It began one evening in the Scythe and Skull. Grell was unusually spiteful. Will had spurned her amorous advances, leaving her angry and resentful and wanting to share the pain. Her cruel eye had fallen upon Eric Slingby, whose partner was dying of an unbreakable curse. Alan Humphries' condition was not yet general knowledge, but Grell had been snooping through the papers on Will's desk. There she had found the folder containing the diagnosis, Research's refusal to spend any resources on finding a cure or a palliative, and Will's notations on finding Slingby a new trainee or partner once Humphries was unable to Reap. Prime gossip material.

She had enjoyed a brief affair with Slingby some years ago. He had lost interest in her when Humphries arrived. She had never quite forgiven either of them. She was not accustomed to her lovers ending an involvement—that was her privilege alone—and how Slingby could favor a drab, strait-laced little mouse over her own blazing glory was an insult beyond her understanding.

They were just so disgustingly happy. How dare they have something she could not?

Tonight Slingby was drinking alone. Without his inconveniently observant partner watching out for him, he was a most tempting target. Not that she wanted to start a brawl, oh, dear, no—but if she could torment and goad him into a foolish action it would pass the time nicely. Also it would annoy Will, who had treated her so cruelly today.

She looked around the pub for an innocent foil. This would have to be an indirect attack. Ah—perfect. Ronald Knox had just been spurned by a barmaid. He was petulant and tipsy and ripe to be used.

"Ronnie, dearest, do buy your Senior a drink. I have had such a dreadful day. Come sit with me and comfort a lady in distress."

"Sure, Sempai, y'r usual?"

"Yes, dear, that would be delightful." Such luck; the table next to Slingby's had opened up. She took a chair that faced slightly away from his.

She waved Ronnie to the chair just behind Slingby. Ronnie's voice had some immature high notes when he was intoxicated, difficult to ignore. She let him settle in and start his own drink. They murmured a bit about their work until she judged that Ronnie was comfortable and Eric was aware of their presence.

"Now, Ronnie, have you heard? Alan Humphries has the Thorns of Death, and Research has refused to look for a cure. They say they've no budget for unplanned studies and besides it's all his fault anyway for breaking the Rules."

"Aw, man, that's harsh. Will said he was sick, but I didn't know that Medical had given up on him."

Grell smiled sadly. "Oh yes, it's incurable. They don't know how fast it will progress." Slingby's shoulders had tightened. He was listening. Good.

"Do you know, once long ago when I was a mere student, I heard that there was a cure—only one, and so terrible that no person should even think of it? They said that the Thorns can be countered by a gift of souls. Innocent souls, a thousand of them, will appease the Thorns' hatred and lift the curse. It's an act of sacrifice, of course, for the giver will be damned for the gift."

She risked a fleeting look at Slingby. He was listening, and if she could get him to waste time chasing down her false legend, Will would bury him in overtime that would separate him from his Alan. If she wanted to cause some real trouble later, she could tell Slingby that Will had refused to pay Research the bribe requested for extra study of the Thorns.

Eric Slingby had heard the entire conversation, as Grell had obviously intended. He had looked up at Grell at the end, and caught a quick, sharp gleam of malice. She was checking to see how he was taking it. It was a pretty tale. Made up on the spot. Just like all of her romantic fantasies.

He took a tiny sip from the glass he'd been nursing all evening. Truly he was desperate enough to try it, had it not been for that measuring glance. Trying to get him in trouble, she was. And if he'd fallen for it and rushed out to harvest a bouquet of souls, she'd have gone 'round to tell Alan that he was absent because he was courting someone else. Was she not like a pack of wolves, going after the weakest members of a group? He would have a pretty revenge for this, but the time was not now.

All his time now was for Alan. He could go home, now that enough time had passed for Alan to cool down. Eric had been accused of 'babying' him and had been bounced out of their apartment; by now Alan should be ready to kiss and make up.

Was it even possible to harvest souls and keep them after they'd been Reaped? Och, fiction, all lies from the mother of lies.

Eric and Alan were determined to make the most of the time they had left. Will was surprisingly willing to make exceptions to the usual rules to allow for Alan's illness, as long as the work got done. They were partnered on first shift. One defended while the other reaped. Paperwork could be done at home.

Eric went to the Academy for underclassmen willing to serve as secretaries in return for a small fee, dinner, and the war stories of what real Reapers did every day. The students were cheerful and thrilled to be off-campus after classes. Alan smiled and joked with them, dictating his collection reports while propped up on the couch. The extra rest seemed to slow the progress of his illness. Their days off were coordinated so they could enjoy them together.

