Grim (Death's Apprentice Book 1)

by Scarlett Snow

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Thank You

  About Scarlett

  Other Books by Scarlett:

  About Tiegan

  Other Books by Tiegan:

  For all the people who continue to fly

  when life has tried to clip their wings.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events, places or names is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transferred in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the authors. Uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without a permission of the authors is illegal and punishable by law.

  Text copyright © 2019 Scarlett Snow & Tiegan Clyne

  All Rights Reserved

  www.scarlett.katzesnow.com

  https://www.amazon.com/Tiegan-Clyne/e/B07PWYS4W5

  Editing by Rebecca Fairfax https://www.facebook.com/rebecca.editing

  Cover design by Jay Aheer https://www.simplydefinedart.com/

  Formatting by Rainbow Danger Designs https://rainbowdangerdesig.wixsite.com/rainbowdanger

  The dead don’t bother me. It’s the living I have issues with.

  Sure, not every person can communicate with the afterlife, and I should probably be more concerned about that than anything. But do people with a heartbeat really need to eat with their mouths open? I want to choke the living daylights out of them.

  I glare at my ten-year-old brother slouched over the kitchen table. He’s busy hoovering up his cereal like a starved maniac. It’s as if he’s terrified the floor will swallow him up and he’ll never get to eat that last little Cheerio swimming in the puddle of milk.

  Throwing one of my grapes at him, I look over my shoulder. “There’s that ghost throwing food at you again.”

  Mackenzie tries to kick me under the table, but I expect the blow and move my legs to the side, grinning at him.

  “Mom, Sacha’s throwing grapes at me,” Mackenzie groans, craning his neck to give my mother a pathetic, overdramatic sniffle. “It hit me right in the eye.”

  “Sacha, stop it. Today’s a big day,” Mom chides, bending down to open the dishwasher. She’s got a weird fascination with washing every cup and glass in the house each morning, or she won’t let any of us use them. I think it’s part of her nesting regimen. “Your first ever job interview. For an office! You should be excited.”

  That’s not how I would put it.

  “Remind me again why I agreed to go to this interview?” I try not to sound as displeased as I feel, and force myself to swallow down another grape despite my sudden loss of appetite. But I instantly feel guilty muttering those words out loud. Deep down, I want to do this for my family.

  Need to do it.

  Everything changed about a week ago. I was about to start dance school when my mom’s delightful boss gave her the pink slip, six months after Dad also gave her the ‘we need a break’ spiel. Who knew a forty-nine-year-old man had the nerve to run out on his pregnant wife and two children a week before Christmas? Yeah. It sucked. Big time.

  Then again, I often meet dead people who were killed by their spouses for doing less, so I’m not overly surprised.

  In case you’re wondering, my house is the only place I get a break from the dead. I go through about eight tubs of salt a week just to make sure of that. I usually carry at least one pouch in my pocket every day as an extra precaution. Weird? Probably. But is it necessary? Absolutely, especially when I need to ward off any unwanted attention.

  You see, the novelty wore off when I turned thirteen. High school, studying, boys, drama, puberty…it was a lot to deal with, and the last thing I wanted was a ghost telling me that I needed to help them. Plus, my dad threatened to send me to a psychiatrist again, and I didn’t want some know-it-all informing me how I was feeling. Not for the sixth time, anyway.

  Luckily, Mom learned to deal with my strange ability early on and never once threatened to put me in an asylum. She wasn’t a rotten human being like my dad. Actually, Mom, Mackenzie, and my best friend Katie are the only people who don’t think I’m crazy.

  “Have you got everything, Sach?” Mom’s voice interrupts my train of thought.

  “Wit. Charm. An unhealthy set of coping mechanisms. I think I’m covered.”

  Mom closes the dishwasher and turns around, her bump stretching the limits of her blue butterfly T-shirt. Her dimpled cheeks are flushed and her deep sapphire eyes are framed with laugh lines. She smooths her hands down her gray leggings and waddles over to me, a distinct look of pride glowing on her face. I’m always told I look like my mom. If I ever become pregnant when I’m older, I can only hope I’ll look half as good as she does eight months into her pregnancy.

  I glance at the clock behind her. “Shoot, it’s already eight!” I cram a bunch of grapes into my mouth as Mom walks over to me and gently places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Have you got your phone? Money for the bus?”

  I lift my bag from the chair beside me. “All set, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey…” She tucks a loose strand of my blonde hair behind my ear and kisses me on the head. “You look so grown-up. We’re really proud of you, Sacha. I hope you know that.”

  My cheeks heat up and a familiar lump swells into my throat. I squeeze her hand. Giving up dance school for my family was a small sacrifice to make for their safety.

  “If I agree with Mom,” Mackenzie muffles over his food, “can I play your PlayStation after school?”

  I push up from my seat. Grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I grin at my brother. “You can play it if you promise not to leave your stinky socks in my room again.”

  “Yes!” He beams, shoveling more cereal into his mouth. “I hope you get the job, Sach.”

