Reaper's Blood (The Grimm Brotherhood Book 1)

by Kel Carpenter

  “For fuck’s sake,” Graves bemoaned, beating the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “How does telling me to lie to a doctor help me exactly?”

  “Because one of two things will happen,” Graves said. “You’ll either get one that doesn’t know anything and there’s a large chance they’ll think you’re certifiable when there are no signs of a concussion or other head injury. Or—and I want to be clear that this is not the better of the two options—you’ll get someone who knows something and suddenly the supernatural world is going to implode. Grimms aren’t exactly popular around here.”

  “Mhmm.” I swiped my tongue over my teeth. “So, let me get this straight, not only am I the weird dude from Scream, but in terms of the supernatural lottery, I just got the shit end of the stick. Lovely.”

  “Salem,” he started.

  “Graves,” I shot back in an equally exasperated tone and then sighed. “Much as I think you probably belong in the crazy house with me right now, there’s a small chance you might be right and not just trying to kidnap and rape or murder me. So . . .”

  I lifted both eyebrows.

  He shook his head. “You’re incorrigible, and you’re kind of a brat.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said, mockingly sweet as I put a hand to my chest. “You’re just a bushel of roses yourself, Stranger Danger.”

  “How is she his twin?” Graves asked himself under his breath.

  I grinned at him. “If you only knew how many times I’ve heard that before.” My smile faded a little at the reminder of my brother; of why I was home. “You’re probably right. Esme can’t see me like this. Even if I did manage to sneak into the pool house and shower, I still wouldn’t have anything to change into. Everything I brought with me went up in flames with the car.”

  Graves blinked at me. “I think replacing your wardrobe is the least of your worries. I’ll take you to my parents’ house. You can clean up there and borrow some of my clothes. We’ll figure out a game plan for what comes next while we’re there.”

  “Uh, Graves . . . don’t you think your parents might notice this?” I plucked at my blood-stained shirt.

  Graves’ eyes dropped to my chest, following my hand gesture, and he looked away, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “They’re out of town, and my brother lives at the frat house. There won’t be anyone there to see you.”

  “Or to hear me scream,” I muttered.

  “How many times do I have to tell you—”

  “Relax, killer. I’m just teasing you. But I’m telling you right now, you don’t get to be little spoon.”

  “Salem,” he said in annoyance.

  I snickered. Getting Graves riled up was turning into my second favorite method of avoidance. As long as I was distracting myself with torturing him, the less time my brain had to think about the other, scarier things going on. Like the fact that I died. And came back. And that I was apparently some kind of Halloween freak show. Or that my brother was dead and I was here to find his murderer.

  I closed my eyes and tipped my head back, wincing when I realized I was probably smearing blood into his upholstery. Fuck it. If I had to buy a new car, he could deal with getting his car detailed.

  Graves and I fell into silence as he continued driving through town. My eyes flickered over the houses, watching old plantation homes give way to McMansions. Soon the houses were fewer, and more gates and twisting drives appeared.

  Another ten minutes passed as he drove. Finally, he was turning up a well-lit drive, pausing only long enough to hit a button on his visor that sent a massive gate rolling open.

  I leaned forward, curious despite myself about what his house would look like. I let out a low whistle as the sprawling mansion came into view.

  “Cut the shit,” he said. “We both know your place is twice this size.”

  “True,” I said, “but size isn’t everything. We both know it’s what you do with it that matters.” I glanced at him and waggled my eyebrows, emphasizing the double meaning in my words.

  Graves groaned, cutting the engine and swinging his door open. “You are ridiculous. Come on. Let’s get inside and get you cleaned up.”

  4

  Whitewashed

  I wrinkled my nose at the pair of cloth slippers he dangled in front of me.

  “Please don’t ask. Just wear these until we can get you to a shower,” he mumbled. I lifted both hands in surrender.

  “Dude, I get it. I’m gross and you don’t want to track it through the house. The part I’m judging is why you’re wearing them too.” I pointedly looked down at his cloth-covered shoes.

