The Lost

by Vicki Pettersson

Kit settled back on her haunches. She didn’t want to say, but his sharp glance at the ensuing silence meant he already knew. “You said her name.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

  Kit leaned forward and kissed the back of his neck, and then, because she couldn’t help it—because there were other ways to help—nipped at it lightly. He shuddered, pleasantly this time, and she did it again, pleased that she could do it at all. It was a reminder that she was the one who gave him comfort in this life. It was a gift that he loved her well and accepted her love in return. His late wife’s passing might still haunt him in ways Kit would never understand, but it was also a miracle that Grif was with her now, and that was enough.

  Right?

  “It’s okay.” Kit pushed the question away and shifted so she could see his face. His eyes were underscored with bruises and his brow furrowed with an emotion she couldn’t pinpoint. Worry, guilt, regret . . . all of the above? Grif had a tendency to take every damned thing on himself. Angel complex, she thought, then gave him a closed-mouthed smile. “I understand.”

  And, objectively, she did. In the raw light of day—the time that she got to live and breathe and walk around at twenty-nine, an age Evelyn Shaw had never lived to see—she told herself that a new love couldn’t be expected to replace an old one. That wasn’t what new love was for. A relationship, she told anyone and everyone who would listen, had to exist for and of itself.

  Besides, Kit knew it wasn’t possible to forget a love deeply felt, even if the person was long gone. Most remembered that sort of passion for the whole of their lives, but Grif had carried his love for Evelyn Shaw beyond life . . . and, in a way, that was a miracle, too.

  “Want to talk about it?” she prodded.

  “No.”

  “Okay,” she said, planting a soft kiss on his side. The light dusting of hair there tickled her lips, and she inhaled deeply and kissed him again. “Then just start from the beginning.”

  He pushed some hair into her face. “You never listen.”

  “Yes, I do.” She blew the hair away and looked up at him. “That’s what makes me such a good listener.”

  “Should I wait for you to get out your pen and paper? Take some notes. Turn my visions into a feature story.” The errant lock of hair had slipped over his forehead again, making him appear younger than thirty-three, the age at which he’d originally died.

  “Don’t be silly. I report for the Las Vegas Tribune, not the National Enquirer. Mine might be a city known for its excesses, but we’re quite practical when it comes to our spiritual beliefs.”

  “You mean you’re all heathens.”

  “I prefer the word ‘cynics.’ ”

  “I prefer the word ‘go to sleep.’ ”

  “That’s three words . . . all of which I heard,” she said, as he rose. “Where are you going?”

  “Stay here,” said her grumpy angel.

  So, of course, Kit followed.

  Grif had to know she would. These days, they anticipated most of each other’s actions. They no longer questioned which side of the bed they would sleep on. They’d stopped checking on each other during the night as their days as a couple began piling up, no longer afraid the other wouldn’t be there, or awed that they were. Their passion was now set to a low burn, yet it could still ignite with one sidelong smoky look.

  It was those burning moments that Kit loved most. She could see Grif—both his angelic and human sides—when they were joined in flesh. His wings flashed and flared, which had startled her at first, but it was also amazing and awesome and somehow holy. Besides, Kit was as grateful for his Centurion state as his mortal one. After all, it was the only reason she was alive and breathing in the first place.

  And that, Kit thought, was the strangest, most wonderful beginning to a love story ever.

  Perplexed, she watched from the living room as Grif deactivated the house alarm, opened the front door, and retrieved something from atop the doormat.

  “Is that yesterday’s edition?” she asked, stepping forward. This day’s hadn’t even gone to press yet, and Kit would know. Her family owned the struggling paper.

  “Special printing,” Grif mumbled, and she tilted her head as he passed, then followed him to the kitchen. He stopped in front of her automatic coffee machine. “Coffee?”

  “Decaf,” she said, nudging him aside, and elbowing him again when he almost growled. “It’s three in the morning. I want you to be able to sleep.”