  “Thanks, little bro.” I kiss Mom on the cheek and rush out of the house. It’s my first job interview and the last thing I want to do is to show up late.

  “Good luck, honey,” I hear Mom shout from the kitchen window.

  “Just don’t go into labor yet,” I call back, smiling at her as I step onto the sidewalk.

  She chuckles and closes the window. I watch her turn around and fuss over MacKenzie before I make my way to the bus stop. We live in a small suburb on the outskirts of Detroit, Michigan. The streets are always busy around this time, with the living and the dead, but the shimmering ghosts keep a safe distance from me due to the salt in my bag. The smell must radiate from me like a rotten dumpster left out in the heat.

  Soldiers from the Civil War cross the road to avoid me, their rifles slung over their shoulders, muttering insults under their thick beards. A group of children, who I believe died of smallpox some decades ago, play at the park as I walk by, singing songs and giggling under the blinding sun.

  Watching them, perched on a bench beside a living old man feeding the birds, is Mary Jones. She was hanged in one of the last witch trials to ever take place in America. Her husband was the one who pushed her off the scaffold. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t a witch, just inconvenient. He married his mistress the next day, and Mary’s still pretty bitter about it.

  Every ghost I come across appears almost lifelike, if not for the slight glow beaming from them. I’ve he
ard of glowing complexions, but they really take it to extremes.

  I wave to Mary and the children, and they wave back. As I make a turn for the bus stop, my stomach grumbles from hunger, and I realize I barely touched any of my breakfast. I was too busy glowering at Mackenzie’s sloppy eating.

  I’m also super tired. For the seventh night in a row, I’ve had dreams about a gorgeous man in a black tailored suit. He’s aloof and distant, but I feel like he’s judging me. Watching me. It’s the same dream I’ve had off and on for my whole life. I can’t remember the dreams in much detail, but I will always remember that face.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for him.

  Is he a ghost? Is he alive? I don’t know. He never answers any of my questions. He’s always too busy looking at a pair of gold scales. All I do know is that I’m exhausted when I wake up, and I have to guzzle about a pint of coffee to get through the day.

  When I arrive at the bus stop, I’m relieved to see there are no ghosts hanging around. It’s usually a popular place for them to ask for my help, and today, of all days, is when I simply don’t have the time. I need to stay focused and try to stop my hands from shaking. Darn these nerves.

  Sliding under the shelter, I rummage through my bag in search of something to eat. Food always takes my mind off my troubles, and a rumbling stomach is the last thing I need during an interview. My nerves have already started to kick in, causing my gut to clench into a knot.

  After various futile searches, I realize that I’ve left my lunch box on the kitchen table. Great. Mom’s gonna have a fit. I check the Hello Kitty watch on my wrist. I still have ten minutes until the bus arrives. That’s enough time to stop by the convenience store across the road, right?

  Deciding to chance my luck, I leave the shelter, wondering what I should get to eat. Something quick and easy.

  Chocolate. Go on. You know you want to.

  Urgh. My mind can be such a terrible influence sometimes.

  Since my dad walked out on us, I’ve been eating healthier. My habit of consuming my weight in junk food always worried my mom and she had enough on her plate already, so I promised to change my diet. It’s not that I was, or am, overweight. But eating fries for breakfast and a bowl of buttercream at two A.M wasn’t the best diet in the world. I also thought maybe it was why I was exhausted all the time.

  Note: I’m still super exhausted all the time. No amount of coffee or Red Bull seems to ever help.

  Eating fruit has been the easiest part so far. It’s vegetables that are the bane of my life. I have no idea how Katie manages to stay vegan. We’ve been best friends since we were in kindergarten, and the most adventurous thing I’ve seen her eat was cucumber hummus. Yes. Really. Since I’ve been trying to eat better, I’ve been mimicking her diet, and I feel like I’m turning into a rabbit.

  On that note, I should probably pick up some carrot sticks to help settle my stomach for a while. They usually fill me up the most. Oh, to be eating fries and pizza again. BBQ sauce. Stuffed crust. Complete heaven.

  The only plus side to choosing the healthier options? I’ve lost fourteen pounds and my fair skin looks a lot fresher. All those skin advertisements better eat their hearts out. There’s a new girl in town.

  However, the true pièce de résistance is that I can finally fit into a size six again. Do you know how hard it was not to reward myself with an entire cake when that happened? It was crazy difficult. I just wanted to bathe in frosting for a whole week.

  A light breeze sweeps over me, lifting my strappy black dress above my knees. It’s a beautiful summer’s day and I can’t wait to sunbathe once I get home. Hopefully I’ll come bearing good news and Mom can stop worrying about paying for our groceries. I so badly want to help her. I must get this job. There’s no question about it.

  Digging through my bag in search of my purse, I step onto the road.

  But then something explodes, and everything around me turns nuclear-white…

  My life is over in a flash. I know this the instant my body collides with the front of the bus and my brain splatters over the windshield like a ruptured juice box. What a terrible way to start my Monday.

