Seduction of a Psychopomp: Erogenous Hand Holding and Other Ways to Tame your Reaper (The Boundlands Series)

SEDUCTION OF A PSYCHOPOMP Copyright © 2023 by Elsie Winters. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. For information contact: https://www.elsiewinters.com ASIN: B0B4PX7ZDC ISBN: 978-1-7375355-2-2 Cover illustration by Amira Naval | [email protected] Editing services provided by Wolffe-Stoirm Publishing For my husband—my own personal Grim. Author's Note This is a book about Death. It’s also about beauty and love, and I hope you find it comforting. But I want you to know that there are discussions of child death, grief, chronic illness, ableism, and loss. Much of the story is told by Grim, a character who is not human—or even mortal—and does not think like one. I do not recommend this story for anyone who isn’t in a good mental place with regards to death or loss. It will still be here later if you feel able to come back to it in the future. Please be gentle with yourselves. All my love, Elsie Chapter 1 Grim There’s no such thing as a real immortal. At least, not in the way that most people assume. Those of us that live longer than memory—longer than myth—would eventually be called home to the Creator, whether by his own design or the heat death of the universe. The immense boredom of wandering the planet, even among the various planes of existence, would be too much for any of us to bear for an actual eternity. That was what I tried to remind myself of as I stood on the wet pavement in front of a single-story craftsman house in a quiet neighborhood in North Seattle. Death—the end of one’s corporeal form—eventually came for us all, in one way or another. I didn’t know the name of the man who owned the house, had never met him, but as I climbed his steps and passed through the locked front door, I watched the moments he held dearest in my mind’s eye. It was never the grand events that these souls broadcasted out into the universe as they separated from their mortal bodies. Not the weddings or the graduations, though occasionally the birth of a child made its way in. It was the quiet moments—the man’s wife handing him a perfect cup of tea, an afternoon nap on the couch with his favorite cat, his daughter’s giggles as he pushed her on a swing, the scent of the perfume that his mother had favored when he was young. I did not know him, but in that moment, I loved him. Just as I loved thousands of souls that I had escorted safely into the afterlife over the years. I never knew their names, didn’t know where they came from, or where they were going, but I knew them for a few brief moments. Knew the shape of their soul and who they were at their core. Saw them in their final moments and bore the duty of protecting them on their steps to the other side. The tug of his soul pulled me through the darkened front room of the house. If I’d possessed the ability to broaden my focus, I would have noticed the favorite cat perched on the arm of the sofa, watching me as I crossed the room in silence. Or the progression of family photos that showed children becoming adults and having children of their own spanning the length of the hallway. Or the soft, even breaths from the man’s wife, still sleeping peacefully beside his now unoccupied body, unaware her beloved was with her no more. But his soul called to mine, and everything else was unimportant. I stopped at the end of their bed, one foot in the natural world and one foot in the ether. His spirit hovered directly above where he had slept, his presence illuminated by a faint white glimmer, invisible to anyone who couldn’t see into the spirit realm. It’s common for people who don’t realize they’re dead to remain in the same spot they died in, perhaps even going about the same tasks they were performing when they passed. A faint sense of relief stole through me to find that he had not gone wandering. He was still safe. Well, as safe as a dead man could be, in any case. My magic was already thrumming through me, wrapping my body in a cloak of shadows to keep me hidden from everything—except for the occasional house cat—and allowing me to step through physical objects. I drew more magic into myself and reached into the darkness around me to pull my lantern staff from the shadows, producing the nine-foot rod with practiced efficiency. It was a good weapon, one I could morph into any number of useful objects, but for now I simply required its light. I planted the end of the staff on the floor and pushed my magic into it, lighting the lantern with a soft glow that mimicked the glimmer and swirl of the man’s spirit. Noticing me for the first time, his essence rose higher and drifted toward me, everything in him focused on the light I held. “Come with me,” I instructed. It was still dark when I returned to my apartment that morning. The air was cool and damp, with a hint of chill that signaled the end of summer as I made my way back to my one-room apartment. This unit was considerably smaller than the one I’d shared with some friends a few years ago, but after they’d moved on, I’d downsized rather than find new roommates. It was comfortable, quiet, and centrally located in