  He grumbled again, but couldn’t do anything about it. No matter how many times she showed him, he couldn’t manage to work the “newfangled” device, but she didn’t mind measuring the water, popping in the pods. Fifty years had brought a lot of change to the Surface—some welcome, some not—but he’d claimed the coffee was both recognizable and improved. He took a seat at her vintage café table and sipped it black when she handed it to him, letting its warmth and bitterness chase away the dregs of the dream.

  “Well?” Kit finally said, dropping down across the table from him while she waited for her own single cup to brew. She glanced at the folded paper in his hands.

  Grif just blinked.

  She gave him a deadpan stare. “Don’t make me interrogate you, Griffin Shaw. You know I’ll win.”

  “I’ve got a new assignment,” he said, clearly hoping she’d leave it at that.

  “A Take?” she asked.

  He inclined his head, and though she knew it was his duty—that the newly dead needed Centurions to assist them into the afterlife—she had to fight back a shudder. Someone would soon die horribly. Someone who was alive right now. “When?”

  “Dawn.”

  “Man? Woman?”

  “Man.”

  Her lips thinned in an alarming way, but her voice remained steady. “How?”

  Grif’s gaze automatically slid to the paper, but he just shrugged.

  And that infuriated her.

  “Don’t you care?” Her voice, no longer steady, held accusation and disbelief. Because one thing about Kit, she always cared.

  Grif leaned back, like that could keep the situation from escalating. “Look, when you’ve logged as many hours as I have ferrying souls into the Everlast, you get immune to the cause of death. My job is to help this guy cross into the Everlast, once deceased. That’s all.”

  “But he’s not deceased yet.”

  “Kit.”

  Kit shoved back from the kitchen table and crossed to the coffee machine. She slammed the mug unnecessarily hard upon the Formica, then sloshed coffee over the rim as she lifted it.

  Grif waited.

  Cleaning the counter gave her an excuse to rattle around some more, but when she’d finished stirring in sugar, she turned and leaned against the counter, glaring.

  “Done?” Grif asked.

  Kit bared her teeth, then sipped.

  He sighed. “I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t stop it.”

  “So don’t even ask, right?” She tilted her head. “Don’t even try to save another person’s life? I don’t know if you noticed, Shaw, but it’s my nature to at least try.”

  Grif shoved his own chair back, and took his mug to the sink. She edged over slightly and when he’d set the mug down—none too gently, either—he turned to her for a long stare-off. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he said, “I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. This is the job, and yeah, it rubs that some kid’s head got so jammed up that he’s not going to know what he’s lost until it’s too late. But that’s the human condition, and this death is preordained. Don’t fight me on this.”

  Kit’s shoulders slumped, but she placed her coffee on the counter and squared on him, too. “I don’t want to fight at all, Grif. But this man is in pain right now, and we’re just sitting here talking . . . drinking, like—like it has nothing to do with us.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It does,” she implored, leaning forward, forcing his gaze. “It did the minute we learned about it.
If you know someone is in pain and you don’t try to help, then you’re culpable. You’re complicit!”

  “No.” He must have realized how cold it sounded, because he shook his head. “Look, you gotta think of it like the Pures do. Sarge always says, ‘Death isn’t a barrier to be knocked down. It’s just a threshold everyone needs to cross.’ ”

  “Tell that to the guy whose throat is about to get slit.”

  “I will,” he said. “Right after it happens.” And because that also must have come out harsher than intended, he added, “And it’s not a murder this time. It’s a drug overdose.”

  “So it’s preventable!” Kit said.

  “You ever try saving a man from himself? It’d be easier to force a river to flow in the opposite direction.” Striding back to the table, Grif jammed a finger at the paper. “I wouldn’t be carrying around this file if it were preventable.”

  “I was once in a file,” she pointed out.

  But Grif shook his head. “I’m just doing my job. And I can’t screw this one up.”