Will saw an advantage in the dictation arrangement. He approached the Academy for students to help Reapers who were dealing with arm and hand injuries. He then expanded the service to healthy but overworked Reapers, having the youngsters write up their notes during second shift. The students were only too happy to help in return for a free dinner at the Branch cafeteria. The Academy's food was notoriously monotonous and bland. He was in debt to Slingby for the idea, and in remarkable charity with the man for at least a month. Indeed Slingby was far less annoying these days.

Slingby was becoming quieter. He worked very hard, covering for Alan without complaint. Even his paperwork improved. There were no barfight injuries on Monday mornings; no hangovers, fewer violations of the dress code. Grell prodded and teased but could provoke no response; his indifference drove her to the heights of frustration. It was all very unlike him. As Alan grew weaker, Eric grew—not grim, but quiet. Thoughtful. Increasingly distant from all but Alan.

Slowly Alan was introduced to managerial deskwork. He made himself available to trainees with questions, that they might benefit from his knowledge before it was lost. He Reaped half-time with Eric. The Thorns were in his lungs, nearing his heart. The autumn fogs were giving him a blood-flecked cough and aggravating his attacks. A particularly severe one occurred in November. Medical was obviously surprised that he survived it.

From a bed in the Infirmary, too weak to stand, he stubbornly insisted to Eric that he was fine. Just a little tired. But fine. Which meant that he was desperately afraid of being confined to his desk, decreasing the time they could be together.

Eric looked at his thin, worn, pale partner. Soon Alan's name would be on the Death List. Will would assign a couple of other Seniors to attend him and send him home to die. Everything after that would be witnessed, a matter of record. That must not happen.

Grell, all unknowing, had shown Eric the way. He had experimented a bit with his Reaps. He knew what he needed to do. If he acted now, he could keep Alan with him forever. If he waited any longer Alan would be taken from him, leaving him alone throughout an eternity of grief and darkness.

"You just need a bit of rest. You do what the nurses tell you, eat whatever they bring, and you'll be out of here in a day or two. I'll come by this evening and tell you all the gossip. Try to nap now so they can wake you up to offer you a sleeping pill. Doesn't do to spoil their fun." Alan's laugh dissolved into a wet cough. Blood on his hand.

Eric went home to clean and sharpen his scythe. Rule Two, appropriate as ever. He buffed the blade with a soft cloth and laid it aside. He reviewed his To-Die lists for the coming days. Several Reaps would be in an area known to be frequented by a demon.

Alan was discharged the next morning, as early as the nurses could shove him out. Alan, now functionally Mortal, made Medical nervous. The Infirmary existed to stitch and wrap injuries. Chronic illness was not in their purview. Besides, all agreed, they needed the bed. They fell back on established procedure. As soon as Alan could walk, they sent him home. They knew he would not heal as a proper Reaper would, but they were not in the business of providing long-term care. He'd brought it on himself, after all.

Eric tucked Alan up on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket. He pulled up a chair, sat down and took his partner's cold hand. He felt the fine tremor of exhaustion there. "So, comfortable? Think I'll get takeout for us tonight. Tomorrow I'll stay home and cook, but tonight I want something I don't have to fix and clean up. What would you like?"

"Anything but hospital rations. Awful stuff. I think it's formulated to make troublesome patients too sick to move. Chinese?"

"That's good. Would you rather get into bed? Is sitting up too much?"

"No! I'm fine. Just need to rest a bit. You needn't coddle me. I'll read a bit and nap. Tell Will I'll be ready for work on Monday."

There. Alan's stubbornness was engaged. He would insist on returning to work, and insist he was fit to Reap. Spears would believe him because Spears was unwilling to hire a replacement until Alan was no longer drawing pay. All of Eric's plans depended on Will's clutchfisted budgetary parsimony and Alan's returning for one last Reap.

"Okay, I'm off to work. You rest up. There's food in the kitchen. I'll pop in at lunch to see if you need anything."

"Thanks. Don't bother if it's too busy, though. Be careful, please." Alan raised their clasped hands and kissed Eric's knuckles. "I'll be back in harness by Monday, you'll see."

By the time Eric had gathered his scythe and notebooks, Alan was asleep. Eric kissed him gently. For this man he would forever give up drink, friendships, partnerships, everything and anything that might accidentally expose the crime he would soon commit.

Monday dawned to find Alan in full uniform and a tetchy temper. Washed, shaved, fed and dressed, he still looked as though he would dissolve in a light rain. Typically, he was compensating with caffeine and attitude. "Will, I am perfectly capable of reviewing cinematic records. I am in no danger when working with Eric."

Spears was unimpressed. So was Eric, but it was vital that Spears did not bench Alan or hamper them with a trainee. "We have a routine, Mr. Spears. It wouldn't work for anyone else, but we do finish completely and on time. Today's List is not unusually difficult."

Knox, bless his noisy little heart, interrupted with a Death List report of a gang fight in Croydon. Spears turned to deal with it, and Eric and Alan quickly escaped.

