The Mortuary was only a few buildings down from my office. It was a very convenient building; designed and built by one of the Directors just a few years before. It made it possible to communicate with the Directors on Earth – who were really just fugitive Reapers who'd committed some crime or another, such as killing someone without their file, or bringing them to the Gate while they were still partially alive. It was a handy system, and it allowed the Reapers to tell the Directors exactly where they'd be and how many souls they'd be taking each day. I stood outside the door for a moment before entering, if just to collect my thoughts. Whenever I walked into any building in the district they all made a huge fuss over me… stupid ass kissers. We were dead. Things like that shouldn't even matter anymore.
I entered the Mortuary, and as I expected, all activity froze. You could've heard a mouse fart. Every eye turned to me, and suddenly it was mass pandemonium – a hurricane of movement as the clerks scrambled to get to me first and meet my needs. A little fat one won the race.
"What can we do for you, your Honor?" he asked, practically convulsing with nerves.
"You can call me Grimm, firstly," I answered. The clerk looked so ashamed of himself I was certain he would have blushed had there been any blood running through his veins.
"Yes sir," he replied sheepishly. I hated it when my employees were more afraid of me in death than they were in life.
"And you can inform these Directors that they'll be busy today." I handed the list of the cities I'd be visiting that day to the clerks. Their eyes widened at the sight of my work load – as head Reaper I only ever took on ten or so souls myself, but I didn't care. I didn't want to have time to think about anything else… especially her…
"Whatever you say, boss," another clerk said, bringing me back to reality. I flinched at the stupid title, but chose to say nothing about it. I nodded at them and turned to walk back outside, and I was almost certain I felt their eyes burning through my cloak as I left. I couldn't handle people watching me Vanish, so as soon as I was on the street I had my cloak wrapped tightly around me and was spinning crazily- going to get my first soul of the day. POOF – I was in New York.
One of the advantages of being dead was that no one could see or hear us – except for some fluke in the system that said that any person touching the body of the soul being Reaped can forever see any and every Reaper, and therefore must also be Reaped and pronounced dead – so appearing randomly in the middle of a crowded intersection didn't ever cause mass hysteria. It was a great trick.
I crossed the road quickly, with only one car passing through me. The building was easy to find – a dilapidated old dance studio where a bunch of fussy dancer-types were rehearsing their newest show. I walked through a few walls before finding my victim; some old choreographer named Eliz. He was standing there, screaming himself purple at a group of ballerinas. They stood in a group, some chewing their nails, some chomping loudly on gum – one of them stood up straight, nodding vigorously at the choreographer's words, her eyebrows knit close together, concentrating. She seemed like quite the little ray of sunshine.
I let him go on for a few minutes before claiming his soul – he yammered on about synchronization and "feeling the music" and all that nonsense. Blah, blah, blah…
I preferred doing my work quickly – nothing messy, no prolonged misery… it was my way of being "humane", if you will. I simply walked up behind his little tirade and ran my finger down his spine. His face turned red, he sputtered for air for a moment, and then he collapsed in a heap on the floor. To any EMT it would look like a heart attack. Under the cover of the ballerinas freaking out, I pried open his mouth and pulled out his soul; it came out swiftly and gently, resting in the palm of my hand – just a little ball of vapor. I put it in a little jar in my bag and Vanished just as the nodding girl bent to feel his pulse; avoiding a messy death scene. Easy enough.
The routine repeated itself throughout my day; heart attack, heart attack, car accident, ruptured appendix (for fun), heart attack, brain tumor, heart attack, suicide, heart attack… foolish human after foolish human simply dropping dead all over the place. Each death was stupid and tragic and caused public panic… as it would. I didn't really care anymore. It was uninteresting, and unimportant. That is, until I realized where my last victim was.
It was the same café where I'd first seen her, several months before… then it was someone choking on biscotti, but today… it had to be special. There was a slim chance that she'd be there, but she'd notice me… well, she'd notice him dying, but it would be me doing it.
"Dude…" Jared's voice echoed.
"I know, Jared," I said. He went away.
He was right; that was sick. Singling out some unsuspecting man with a horrible death just to try and make her see I'm there. Were humans this stupid about love? I ended up on that same sunny street in California, outside of that green and red café, breathing heavily, trying to keep my head from swimming…
"Get a hold of yourself," I said loudly. It seemed to help. I pushed open the door, and walked inside. For two in the afternoon, it was fairly busy. It took me a minute to find the man, but he was standing behind the counter, mixing someone's coffee. I also searched the room for her, but I didn't see those crazy red curls anywhere. I'll admit it, I was selfishly disappointed.
I walked behind the counter, allowed the man to give the nice lady her coffee, and willed him to take a bite of biscotti. He smiled, chewed once or twice, and then I touched his throat. He began choking – and no one knew the Heimlich. Such a sad coincidence. He sputtered a few times, gasped for air, and fell to the ground; his face blue from lack of oxygen. I laughed a little at the irony; two people's deaths by biscotti in the same café.
Bending over the body, I used my fingers to pry open his mouth. Of course it was mass hysteria in the building, but no one had made it over the counter yet. I started to extract his soul, but something caught my attention; a new box of biscotti, dropped at the floor by his feet – it spilled everywhere, including on a pair of tiny black sneakers…
"Rick?" she frantically cried, and I realized too late what was happening. She knelt on the floor beside him, pulling her dazzling red curls out of her face – brilliant green eyes sparkling with panic. "Rick!" She was hesitant, I started to pull faster. If I got away from him before she touched him she wouldn't see me…
She grabbed his arm, searching for a pulse. Tears started to well up in her eyes; she stared at his hands, and her eyes moved upwards – and met mine.
She screamed.
I had to think fast; I finished taking his soul and put it in the jar and stuffed it in the bag – but could I kill her, too?
"Stop screaming," I demanded. She did. "Faint." She did. I thought quickly, someone was coming around the counter. "I'm going to take part of your soul with me," I told her. "They'll just think you're out cold." She made a sound that sounded like a half-sob, half-agreement. I pulled a tiny piece of her soul through her nose, and left the building quickly before I could mess anything else up.