  Kit set her jaw. Beyond him, she saw her reflection in the sliding glass door; her pin curls had gone loose, flowing over her shoulders like black ribbons. The silk kimono she used for a robe flared as she strode back to the table, matching the color rising in her cheeks. Setting down her mug, she glanced at the photo on the front page, and though it made her heart bump to see Grif’s image splayed there along with another woman’s, Evelyn Shaw’s, what Kit was looking for was inside.

  She opened to the center pages, and felt horror roll across her face like a shallow wave. Jeap Yang. Only nineteen. His stats were all there, including the place, date, and time of his death. Whirling, she held the paper up. “He’s just a kid!”

  Grif paced back to the sink.

  “That is someone’s child! Someone loved him enough to birth him and raise him and release him into the world!”

  Grif shifted. “Yeah, and he threw all that good work into the world’s Dumpster, then shoved that into a needle in his veins.”

  “I agree that it’s a bad choice! But so is just letting him die!” And before she knew she’d moved, Kit’s mug shattered against the sink’s backsplash, sending coffee splattering. Grif just looked down at his previously white undershirt and sighed.

  “I need to wash up,” he said, and headed toward the living room.

  “Make sure you straighten that halo,” Kit snapped back, throwing the paper back on the table, then immediately held up her hand when he turned to stare. “I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I am. You don’t deserve that.”

  Grif hesitated a moment, then returned to her side. “Let me ask you something. What happened to your left knee?”

  Frowning, she wrapped her vintage kimono more tightly across her chest.

  “Your left knee,” he said again, then reached down and uncovered the skin in question. She tried, futilely, to slap his hand away. “There’s a mark to the left of the kneecap that’s smoother and shinier than the rest of the skin.”

  “I fell when I was six,” she said, finally edging away from him. “My dad was teaching me to ride my bike, but I hit a pothole and had to get twelve stitches.”

  “And why’s it raised like that?”

  “Because it’s a scar, Grif,” she said, impatience brimming in her voice.

  “Because that’s what happens when you injure your body,” he countered. “Want to know what happens when you scar your soul? You can’t feel anything outside your own pain, not for what it really is. The internal anguish is so great that it cripples you. And that scar tissue dulls your senses to the point where you find yourself wondering if you’ll ever be able to feel anything again.”

  For the briefest of moments, Kit wondered if he was talking about himself. Then he picked up Jeap Yang’s photo, and this time he showed it to her. “This man—”

  “Boy,” she corrected.

  “Soul,” Grif retorted sharply. “This Jeap Yang is already that injured. Something big and crippling scarred him in his past and each breath he takes adds new injury to the old. By now, he likely feels nothing at all, and that’s no way to live.”

  Kit studied the photo for a long moment, but finally shook her head. “I lived. You saved me.”

  “You were different. You were slated to die because I put you in harm’s way, not because you were scarred.”

  And because that was true, because their meeting had been accidental and not predestined, Kit finally looked away.

  “I don’t know why things like this happen,” Grif finally said softly. “I wish it was different, but you can’t make decisions for other people. They have to choose good things for themselves.”

  “You have scar tissue, too, you know.” She wasn’t angry anymore, just making an observation as she looked back up at him. He couldn’t argue. He wouldn’t be on the Surface if he didn’t.

  “Maybe I need it to do this job.”

  Kit nodded. Then she tilted her head. “So will it hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never died of a drug overdose.” When she winced, he quickly added, “But my guess is that his greatest pain is already behind him.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “I can promise you this much, though,” Grif said, and waited until her gaze arrowed up. “Once his soul has been freed from that tired, drug-addled body, he’s going to be fine. I’ll take care of him.”

  She studied him for a long time, and gradually the fight slipped from her shoulders. “Just . . . hold on.”

  Edging past him, she disappeared into the living room, returning seconds later with a hatbox in her hands. It was vintage, of course, which meant it was from his lifetime, though she’d had it artfully restored with black silk and a matching ribbed bow.

