you just touch my mother?”

  “Oh, um.” Angel-guy hides his hands behind his back like a guilty toddler. “No, no.” His mouth flaps. “I mean, well… yes? But not like that!”

  There’s a ball of crackling energy in Emery’s fist he doesn’t remember willing there. He whips around to look at his mother—still in her hospital scrubs and looking at Emery like he’s lost his mind—and then around the room for any sharp or blunt objects that look like they might be thinking of flying at her.

  Or him, now that he thinks about it. He’s learned the hard way that pretty much anything can be lethal if it tries hard enough. There must be something in the room from which he can die yet again in an even more embarrassing fashion. Smothered by a throw pillow? Broken neck via carpet snag? Maybe a teacup he can drown in?

  “Emery, it’s fine,” says his mother.

  Emery shakes his head, because she doesn’t know, and oh God, the fireplace poker is lying right there, its blunt tip jutting out from beneath the coffee table. Emery stomps a foot down on it in case it gets any ideas.