  Graves sighed. “Because my mom is OCD,” he said. “If we still had a housekeeper it wouldn’t matter, but she doesn’t like the way they clean. So, if either of us track shit in the house, and I clean it, she’ll know.” He lowered his head like the admission embarrassed him. Oddly enough, I found it more relatable than he realized and put the ugly ass painter’s slippers on without giving him more grief.

  He was really uncomfortable about it. At least he didn’t have a really strange aunt with the weirdest quirks.

  My aunt took the cake from them all.

  Literally. One birthday she stole Shepard’s and my cake to see how well it would work if she stuck exploding fireworks in it.

  Needless to say, not well. Unless you considered wearing your cake a good thing.

  Graves opened the garage door leading into the house, and I followed. Perfectly white carpet led down a white-walled hallway, to—you guessed it—a whitewashed living room.

  “I’m noticing a theme here,” I muttered as we stepped past the pristine plastic-covered furniture. I side-eyed it like the couches were at fault for their current unpleasant state.

  “Yeah,” he said, completely unenthused as he led me across the house and up the stairs. “My mom likes things white. So she can see the dirt if it’s there.” His hand grasped the doorknob in front of us, and he let the door swing open.

  I braced myself, somehow still expecting it to be a pigsty. I mean, I have been in college for the past four years. I’ve had boyfriends. I had a brother. Guys were disgusting.

  But, Graves was the exception.

  While the carpet was the same unblemished white as the rest of the house, his furniture was black and the bed comforter and drapes both gray. I stepped inside and took a whiff. Something subtle and masculine pervaded the air. I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes, standing there, hand scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

  “You don’t do this often, do you?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Truth be told, I’m at the Gamma Rho house most of the time. It was dumb luck on your part I happened to be in the woods tonight.”

  “Dumb luck?” I repeated, crossing my arms over my chest. “Do I need to repeat the night I’ve had for you to understand that nothing about this is lucky for me?”

  “You know what,” Graves said, moving to one of the two doors in his room as the light flicked on when he entered. He came out holding two fluffy black towels. “You’re right,” he said, handing them over. “Bathroom is right there. Why don’t you go knock yourself out? I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.”

  I could see right through his ruse and instinctively knew he just wanted away from me for the time being. The feeling was mutual, though, and at the mention of the kitchen, I was even more motivated in getting clean so I could join him and hopefully find the snack cupboard.

  Daydreaming about those Hostess cupcakes I stepped on, I moved into the bathroom and closed the door behind me with a nudge of my cloth-covered foot.

  Setting the plush towels down on a white marble counter, I finally got a look at myself. “Sweet baby Jesus,” I breathed, jerking back from my reflection. I’d thought I knew how bad it was because I’d seen myself splayed out in the woods, but I hadn’t. Not really.

  My hair was plastered to the side of my head, looking like a wei
rd rusty pink helmet. The pieces that weren’t matted together with blood and dirt were standing up in every possible direction, likely thanks to the wind. Dried blood and dirt crusted almost every visible inch of my skin, which only made my blue eyes look inhumanly bright as they stared back at me.

  “Yeesh.”

  Turning away from myself, I stared at Graves’ shower, trying to figure out how to turn it on. It was massive. Big enough for three Graves-sized dudes, with multiple showerheads on each wall, and one rain-style showerhead centered in the ceiling. I peeled off my clothes, wincing when they took my arm hair with them, and moved into shower. I ran my hand along the wall until I felt the switch and turned the water on.

  As I suspected, it was the perfect temperature. Neat trick.

  Steam quickly filled the room as I stood under the hot spray, trying not to notice how the water immediately turned red. Knowing the only thing that was going to deal with these tangles was conditioner, I searched for a bottle. There weren’t any.

  Instead, there was an oddly-shaped box set into one of the walls with three silver buttons along the bottom. I’d seen something like this in a hotel once, so I was pretty certain the soap, shampoo, and conditioner were contained within. The only problem was it wasn’t clearly labeled, so I had to test each one before I found what I was looking for.

