Stalking Reapers and Other Failed Dates: The Grimm Brotherhood, #2

By Kel Carpenter and Meg Anne

I found my brother's murderer, by becoming his next victim.

 

The asshat killed me, too. But little does he know—I came back. Again.

 

Now he's going down.

 

But before I can destroy him, I need to resolve the little issue of me not dying. That's twice now I've cheated death. Something's not right.

 

Graves doesn't think I'm a reaper, and the ghosts seem to agree with him. They say that I'm different. That I'm more.

 

All I know is that things are getting real weird in Farrow's Square.

 

Wish someone would have prepared me for stalking reapers and succubi sorority parties, but apparently that's too much to ask.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kel Carpenter
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201870270

Book preview

Oh-Shit Bar

Do you always drive like this? Not-Morticia complained from the backseat. No wonder you crashed the first time.

I rolled my eyes, choosing to ignore her while I tried to focus on Graves and what he was saying.

Are you even paying attention? he asked from the passenger seat of the Impala, clearly frustrated.

Yup. Totally paying attention, I said, not mentioning the ghost in the backseat who was being a pain in my ass.

Then what do you think?

I blinked. Think? About what?

Salem, he groaned. "I just went through it. We need to decide what we’re going to do about James. I think—"

I already told you. Baseball bat. That’s my thought on that subject, and I’m standing by it, I said, flipping on my turn signal. I may drive fast, but I wasn’t a completely reckless idiot. Usually.

Graves sighed. And I already told you that isn’t an option. We can’t just beat the shit out of him with a baseball bat.

Sure we can, I answered, pulling onto the off-ramp. We ride up to the house. He’ll be shocked we’re alive, like ‘whaaaa?,’ and then we beat him up. Easy.

Graves shook his head at me, subtly grabbing the oh-shit bar as I took the loop a little too fast. I smirked.

And then? he asked. Beating him up is nice and all, but it’s not a solution. We need to bring him before the Council.

I side-eyed him. Look how well that ended up for us last time. What do you think they’ll do when they realize I’m not a reaper even though ‘the blood doesn’t lie,’ I said, mimicking the weird witch lady.

I don’t know, he answered. But they can’t kill us because the blood rite can’t be undone. So whatever the punishment is . . .

See? I said, motioning with one hand. That right there is why we shouldn’t go to them. You assume we’re going to be punished for something neither of us can control. What kind of bullshit is that? I demanded.

Graves looked away, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

Shouldn’t you be looking at the road? Not-Morticia piped up from the back. She leaned forward, putting her head between Graves’ and mine. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of responding to the snipes from a twelve-year-old that probably died before cars were even a thing.

I can’t be the one to punish him, Salem, Graves said quietly. I know you don’t like the Council, and I’m not exactly their biggest fan right now either, but they exist for cases like this. These kinds of things are what they’re meant to handle.

Psychotic reapers who are high on power? I answered lightly, also pretending not to see his glare.

Bad supernaturals that put the whole community at risk.

I pulled into the decrepit parking lot outside the Bitter Bean. The lot was mostly empty, apart from the ghosts. I knew they weren’t living because they weren’t dressed for this century.

We can talk about this later. Right now we need to see what Darla knows, I said, stalling. From the look on Graves’ face, he knew it.

Fine, he breathed. I’ll drop it for now, but as soon as we’re done here, we need to finalize our plan. It’s not safe—

Blah blah blah, I said, cutting him off as I got out of the car. Why don’t you try loosening the hold on that stick in your ass just a little bit, Graves? All that stress can’t be good for your health. Or mine, I added as an afterthought, wondering if the blood rite would also pass along minor things like heartburn and indigestion. 

How are you not taking this more seriously? he asked, coming around his side of the car to join me.

Not-Morticia followed along beside us. He’s right, you know.

Fuck off, I growled, trying hard to ignore the dozen or so new ghosts that were also trailing along in our wake like we were leading some kind of macabre parade. 

Hey, Graves said, hearing my curse and thinking it was aimed at him.

I sighed as we reached the door to the coffee shop. I am taking this seriously, Graves. It’s not like I’m over here throwing a party and burying my head in the sand.

