Grim and Mory

Chapter 4: The slice of a scythe

Mory is blinded by a sudden burst of light. Grim releases her hand, sudden emptiness and loneliness washing over her. Panic wells up inside her.

"Grim?" She calls uncertainly.

"Here." He is standing a foot away, his hand on a light switch.

Looking around, she feels foolish for having been scared, ignoring the slight burn of embarrassment across her cheeks. The room is filled with harsh fluorescent light that glitters off of the pristine white cabinets. A metal sink sits below, boxes of different sized gloves adorning the counter space. In the center of the room is a single autopsy table, empty. She searches the walls for the telltale body drawers, finding them directly behind her. She peers at the placard closest--Jay Styles, died July 20th--and suppresses the desire to take a peek. Though interested, she is slightly disappointed. It's just an ordinary morgue.

Grim does not so much as glance at her, on high alert, Mory notices, as he surveys the room. His gaze lingers in shadowed corners, but slides over her. Her chest feels heavy with guilt, but she ignores it. She hadn't meant to follow him here, after all. It's his fault for being so abrupt and stubborn.

The room echoes with the slide the drawer Grim opens. Inside is a woman in her thirties who, discounting her lacerations and color, looks as though she is sleeping. It's evident that this woman was in a car accident, and Mory senses that she was taken before her time was due. Mory's inspection of the woman's face falters, distracted by a dull glow coming from the woman's chest.

"Wha-?" Mory asks, trailing off as she watches Grim. Delicately, he reaches into the dead woman's chest--right where her heart would be--and pulls out a glowing pearl. Mory flashes back to their first meeting in the park, remembering when it looked as though Grim had plunged his hand into the man. "Is that...is that the soul?"

Grim slips the pearl into a bag, replacing it into the depths of his coat. "Correct." He finally acknowledges her, though his reply is curt. He slides the door closed, the room echoing with its resounding click. Hand still on the handle, Grim halts. His shoulders stiffen, his free hand disappearing into his coat. "Get down," he commands lowly, not taking his eyes off something behind her.

Mory obeys, alarmed, kneeling where she had stood. Too terrified to turn around, she watches Grim. He is as calm as ever, despite the scythe he now brandishes in his left hand. She is at a loss as to what could be behind her, her thoughts racing from zombies to ghosts. She wants to ask, but doesn't think her voice will work.

Grim lunges, jumping over her effortlessly. She adds accidentally getting nicked with the scythe on her list of terror, the wind of it being swung caressing the back of her neck. On her hands and knees, Mory quickly shuffles to underneath a nearby countertop in hopes of escaping the fight. She hasn't mustered the courage to turn around and identify the threat, but soon doesn't need to. From the hiding place she approaches, a shadow begins to ripple. She pauses, bewildered. It was a trick of the light, she desperately hopes, her heart threatening to break through her ribcage.

The shadow ripples again, a creature emerging. Relief floods through Mory as a small black bird hops out. It appears completely harmless, perhaps just as confused as she is. In fact, it's pretty cute, though she doesn't dare to touch it. Was this what Grim was so preoccupied with? Death, afraid of a little bird! She turns to call to him teasingly, stopping dead in her tracks. There are two--three, she amends quickly--grotesque beasts swarming him. Their wings are pointed and misshapen, bent at odd angles and torn. Each one is pitch black, save for the pupil-less grey orbs scattered across its body.

Grim jumps back, avoiding an attack from the side as another swoops in from above. He effortlessly spins his scythe in hand, cleanly slicing the creature from above. It disappears in a puff of black smoke. Grim wields his weapon expertly in front of him, daring the remaining creatures to try again. He is graceful, Mory observes fondly--almost as if he is dancing.