  Ignoring the violent headache attacking my skull, I open my eyes to a completely different sky stretching before me. The clouds are a mixture of thunder and rain, so low I can almost touch them, and the surface cradling my body isn’t tarmac or a puddle of blood and guts. It’s soft and spongy, like a bed of pillows filled with grain.

  Sand. Why am I lying on the sand?

  I bury my hands into the ground and push up, nervously scanning my surroundings. A black rowboat stands at the edge of a long wooden pier, tethered to a post. Underneath its wide surface, a glistening sea of gold petals ripples toward the horizon.

  The sun glares off them, beautiful and blinding, and white sand spreads endlessly around me. There’s no way I’m dreaming. My imagination couldn’t come up with something like this. If the sea was made of coffee, maybe. But gold petals…?

  “No response.”

  The words booming over me are sudden, and I flinch, glancing around to locate the speaker. There’s no one here except for me. I straighten onto my feet, dust the sand off my face, arms, and legs, and slowly inch toward the pier.

  “I’m losing her.”

  I don’t recognize the male voice at all. My entire body is tense as I make my way to the boat. When I step onto the pier, the wood trembles beneath my pumps, and thunder cracks overhead. I barely reach the middle of the unsteady structure when the voice speaks again. This time, a bolt of lightning joins the chaos, shattering the bleak sky.

  “Time of death. Ten-thirty-three.”

  A wave of petals crashes over the pier, slightly pushing me off balance.

  And then the foundation starts to sink.

  My feet plunge into the golden depths, and panic grips me. I thrust my arms out, flailing as much as I can, desperate to stay above the surface. The soft caress of the petals feels like feathers against my skin.

  Feathers that are trying to kill me.

  I claw my way through them, using what little swimming capability I have. But my limbs just continue to sink, already tired from the fruitless efforts. Despite my exhaustion, I muster up everything I’ve got, and I reach for the boat. Keep going, Sacha. Almost…there…

  Gold hands erupt from the surface and wrap around my body.

  They seize my hair, my arms, my legs, and try to drag me back down.

  My screams fill the air, but I refuse to give in so easily. Unable to comprehend why, I know I must get onto the boat. I can feel it in my bones, like a distant howl calling to me.

  So I thrash, violently, and take one final leap for the boat. I just manage to reach the edge, and with a struggle, I pull myself over. I collapse onto the deck and lie sprawled on my back, my heart thrashing in its cage as I gasp for air. So far being dead is worse than I imagined.

  My mouth is like the Sahara Desert, parched, raw, and for some inexplicable reason, incredibly sore. There’s a sharp metallic taste lingering in the back of my throat, blood and acid mixed together. I’m going to be sick. I hunch over, open my mouth, and let the vomit gush out. White sand streams onto the deck, each grain scratching the surface of my tongue before forming a small pyramid at my heels. The thunder and lightning quiet into a distant rumble, and sunlight breaks between the clouds. Buried within the sand sits a silver coin, gleaming in the rays.

  I feel like I’m trapped in a dream, or a nightmare, as I reach out for the coin. But a sudden gust of wind picks up, rocking the boat from side to side. I hold on to the edge as a whirlwind of petals swim into the air. Their movement is almost beautiful as they dance above me, until they land in a puddle around the coin…and they start to move.

  I push backward, thumping into the far end of the boat. My pulse rapidly increases as the petals transform into an enormous hooded figure. His cloak is woven from the petals, fluttering slightly in the breeze, but the rest of him is almost perfectl
y human. It’s the curved horns protruding from his skull that remind me that this is not a dream, and he is most definitely not the same species as me.

  He holds out a hand, and the coin gleams in the hollow of his palm. “You have called for the Boatman. State your reason for passage.”

  His deep, resonant voice vibrates through me. “R-reason?” I stammer. “I don’t know. I died. Is that a good enough reason?”

  The Boatman’s ice-blue eyes never blink or look away from me. The sun bounces off him, leaving a light sheen over his dark skin, and I have to crane my neck just to look at him. He must be at least eight feet tall.

  “Are you the Grim Reaper?” My voice comes out small, because half of me doesn’t want the answer. The other half is senselessly mesmerized by him.

  He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. “I am Charon. This river is my domain and only I may provide safe passage to the dead.”

  Locking his fingers around the coin, he places it into his cloak while extending his other hand. A long ebony paddle manifests out of thin air. Charon dips the skull-shaped blade into the petals and drives the boat into motion.

  Straightening into a more comfortable position, I try to make sense of everything that’s going on. I definitely died. That much is for certain. And on my way to buy lunch. Dang it. I always said eating healthy would kill me. I never thought it would actually happen. Waking up on a strange beach, followed by a quick dip into a gold sea that tried to strangle and drown me, was quite honestly the last thing I expected.

  Now, as if things can’t get any crazier than that, Charon, the ferryman of the underworld, is now taking me somewhere. Where? I have no idea. But I have a slight hunch I’m not going to particularly enjoy either the trip or my destination.