His fire-bright blue eyes scanned my face, lingering on my lips just long enough that I felt an answering pull in my stomach. Alright.

With him satisfied for the moment, we walked into the shop and up to the counter.

Hey, Clay, Darla in?

The barista’s face was as expressionless as always, his hair freshly buzzed and practically invisible against the shine of his scalp. It’s Thursday. Darla doesn’t work on Thursdays.

Oh. Shit. 

Graves and I exchanged a glance. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she did something as mundane as taking a day off.

Well, when will she be— I was stopped short by the appearance of a head through the black beaded curtain.

Sorry, I’m running a little late. Come on back.

The slight widening of Clay’s eyes was the only sign that he was startled by Darla’s appearance. Apparently, none of us really knew the woman that ran the occult shop in the back, although I couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated as we passed Clay. 

So, she began when we reached her counter, you needed to see me?

I crossed my arms and cocked my hip, debating for less than a heartbeat how I wanted to play this. Why didn’t you tell me? I asked, deciding to go on the offensive.

Tell you what?

That I was going to die . . . again.

Darla lifted a brow, her brown eyes shifting between Graves and me. Did you now?

Oh cut the shit, we all know you know way more than you’re saying.

She smiled, her entire face warm and almost proud as she assessed me. Fate is a tricky thing. Events must play out as planned to ensure a certain outcome. To interfere, she broke off and shrugged, it jeopardizes everything.

So you’re saying I had to die?

She nodded.

Why? Graves interjected.

For things to come to pass.

Are you talking about the Council? The blood rite? James? I was shooting off questions like they were accusations. 

Darla was completely unfazed. In a sense. She shrugged.

What does that mean? I asked in a hard voice.

It means exactly what I said. The future is like smoke. I can see the makings of what will happen, but it changes when the wind blows. Every decision you make adjusts the future. There are more possibilities than there are blades of grass.

I blinked, thinking about that as I leaned an arm against the counter.

But can’t you just say what happens so I can do the right thing?

Darla shook her head, exasperated with me. It doesn’t work that way. If I tell you what to do, that also changes the outcome.

I pressed my lips together. It was an awfully convenient excuse. Even if it did make sense.

Did you know James was the one that killed my brother? I asked. Her answer would determine how much we could really trust her.

No, she said, reaching down to grab a rag from below the counter and started wiping the faded surface down. I didn’t see that until your deaths. Even with the gift of sight, I can’t see everything.

I relaxed a little. While secretive and more than a little weird, at least she wasn’t just letting him run around killing people and doing nothing.

Salem isn’t a reaper, Graves said, redirecting the conversation once more.

No, she isn’t, Darla agreed.

But if you knew that, why didn’t you say anything? I asked, turning to put both hands on the counter.

You never asked, Darla pointed out. But even if you had, you weren’t ready to know. Had you known, the Council would also know now.

Tamsin’s mom, I said, understanding dawning on me. The compulsion.

Darla nodded. The compulsion. A slight grin played on her lips. Things happened as they needed to. You found the right path all on your own.

And if we hadn’t? I asked.

Darla shrugged. The world would continue on, I suppose. There are endless other ways this could have gone. Most of them recoverable.

I stared at her, my mouth slightly ajar. This whole future-seeing thing was getting a bit trippy for me. 

Okay, Graves said. But if she’s not a reaper, then what kind of supernatural is she?

Darla paused, her hand with the rag going still.

Her eyes lifted to regard me. There was weight there. Knowledge I didn’t yet know or understand. Truth that I knew without a doubt was going to change things.

She’s not a supernatural at all, Darla said. Salem is something else entirely.

Gretel the (Un)Friendly Ghost

Um . . . I struggled for words as the sound of a record screech echoed in my mind. What. The. Actual. Fuck. 

Graves managed to get his shit together before I did. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Darla rolled her eyes. What part of ‘not a supernatural’ did you not understand?

I grinned despite myself. It was exactly the kind of comeback I would use. I’m pretty sure Darla was my spirit animal. Ability to see the future notwithstanding. 

Graves grit his teeth, the vein in his neck pulsing wildly. If she’s not a supernatural, what is she?

