Touch If You Dare (37 page)

“She would have taken him if you’d left.”

“My job as the Guardian of Hate was to protect him at all costs.” He held her tighter, as if he was using her to block the memories. “It’s what I am here for. My dad and I had discussed it many times. Cameron’s safety took priority. We both were to sacrifice ourselves for him. And if one of us died, the other would close ranks and protect him.”

Reina lifted her head to look at him. “So, you let yourself be taken, knowing that your father would never come looking for you?”

“Yeah.” That was it. Just a simple word. Flat. Emotionless.

The intentional emptiness of that word was enough to tell her how much it still burned at him. What kind of boy was taught to accept a life of torture, who believed that that’s all his life was worth. “That’s a choice no six-year-old boy should ever have to make.” Or an adult. No one should ever have to decide they were worth less than someone else.

“No.” He released her. “I accepted it with honor.” He turned away and jabbed his finger into the doorbell again. “But he got fucked up while I was gone. I left him behind and he’s in trouble. That’s why I have to save him. Because I betrayed him once already. There should have been another way to handle it the first time.”

“Are you kidding?” She pulled him back to face her. “He betrayed you! He let you take the hit for him and then didn’t honor your sacrifice. You didn’t fail, Jarvis. He did. We are all responsible for ourselves. It’s not your fault that he chose his path of arrogance.”

“I left him. He’s not fit to be left alone—”

“You are a hero,” she said. “You’re the one people will admire and remember. You faced hell, and you turned out to be the one with the soul of gold, not him.” Her body vibrated with the truth of those words, and she knew she was right. He had given his life for his brother, and he was still planning to do it.

She took his face in her hands and went up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

He frowned. “What is that for?”

“For being the man I knew you were.” No wonder he understood her need to save Natalie. Because he lived by the same code of ethics, and he had the same loyalty. They’d both failed, and now it was time for them both to win.

Jarvis said nothing, but he hugged her tight and buried his face in her neck. Holding her, as if her embrace could change the life they’d both led. In that moment, she almost felt like it could. “We can do this,” she said quietly. “We can do it right this time. Save Natalie and Cameron. Make it turn out right.”

“I know we can.” Jarvis lifted his head and searched her face. His eyes were almost black, but the blue flecks were strong and vibrant: the man looking out from the doom trying to take him. “You give me hope, sweetheart. Hope of things I’ve never dared hope for before.”

Her chest started to beat more quickly at the intensity of his expression. Did he believe he could live, after all? Was he willing to fight that battle? Was it possible that he could stop fate? “Like what?”

He opened his mouth to answer, and then a loud crack blistered through the air.

Reina and Jarvis whirled around as another crackle sounded, and she realized it was the intercom coming to life. Not another police invasion or a pink star on the way to them. “Who’s down there?”

Jarvis rested his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes, as if he were trying to hang onto the intimacy for a second longer. “We’re here to see the Grim Reaper.”

But even as they stood there, she felt the tension return to both their bodies. The moment was over. Reality was back.

“He’s busy,” the voice said. “Go die somewhere else.” And then it disconnected.

Reina sighed. Normally, being hung up on by the Grim Reaper, who was living behind a reinforced building with a skull and crossbones over the door and marble statues of naked, decapitated men on the front porch, would be daunting. But honest to God, she was too strung out to be daunted. “Jarvis?”

He gave her a grim smile. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t leave me at home?” He pulled out his sword, gave a manly flourish, and then he slammed it into the door lock. Purple steam began to hiss out of the lock. The door began to bubble, and little fissures began to run down the sidewalk.

“Boom.” Jarvis tucked her against him and turned so his body shielded her from the door. She snuggled against him and tucked her face into the curve of his shoulder.

The door exploded with such force that it flattened two lampposts and a fire hydrant on the other side of the sheet. Not to mention half a dozen specters.

“Nice shot.”

He shot her an absentminded grin. “Thanks.” He dusted off the carnage. “After you?”

“Such a gentleman.” The lobby of the single-family townhome was black and white marble, with depictions of horrible, awful deaths of ancient beings covering the walls and ceilings. Loud clanking was coming from a room to the right of the magnificent, curved stairway. “Back there.”

She darted across the floor, Jarvis on her heels, and she threw open the double French doors that were almost identical to the ones in the Castle.

Standing inside an office similar to Death’s was a man at least eight feet tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair cut in a military buzz cut. He was naked except for a leopard print thong and a full body tattoo that had various faces in expressions of extreme agony, pain, and death.

He was up on a ladder, yanking books off the wall and hurling them to the floor as he frantically searched for something. “Dammit! Where the hell is it?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

The Grim Reaper whirled around. He was wearing jet-black eyeliner and eye shadow, blood red lipstick, and a base foundation of mouse gray. Ruining the ensemble was a pair of geek glasses with large tortoiseshell frames in olive green. “If you can find my cloak, my robe, and my wig in thirty seconds, I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Wig?” Scythes lined the walls of the office, all of them with little brass nameplates in front of them. Clearly, she and Jarvis had come to the right place for scythe requisitioning. Rock on!

“Twenty-five seconds and I’ll make all your dreams come true.” The Reaper began yanking books off again. “I hid them from my three-year-old great-great-great-great-nephew and his penchant for scissors, and now I can’t find them.”

“Wig it is.” Reina opened a cabinet, only to find assorted bottles of preserved brains. “Oh, wow.” She shut the door.

Jarvis pulled out his sword. “Did you harvest souls wearing it?”

“Of course I did. It’s the real thing—”

Jarvis began whipping the sword around his head, and the air began humming. The Grim Reaper turned and stared at Jarvis. “What the bloody hell are you?”

“Talent.” A statue of Lord Grim began to vibrate, and then a small, hidden door in its belly opened and out flew a ratty black robe and what looked like roadkill with long hair.

