Grim Reaper 01 - Embrace the Grim Reaper

looked down at Casey, who trembled, her knees in the dirt, smudged tears lining her cheeks, dotting her shirt. Death knelt in front of her, gently extricating her fingers and pulling her close, patting her back. “Hush, daughter. Listen. Listen to the night. Quiet now.”
    And shielded in Death’s embrace, Casey’s tears slowed, until all she could feel was the cover of the darkness.

Chapter Fifteen
    Casey awoke to birdsong. It sounded awfully close, as if the bird had gotten into her room. She squeezed her eyes shut and raised her arm to cover her exposed ear. The trilling pierced her stuffy head, and she considered taking the clock from the night table and flinging it toward the feathered trespasser.
    And then she remembered.
    She opened her eyes, a struggle, as they felt puffy and sore. The campfire was out, only a thin line of gray smoke escaping from underneath the ashes. Casey’s face was cool, but the rest of her remained surprisingly warm. Upon taking stock, she realized that not only was she warm, but her head lay on a pillow, and she was covered with a heavy blanket.
    She sat up. The picnic basket and its contents were absent, as were the hot dog sticks. The stumps still sat by the ring of stones, but no one occupied them, and Death had gone off to wherever Death went after leaving Casey. To make someone else miserable, Casey figured.
    Casey’s shoes were lined up beside the blanket, and she tugged them on before slowly standing and folding the blanket. Holding the blanket and pillow, she took a deep breath and let it out, trying to ease the tightness in her chest. She gritted her teeth.
    Damn Death, anyway.
    She picked her way through the yard to the laundry room, where she eased the back door shut and left the pillow and blanket on the table beside the basket of her clean, folded laundry. Either Lillian or Rosemary had finished up the clothes she’d forgotten about. She winced. She’d have to have them add a little to her bill.
    A look out the back window showed the campfire ring looking almost cheery, with the speckled sunlight dotting the stumps, and the grass surrounding it. She rubbed her eyes, picked up the laundry basket, and stepped into the kitchen.
    A note, folded and propped on the counter, had her name scrawled in sparkly purple pen: Casey, dear, sorry we couldn’t carry you in. You’re too much for two old ladies! Help yourself to breakfast, whatever you like. We’re out grocery shopping! Lillian and Rosie
    Shopping? How late had she slept? A glance at the clock assured her it wasn’t yet even eight-o’clock. The women, she guessed, were early risers.
    From the color of the ink and the swirl of the script on the note, Casey figured Rosemary had done the writing. And there was no bill accompanying it. With a small smile she left the note, set down the laundry basket, and opened the refrigerator to see if they stocked any orange juice. They did, and she drank a small glass. Somehow food just didn’t seem inviting.
    After placing her glass in the sink she gathered her laundry and went upstairs, where Solomon the cat sat at her door, waiting for her arrival.
    “Well,” Casey said. “What do you want?”
    He blinked slowly, like he’d just been awakened from a nap.
    “You want to go in my room to sleep some more ?” She turned the knob and pushed open the door, but Solomon stayed sitting. He stretched his neck as far as he could from his spot, ears angling, whiskers twitching.
    Casey stuck her head in the door, half-expecting to see her usual visitor, but Death was either hiding or absent. “No one there, cat. Go ahead, if you want.”
    But Solomon brought his head back and huddled on his haunches, blinking up at her.
    “Fine. You can’t say you weren’t asked.” She went into the room and closed the door.
    The bed, still perfectly made, looked inviting after her night on the ground, but Casey stepped past it to the wardrobe, where she found a pair of shorts, which she exchanged for her jeans. She used the empty space in the room to do her morning calisthenics, and was soon sweating, dripping onto the nice carpet. After her three hundredth sit-up she allowed herself to pace the room, stripping as she made her way to the bathroom. A shower was definitely in order.
    After a long time under the steaming water, Casey felt at least partially rejuvenated and put on clean clothes, again avoiding the temptation of the bed. Although what she was to do until two-thirty, when Eric