Darla gave a lazy shrug. There’s not really a word for it. Seeing that Graves was about to lose it, she held up her hand and kept talking. She comes from a time before human things such as language existed. The words we have today, they cannot fully encapsulate all that she truly is. It would be like saying a shark is a whale. They both live in the water and have fins, but they are hardly the same.

I put a hand on Graves’ arm as I leaned closer to Darla. Okay, so am I the shark or the whale in this scenario?

Darla’s grin was a little scary as she replied, You, my dear, are the creature the shark fears.

I lifted both eyebrows. So I’m like a dolphin? A pod of dolphins? Well, there’s only one me, so that can’t be right—

Salem, Graves said on an exasperated breath.

Not the point, got it, I said, leaning back from the counter and putting on a serious face. What am I, Darla?

She placed a surprisingly rough hand on mine. You are one of Death’s Daughters.

I blinked at her as my brain tried to understand what that meant. Death? Like Hades, the guy in the underworld?

Darla moved her hand in a back and forth motion that I took to mean sort of. Hades is a personification of Death in Greek mythology. A character from a storybook. The real Death is of chaos, one of the five powers that created the worlds.

I’d never tried acid, but trying to follow Darla’s explanation made me feel like I was in the middle of one hell of a trip. Worlds, plural? I asked, enunciating the ‘s.’

She nodded. Death gifted each world with one of his daughters to oversee it. For as long as the world has spun, so too has there been a Daughter to watch over it.

Graves was shaking his head. That doesn’t make any sense.

It makes perfect sense, Darla countered. All creatures, human or otherwise, die. Someone must be in charge of the souls, helping claim them and either return them to their next life or send them to what lies beyond.

That sounds a lot like what reapers do, I said, not understanding the distinction she was trying to make.

Darla gave us a smug smile. Where do you think the reapers came from? She was responding to my question, but her answer was for Graves. I turned to him, wondering if he knew what she was talking about. 

His jaw was hard, his gaze distant, like he was trying to recall something he’d heard a long time ago. I don’t understand, he said finally, frustration leaking into his voice. Reapers were created to keep supernaturals in line. We were given our gifts from . . . He looked at me and then back to Darla.

Death, she said with a smile, finishing for him. You were told one of the many versions that have made it through history. Chances are none of them are completely true. Most of them have certain elements, though. Consistencies. In every story that tells how Grimm Reapers were made, it starts with the Black Plague.

The Black Plague? I repeated.

Darla nodded. The Plague was the largest case in history where supernaturals got out of control. It’s said that Death itself couldn’t stop them alone. For there was only one Death and many supernaturals. So Death created others to help itself. She looked at Graves then, nodding in his direction.

But . . . but I don’t even know how to process this. Death? That makes no sense. I can’t be Death, I’m only twenty-two, and I sure as hell didn’t create reapers. My eyebrows scrunched together as I tried and failed to comprehend what this even meant.

"Well, that’s the fun part. You did do that. Just not . . . this you."

I narrowed my eyes. What does that even mean?

You died, Darla said shortly.

I blinked.

We just explained that I died and came back. I’m confused. I can’t die. I glanced over at Graves and for once he was looking as lost as I was. Neither of us can.

Darla sighed. You can die. Sometimes. But you are always reborn—because you’re a Daughter of Death—though as far as this world is concerned, you are Death itself.

My head was doing a serious bender to try to get what she was saying but I was holding in there. Okay, let’s try a different question I might actually be able to understand the answer to. How do you know all of this?

Darla took a deep breath and walked out from the other end of the counter. She pulled out a book and flipped it open. From where I stood, I could tell it was a picture, but that was about it.

I know, she started, pausing to walk back over and extend the image in her hand toward me. Because you were here thirty years ago. Except your name wasn’t Salem Kaine back then. It was Jayme Morte. We were best friends.

I stared at the picture, my jaw falling open.

Two girls stood next to each other smiling at a camera. While the picture was grainy, it was unmistakably a younger version of Darla and me. I had my arm over her shoulder, and she had hers around my waist. I looked a little younger than I was now, and instead of pink, my hair was its natural shade of silver-gray that it’d been ever since I turned sixteen.

How? I asked, finding my voice, though the most I could bring myself to say was that single word.

"Normally, you can’t die. Sometimes, you can. I don’t understand all