“He’s afraid of my statue. Of course I would hide it there!” The Grim Reaper raced down the ladder. “How did you do that?”

“Everyone hates you, right?”

“Yes, of course. That’s the point.”

“I have a knack for finding hate. Your stuff is tainted with it.” Jarvis sheathed his sword as the Reaper yanked on his robe.

It got stuck in his thong, and he fought to untangle it. Reina hurried over and helped free the burlappy material from the velvet soft leopard print. “Here you go.”

“Excellent.” The Reaper threw the wig on and grabbed a stack of bobby pins off his desk. “Do you know how to keep these suckers on? I just cut my hair last week, and I haven’t used the wig since. I need to make sure this stays put and no bobby pins show.”

“I’ve got it.” Jarvis strode across the room and grabbed the box. “Sit.”

The Grim Reaper plopped his well-toned butt on a velvet topped stool as Jarvis fiddled with the straggly black locks. Her warrior let out a sigh of what sounded
like contentment as he pried open a bobby pin with his teeth.

“Do you do nails, my dear?” The Reap pointed at his desk. “Black. The Sally Hansen Insta-Dri. I don’t have time for the real stuff.”

She grabbed the bottle and hurried over. “I want a scythe.”

“A scythe? Hah.” The original Lord of Death laughed as he held out his hands for the mani. “You’ll die if you use one. They are enchanted and can be used only by the gifted.”

“I’m gifted.” His nails were lumpy and knotted, misshapen and well over an inch long, curving into something akin to claws. “I’m not sure how much help nail polish is going to be.”

“Oh, these are fake. My real ones are perfect, but I can’t have perfect nails at the Sisterhood of the Fairy Tale Hero’s Annual Testosterone Awards, can I? I have a reputation to uphold.”

The Sisterhood that had staked Rocco? The one Damien had given her a check to eliminate? Those girls got around. Reina stroked the black liquid over the lumpy nail. “What are the Testosterone Awards?”

“Oh, my dear,” the Reap said. “They’re very, very important if you’re a man. The competition is fierce, and they consider only men who are lethally dangerous to the women they date, who are incredibly handsome and compelling, and who have a tender side that only the right woman can access.”

Reina glanced at Jarvis. “Have you ever been nominated?”

He didn’t look up from bobby pin central. “Six times. I had to decline. Couldn’t get out of the Den to attend the awards ceremony.”

“Six times?” The Reaper regarded Jarvis with new interest. “And who are you?”

“The Guardian of Hate.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” The Reap slapped Jarvis on the butt. “I could have used you when I was in business.” He pointed to an array of testicle-shaped plaques on the far wall. “I won for a hundred and twenty consecutive years. Eventually, they had to pass a term limit of thirty years, or else no one would get a chance. They invite me back every year to present the award, and I must look appropriately horrific, you know?”

“Of course.” Reina accidentally swiped a cuticle and frantically wiped it off before the lord of all things hellacious noticed.

“And today my personal handmaiden quit. Her boyfriend was jealous of her being intimately involved in my life, and he said it was me or him. So she left!” He shook his finger at Reina. “Imagine leaving such a coveted position for sex! Sex!”

Reina immediately thought of the Godfather, and she started brushing the polish on more quickly. “I’m Reina Fleming, the Guide who sends you Death’s reports each week, and I really do need to borrow a sickle or a scythe—”

“Reina Fleming?” The Reaper did a full inspection of her. “Surely you aren’t that attractive while you’re working, are you? What man would be scared of a woman with those breasts— Ow!” He held his head and glared at Jarvis. “You stabbed me.”

“Then don’t look at her breasts.”

Reina smiled at Jarvis’s muttered threat. He was willing to stab
the
original Grim Reaper with a bobby pin for staring at her breasts. Something warm began to bubble inside her. “Actually, I’m totally hellish when I reap,” she lied. “But I need a new scythe.”

“Never. I don’t loan them out.” The Reap’s phone rang and he answered it. “Out of the Darkness Suicide Hotline, can I help you?”

That was his retirement? Keeping people from killing themselves? Irony didn’t even begin to describe the enormity of that inconsistency.

“Oh, yes, certainly. Put him on.” The Reap covered the mouthpiece. “I apologize for taking this call, but my staff is busy preparing the limousine for my arrival, and others have gone ahead to make sure my red carpet is sufficiently luxurious.”

“No problem.” Reina finished his nails and set down the polish. She watched Jarvis as his fingers flew through the hair, as bobby pins flashed and then disappeared into the ratty mess.

For the first time in a long time, his brow wasn’t furrowed, and the shadows perched on the wall were playing poker instead of looming at him. The sword on his hip was still pulsing purple and black, but his broad shoulders weren’t as rigid as they usually were.

He looked at peace. “Jarvis?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, didn’t bother to take the bobby pins out of his mouth.

“Perhaps you were right that knitting isn’t your calling. But maybe something else is.”

“There’s no peace for me, sweetheart, but I appreciate the thought.”

“What about doing hair?”

He looked up, his expression one of true horror. “I am not a stylist.”

She held up one of her tiny braids. “You’re really good at it—”

“I kill people. That’s how I get relief,” he snapped. “Jesus. A hair dresser?” He shook his head and went back to work.

“Hello, Joel.” The Reap’s voice was suddenly dark and raspy, and chills raced down her arms. “This is the Grim Reaper.”

He was breathing heavily in a fantastic Darth Vader imitation. “I am so pleased you are about to kill yourself. I am going to come to you with my scythe and rip your screaming soul from your pathetic little body, and then you will be mine. A thousand years of acid poured on your manly bits, leeches on your testicles, and my assistant will pluck out your facial hair one whisker at a time.”