  Clean now, and smelling like Graves, I turned off the shower and wrapped myself in the towels. A quick scan of his room showed me he’d forgotten to leave out anything for me to wear, which meant it was time to snoop.

  I didn’t see a dresser, so I went back to his closet. Pulling the door open, I let out a soft chuckle. Graves’ mom wasn’t the only one with OCD. His closet was arranged by size and sorted by color. Not that it was hard, considering ninety percent of it was black. The other ten was denim. I made a mental note to buy him something bright. Maybe neon pink. Just to see his reaction.

  Shaking my head, I wandered into the walk-in, noticing the drawers along the back. I was tempted to pull on a pair of his black silk boxers, but resisted, settling instead for a black T-shirt and a pair of black sweats that I rolled up about seven times.

  Finger-combing my hair, I found my cloth booties and left his room, following the sounds of clicking to the kitchen. The inside of Graves’ home felt just as massive as the Shroud mansion I was supposed to be returning to tonight. My stomach twisted into knots as I thought of that, of the accident, of why I was home. Four years ago, I left it all behind: my name, my legacy, and especially my family—because my idiot brother was making the dumbest decision of his life and I refused to wait around until that decision killed him. Now it had. I was home. I wasn’t just a Kaine anymore. I was a Shroud again. The thought unsettled me.

  I walked up to the island in the center of the kitchen and took a seat on one of the barstools.

  “Whatcha making?” I asked, peering over at his cutting board. Bright vegetables and leafy greens were cut and diced perfectly. He scooped it up in two handfuls and tossed it in the frying pan. It hit with a sizzle, and my stomach grumbled. On another burner, a pot of noodles was boiling.

  “Spaghetti,” he answered shortly, pushing the vegetables around the skillet.

  “Right . . .” I drawled out. This was getting awkward fast. “Look, I’m sorry for kind of being a little bitchy tonight . . .”

  “Just a little?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  I glared at him. “It’s been a long night,” I answered stiffly.

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “I’ve gathered that. It’s just”—he paused, breaking the plastic on a pound of beef before dumping that in with the vegetables too—“it’s been a long night,” he settled on, repeating after me. “Have you told your aunt you’re not coming home yet?”

  “Shit,” I cursed under my breath, pulling my phone from the baggy sweatpants. I typed out a quick text:

  Staying at a friend’s tonight. Be home in the morning. Love you. - Sal

  “Annnnd done,” I said, hitting send. Speaking of friends, I should probably reach out to Tamsin sometime soon too. That was a problem for tomorrow.

  Tonight, I was busy having an early-twenties life and species crisis. I was allowed to avoid people. At least for a little while.

  “You’re going to have to tell her something, you know. I don’t mind if you want to stay here tonight, but your car is totaled and you don’t have any clothes, outside of mine.” His eyes lifted briefly, scanning over me. I probably looked like a drowned rat, but that was better than a dead person. Something flared in his eyes, but I didn’t get a chance to read it before it was gone and he was looking back at the frying pan.

  “Yeah, I was thinking that maybe if you dropped me at my friend Tamsin’s in the morning, she might be able to help me out with the clothes situation until I can order more. As for the car, I have to figure that out. I mean, we left it there. I don’t want to lie to Esme, but if she sees it she’s going to know why I didn’t come home tonight and that I’m a liar.” I twisted my hands in my lap, not liking that scenario. It was one thing to omit small parts of the truth for everyone’s best interest. It was another thing to try to cover up a car accident that killed me.

  “I’ll take care of getting your car out of the woods. Leave that to me. Right now we need to figure out what kind of supernatural you actually are. Like I said, I think you’re a female Grimm, as impossible as that is.” He lifted the frying pan and did that thing where he flipped the food in the air and somehow it all stayed in the pan. Show-off.