It was a cold, dry day in the Human Realm. They Reaped steadily through the morning. Eric paced the work carefully to prevent Alan from having an attack. Even so, Alan tired quickly, stumbled and wheezed, and stubbornly rejected all offers to let him rest. Eric led him from death to death and waited for the demon to take the bait. As was usual in such encounters, the demon targeted the smaller partner. In a rush of flame and brimstone the monster was upon Alan.

For one short moment Eric deliberately stepped back. Then with all the pent-up rage of months of watching his partner suffer, all the months of the Realm refusing to look for a cure, he attacked. He overpowered the demon, cut off its arm, forced it to flee, and turned to where his partner lay.

Alan was horribly clawed. Bleeding out. His injuries would be fatal even to a strong, healthy Reaper. "Alan, mo ghràidh, mo dhuine. Forgive me." He raised his scythe. With the skill gained from centuries of practice, he delivered a precise heart strike.

Eric backed away as the Thorns emerged, full of rage and hatred; they twined about, seeking another host. Finding none, they withered into dust. Eric returned, knelt, brushed them away. Alan's cinematic records seemed almost to caress him as they were released and reviewed. Once again he felt the depths of Alan's selfless love. With infinite care he took Alan's soul into himself, cradling it next to his heart. His. Together. Forever.

He removed Alan's glasses, stood, and dropped them to the ground. Stepped on them.

Far away in another Realm, a Monitor shouted "Reaper down!"

Seven Reapers responded to the call. They found an injured Slingby kneeling in an alleyway, covered with his partner's blood, holding the body in his arms, weeping.

"'Tis all my fault. He fell behind. The demon killed him and devoured his soul. I drove it back but I could not save him—lost, he's lost—I tried to Reap him but he was gone."

The demon's arm was already disintegrating, but all agreed it had belonged to quite a large specimen of its breed.

Carefully they tried to take Humphries' body from Slingby. When that failed, they helped Slingby stand with his burden and escorted him to the Infirmary. He was coaxed into laying the body on a cot and permitting it to be examined. The doctors verified that the wounds were fatal, that a Reap had been attempted and that the soul was gone.

Alan's medical record was closed. With relief the doctors turned their attentions to a proper Reaper whose injuries were treatable.

Although he was offered a transfer, Slingby chose to remain in London. Spears teamed him with a succession of several other Reapers. None of the partnerships lasted more than two months. One Senior stated it was like working with a lamppost. "Very good at what it does, and absolutely unresponsive to anything else. Sorry, Mr. Spears, this is not working because he does not want it to work."

Spears gave up on Seniors and assigned Slingby mentorships instead. Slingby was an excellent instructor for new graduates; his Juniors always did well, but none stayed with him beyond their training period.

He remained private, self-contained, and solitary. He seemed unable or unwilling to interact socially with his colleagues. He refused drink and drugs. Spears stopped pushing him to attend team-building afterparties when it became obvious that his uncompromising sobriety made others uncomfortable. This sort of mourning was not unknown among bereaved Reapers. Spears considered it tolerable in an otherwise exemplary worker.

It was as well that Spears could not hear the after-hours conversations in Junior housing or the Academy dorms. He would have learned things he was determined not to know.

"He'll drill you hard. He'll keep you safe. He'll teach you all you need to know. Better, he'll teach you all they don't want you to know, and some things you'll wish you didn't know. He will teach you to recognize what you don't know, and leave you always learning. He's as good as any two other mentors. When he's done you will be better than you ever thought you could possibly be, and too smart to get cocky about it."

"If you stay the course and he recommends you for promotion, you can choose any posting you like. A Slingby-trained Senior is golden. But he's cold. Distant. He will not be your friend. Never buy him a drink; he's teetotal. Be formal. Stick to business. Sometimes he can be quite pleasant and sympathetic—but then he'll seem startled by his own behavior. Don't remark on it or he'll hand you your head."

"It's like someone's right beside him—no, more as if he's haunted. Ignore it and you'll be fine. If you ask personal questions he'll fire you back to Spears for reassignment. It will go in your permanent record that Slingby cancelled your apprenticeship. It'll take you a century of perfect service to overcome it."

"He lost a partner years ago, and they say he never got over it..."

"It's true. Don't try this yourselves, if you're caught the penalties are horrific, but I looked up his records the last time I got stuck with a week's worth of filing. His partner was taken by a demon, his soul consumed. There's a follow-up note of 'significant behavioral changes'. So what? If he wants to be crazy, he's earned it. It's not like most Seniors are models of sanity anyway."

"You worked with him, senpai. Does he really talk to himself so much?"

"I do not gossip about my superiors, kōhai. But he is not talking to himself. He is talking to someone else who is unseen, and sometimes—"

"What, senpai?"

"Sometimes you can almost hear an answer."