Don't Fear the Reaper by Muto Michelle

Author:Muto, Michelle [Muto, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Dreamscapes, Ink
Published: 2011-09-23T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As we sat outside and waited for Daniel’s return, I asked Banning more questions about how things worked in the afterlife, hoping against hope for some angle, some loophole to make everything right again with Banning and his wife. Some loophole to keep me from going to hell. I might as well have tried to predict the future or stop all the injustices of the world with the snap of a finger. Now, my only hope was finding my sister and trusting that Banning’s plan would work out for the both of us.

I’d been so wound up in myself and my fate that I’d nearly forgotten I wasn’t the only soul at stake here. Daniel had warned me that he’d have to do everything within his power to make sure I failed. And yet, by telling me, he’d already disobeyed orders. I guess Daniel wasn’t so bad after all. Well, once I got past his moodiness and his perpetual shortage of tact.

I wondered if Banning had thought the same thing I had—this whole deal didn’t feel right. Banning hadn’t said anything more about my case or my trial, or whatever it was they did here. He seemed busy enough just keeping track of me and doing his reaperly duties. As long as I didn’t do anything stupid—which meant as long as I stayed clear of the scumbag who killed my sister—I had a chance to stay out of hell. My heart went out to Banning; all he had a chance of was staying a reaper until someone else wanted his job. I hadn’t exactly noticed a long line of applicants.

If Banning went to hell with me, would he ever see his family again? I wondered what Banning’s wife thought of me. Maybe that’s what they’d been talking about.

“Red velvet cake,” Banning said, catching my sullen mood. He was good at that. Too good. “That’s the food I miss the most. It used to be my favorite. Laura made it every year around the holidays, and every year for my birthday.”

There were so many things I missed already that I didn’t think it possible to name them all. “Holiday sweets or year-round?” I asked. “Because if it’s holiday food, then I’m going with gingerbread—cake, not cookies. Otherwise, hands down, it’s brownies, undercooked, made with butter, not oil, and with extra syrup and chips. We called them wicked brownies. Mom got the recipe from someone on a message board.”

“Brownies would be my second choice,” Banning said. “Warm. With a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

The early evening sun had started to set, and I rubbed my arms against the slightly cooler breeze that greeted us. I could feel cold, heat, pain. I could dream. But I’d never taste Mom’s wicked brownies again. We’d never race to the oven to take them out or put glasses of milk in the freezer for a few minutes. We’d never sit in front of the TV with a rented movie. Wow. Reason five thousand, two-hundred and fifty-six why purgatory sucked.

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