  Because I was a girl that loved through my stomach, seeing him in the kitchen cooking for me was oddly attractive. That could be because he was also hot. Like stupidly hot. Sitting here, clean and safe, it was impossible to ignore.

  “Stranger Danger,” I muttered under my breath, reminding myself not to go there. I was here because I died, and he wanted to help. That was it.

  “What was that?” he asked, stirring something that was making my mouth water.

  “Nothing. I was just going to ask how you planned to figure me out.”

  He shot me a questioning look.

  “Figure out what kind of monster I am, I mean. Like is there some sort of test or . . .” I trailed off, completely out of my element.

  Graves’ attention was divided as he watched the food and answered my question. “Every supe has a trigger.”

  “A trigger?”

  “Yeah, it’s what unleashes their inner monster, so to speak. Vamps turn the first time they drink human blood, werewolves turn during the first full moon after they’re bit, unless they’re purebloods, but you get the idea.”

  “And Grimms turn when they die?” I guessed.

  “When they die by supernatural means.”

  My face scrunched up in confusion. “What’s supernatural about a car accident?”

  Graves shrugged, taking something off of the stove and setting it on the counter beside him. “What caused it, maybe? Hard to say. But we can’t really argue the fact that you died and came back, and the only supernaturals triggered by death are Grimms. So we’re just going to have to take a leap of faith here.”

  I clasped my hands in front of me, leaning forward. “Alright, fine. I’m a Grimm. What does that mean? Am I supposed to feel any different?”

  Graves’ back was to me now, and I was a little distracted by the play of muscles beneath his shirt. “For reapers, it’s a little different. We grow into our powers. It’s not an all or nothing thing. Sort of like death kicked off the change, and now every cell inside you is evolving. Think of it like supernatural puberty.”

  “Great,” I lamented. “As if this wasn’t already enough of a party, let’s throw in some acne and raging hormones.”

  Graves’ shoulders moved with laughter. “No, it’s not like that. More like you’re going to notice that you can see better in the dark. You’ll move faster; have more stamina. Those kinds of things, but it will build over time. You’ll also notice that when you meet a supe, you’re going to know what k
ind they are because you’ll be able to see their soul.”

  “Wait . . . what?” I stammered. “You can see my soul? Shouldn’t you be able to tell what I am then?”

  “Well, I mean, everyone in a Grimm line looks the same. So there’s no change there, unfortunately.” Graves turned to face me again, leaning back against the counter. “Maybe it helps if you understand why reapers exist in the first place. Our abilities are all an extension of that.”

  “Are you telling me supernaturals have some sort of divine purpose?”

  The side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. “Just Grimms.”

  “That’s a hellofa pick-up line, Graves. Does it work on all the ladies? ‘Hey baby, I’m a reaper and I was sent here by god’,” I mimicked in an obnoxiously low tone.

  Graves shook his head. “First of all, being a reaper is hardly a pick-up line. I already told you the supes hate us. Telling a girl isn’t exactly going to get me into anyone’s pants. If anything, it’s harder because I’m a Grimm. Supes don’t like us, and normal girls can’t really handle super-strength the greatest . . . anyways, no one who isn’t a supe is allowed to know what we are.”

  The thought of Graves and banging and super-strength had my mind going interesting places.

  “Do all reapers have super-strength?”

  “Yeah, all supes in general do. Some more than others. Grimms in general have the most strength, one of the fastest speeds, and better reflexes than the others.” That seemed like quite the draw.

  “Why are Grimms the special snowflakes?”

  “We exist to keep the others in line.”

  “Like the police?” I asked.

  “Pretty much,” he answered, opening a can of tomato sauce and dumping it in. “It’s a thankless job, but someone has to do it.”

  “Uh huh,” I said. “You do know I’m not great with rules, right? Enforcing them? Probably not the greatest idea anyone’s ever had.” I tapped my nails on the counter and leaned forward, inhaling the aroma as the sauce began to boil. He flipped the burner off and stirred the veggies with a spoon.