  Their fingers touched as she handed over the box. “I was going to wait to give this to you for your birthday, but—”

  “How do you know when my birthday is?”

  “I read it in your obituary,” she said. Maybe she should’ve found that more disturbing than she did, but she shrugged. “Open it.”

  But he only stared. “I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me a gift,” he said at last, then busied himself—and hid his pleasure, Kit thought, smiling—by pulling loose the onyx ribbon and lifting the lid. Parting the layers of crackling tissue paper, he stared again.

  “It’s a hat,” Kit finally said.

  Grif looked up. “I have a hat.”

  Not only that, no matter where he was in relation to that hat, come four-ten every morning, the exact time of his death, the thing would reappear atop his head. It was true for everything he’d died in—the loose-fitting suit, the crooked skinny tie. A watch. A loaded gun in his ankle strap, along with four bullets he’d never gotten a chance to use.

  The photo of Evie tucked deep inside his wallet.

  It was disconcerting, to say the least, to wake next to a fully dressed man after bedding down with a naked one for the night. All that was missing was his wedding ring and driver’s license . . . and he swore on his second life that he’d had both on him when he died.

  “I know, but this one’s special.” She touched a button along the brim’s edge and a red light appeared, accompanied by a high-pitched chirp. “They normally fashion them in baseball caps and cowboy hats, but I had this one custom-ordered in a stingy brim. You like?”

  Grif frowned. “Why is it beeping?”

  Now a full smile bloomed. “Because it has a built-in compass. You program your desired coordinates, and the closer you get, the louder and more quickly it beeps.”

  Grif stared at her. “You want me to wear a hat that beeps?”

  Kit folded her arms. “Is this a guy thing? Like asking for directions when you’re driving?”

  “It’s a hat. That. Beeps.”

  Sighing, Kit reached out and took the fedora from his hands, then plunked it atop his head. “Just wear it. It’ll give you peace of mind.”

  “That I’ll find my way easily to my
Takes?”

  “No.” Her hand lowered to caress the stubble of his cheek, and she tilted her head up. “That you’ll find your way back to me when you’re done.”

  And Grif slipped his arms around her, kissed her forehead, and inhaled deeply as he buried his face in her hair. That’s how she knew their argument was over. “I love your passion, Kitty-Cat. I love how you can feel so much for a total stranger. It makes you a good reporter and a damned fine woman. And it makes me better at what I do, too.”

  She looked up at him.

  Grif shrugged self-consciously. “It does. It helps me remember what it was to be alive and dying. Do this job long enough and you can get numb to the emotion of both. But you don’t allow me to do that. Not anymore anyway.”

  “I love your passion, too,” she said, lifting to her toes.

  “It revolves around you,” he said, returning her kiss. When it began to deepen, he pulled away and rolled his eyes upward. “So. Is this thing waterproof?”

  Kit frowned, surprised. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  He lifted her hand, their fingers intertwining. “I still gotta find my way to that shower.”

  A smile began to creep across Kit’s face. “I think I can help with that.”

  “Can ya?” Grif asked and, drawing close, whispered, “Beep.”

  “Beep, beep,” Kit replied, and—fully smiling now—led the way back into the bedroom.

  Chapter Three

  Kit let it go. Or pretended to. She’d seen in the kitchen that Grif’s mind was made up, and there was no point in trying to convince him to stop Jeap Yang’s death. Not once he’d worked himself up to this level of stubbornness.

  So instead, she joined him for a long shower—a surefire way to relax him—a return trip to her beautiful vintage bed—ditto—and a restful nap allowing him to gear up for the day’s early start. Grif needed respite from the demands of his celestial superiors.

  And Kit needed him unconscious while she made her getaway.

  Back in the kitchen, Kit keyed Jeap Yang’s address into the maps app on her phone, then took a moment to study the black-and-white candid staring up at her from the folds of the paper. Grif was right, of course. Jeap had set himself down this path the first time he shot up, and whatever reasons he had, as painful and excusable as they might be, it had been his choice.