Reaper by Katrina Monroe

his
fingers through the sparse grass. “It’s supposed to be more
comfortable for you, having your arms like that. Years ago I
would’ve said it was silly. The dead can’t feel. But now...”
    He ripped a blade of grass from the ground,
folded it and put it to his lips. He couldn’t get it to make a
sound.
    “I can hear you laughing.” Oz smiled.
“Jamie’s a good kid. You did good, Mark.” Eyes burning, Oz pushed a
handful of dirt into the grave. “Sleep tight,” he said.
    * * *
    Bard ambled down the alleyway, conscious of
every shadow, every flicker of light. He hated to see Cora hurt,
but what could he do? Feelings and shit made life messy. Cora
should know better. She always rooted for the underdog, and it
never ended well for her. And Oz—if the moron could just stop his
judgments for five seconds, he’d see how shit rolled, but no, Oz
the Great and Powerful knew it all.
    This was turning worse every second. The newb
couldn’t wipe his own ass properly. Bard figured he’d be
babysitting the dipshit for a long time, maybe forever. They
probably knew it too. Set him up for failure. He always thought
it’d come to this; his inevitable downfall.
    “Still feeling sorry for yourself,
William?”
    Bard stopped. The voice came from the
darkness behind him, but he didn’t turn. He never saw it, whatever
it was. It had no form that he knew of, lurking in the peripheral
of his vision, almost there but not.
    “My name is Bard.”
    A soft chuckle.
    Laugh it up motherfucker.
    “Why do you insist on the same foolishness
every time we meet? You have a name, which has a destiny attached
to it. Changing the name does not change your fate.”
    “Never said it would. My name’s still
Bard.”
    “William—”
    “I said my name’s Bard, asshole. I don’t
answer to anything else.” Bard started walking.
    “You forget who you’re dealing with,
William.” The hairs on Bard’s neck stood on end and he stopped once
more as the voice whispered directly into his ear. “I am not one of
your lackeys. You do not order me about. Are we clear?”
    Bard took a breath. “Crystal. What the fuck
do you want?”
    A cool breeze fluttered around his face, and
his ass unclenched. It’d moved back to its hiding place in the
shadows.
    “You’re doing a piss-poor job of things with
your new recruit.” It sounded calm, conversational almost, but Bard
heard the edge to its words.
    “You didn’t give me a whole lot to work with.
What am I supposed to do? He ain’t reaper material. Take him back
to The Department where he can’t fuck shit up.” Bard felt like an
asshole betraying Oz, but if the fool didn’t go, the lot of them
were in danger. He couldn’t say how he knew it. He just did.
    “It is not the pupil who is to blame for poor
teaching,” it whispered.
    Bard always imagined it to be male, but it
sounded neither male, nor female. It just entered the brain and
spoke without real sound. He hated that. Give him something he
could beat down, or at least spit on.
    “So, am I fired?” Bard asked.
    “Fired? Goodness, no. You will teach him, or
you will both be dealt with. I’m sure they miss your skills at The
Department. Few scribes can spin a tragedy quite like you can,
William. Ironic, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t follow,” Bard lied.
    “You spent your human life weaving tragedy
after tragedy. People loved you for it. Revere you even to this day
for your words and your comedic little dramas. Yet now, you’re the
tragedy. Now do you follow?”
    “Yeah, you’re fucking hilarious. We done
here?”
    The air changed, growing thicker, heavier,
and Bard knew it stood behind him, whatever it was. “Not even
close. The woman...”
    “Lot of women up here, sir. You’ll have to be
more specific.” Bard’s gut tightened. No.
    “You know which woman I speak of. She is
still... alive? Why is that?”
    “You tell me. You’re all about the destiny
and fate and shit.”
    “She must die.”
    “I’m a reaper, not