Esprit de Corpse

your scythe,” I meant all the bad things that had been fallout from my teensy little error in judgment. I considered touching his scythe again, euphemistically speaking, but decided to hold his gaze and his hands instead.

“All’s well that ends well, cara. You are now a bona fide Reaper with two souls squared away. You can carve a couple of notches on your scythe. Kidding. Kidding,” he reassured me when I opened my mouth to protest. “No scythes will be harmed in the making of your Reaper career.” He slid one of his hands from my grasp and caressed my cheek. “I would say this was a win-win for us.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it?” Done with the talking part of the conversation, I raised my face for another kiss. Our lips met for long moments while he expertly unfastened the top button on my jeans and then worked the zipper down. Stepping back, he grabbed my pants at the ankles and pulled gently but firmly, sliding them off. My panties followed suit shortly thereafter.

With my shirt dangling from one wrist and his jeans pooled around his ankles, we restated our love for one another in the best possible way.

I gasped, he groaned and the universal translator gave up altogether.

Afterward we dined like kings on the Tupperware bounty my family had left behind. (After I’d disinfected the table, of course.)

Leslie had cooked up a storm, no doubt enjoying all the fun new ingredients we had here in Hell. Mushrooms and plants that had been poisonous up on the Coil now added zest to a buffet of interdimensional cuisine that was also to die for. From. Whatever.

I felt pretty good about the way things had turned out, including how easy on me Dante had been. I grew uneasy, though when Dante put down his fork and gave me a serious look. Was I about to get The Talk, Part Deux?

“You must trust me, cara. We cannot have this”—Dante paused, allowing me to fill in the appropriate pejorative adjective—“jealousy, between us. It is good for neither our professional relationship nor our—” He paused again, then his face lit with a wicked smile. “Our unprofessional relationship.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. For a second. Then jealousy tugged at my heartstrings again. “But what about Beatrice? Who is she to you?”

Now his expression lost its sexy overtones, his smile becoming more wistful than wanton. “She was my muse. I spent most of my last incarnation thinking about her.”

A dull ache replaced the hot, green jealousy. Was he just earning enough points to get into Heaven so he could be with her again? “You loved her?”

“I did, but not in the way you think. It was courtly love, not romantic love. I only met her twice while living, although we’ve spent some time together at interfaith sporting events.”

He was referring to the weekly ice hockey games that were used to settle disputes between Heaven and Hell. It cut down on the chance of an apocalypse breaking out, although sometimes fights between the players did. Gabriel found blowing the holy trumpet a challenge with his front teeth knocked out.

“Courtly love? Like in tennis?” I didn’t know much about tennis, but it was played on a court and they bandied “love” about, along with balls.

He took my hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of mine. “No. Courtly love was a concept of my day meaning admiration and respect. Essentially, I used the idea of Beatrice as a muse, an inspiration for some of my work.”

I still hadn’t a clue, but I wanted to understand. I stomped down all my insecurities and their cascade of emotions and just squeezed his hand. I thought I might cry.

He raked his bangs back with his free hand. “Okay, cara. Let me try again. You know how everyone admired Theresa Mudders. We instantly felt she was worthy of love and respect, si?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“I suspected that she was in her final incarnation because I had experienced it before. She radiated goodness.”

Something that must have departed with her soul, because I’d just been plain old Kirsty once I’d donned her empty body like a size seven onesie.

“It was like that with Beatrice. I first met her when we were both children. She made a wonderful impression on me. When I began to write, I held that memory in my heart and it inspired me. But I didn’t know her at all. In fact, because I didn’t know her, I was able to project everything I wanted the ideal woman to be onto her image in my mind. I met her again years later when we were both married to other people.” He blinked at me. No, I wasn’t going to ask about his wife. I might be working at getting past my jealousy, but don’t expect miracles. Not from me, anyway. Now Ira, perhaps . . .

“So it’s the idea of Beatrice that you found appealing, more than the actual, living human, right?”

“That’s it exactly, Kirsty. She was my muse back then, and when I slip up and call you by her name, it’s only because you are my muse and inspiration, now.”

“Oh, Dante. That’s so romantic.” Shoving the dinner dishes aside, I leapt on him, laughing, crying, hugging and really, really sorry I’d been such a dick.

He laughed, too, and it looked like we’d be okay. Maybe even live happily ever after. Er, be dead happily ever after.

Whatever.

Then we made really, really sure we’d need that shower, showered and crawled into bed.

We had paperwork to fill out tomorrow on both Conrad and Maddy but we had tonight to ourselves.

If we needed another shower by morning, nobody knew but us.

Acknowledgments

ONCE AGAIN I’D like to thank the people who helped me with this book. Great big thanks to Kate Freiman, Joan Leacott and Lauren Stephenson for their editorial assistance. It’s because of you this book dares go out in public.

Thanks to the members of the QuinceApple brainstorming group for their input on bits and pieces and marketing materials along the way. Special thanks to creative stimulators Bonnie Staring and Tina Christopher.

Grazie to Elisa Rolle for superspeedy help with the Italian translations.

Thanks to my awesome agent, Rosemary Stimola, and her equally awesome assistant, Allison Remchek. The amount of time and effort they put into this series speaks of their faith in my potential. And thanks to my fabulous editor at Simon & Schuster, Adam Wilson, for liking my book enough to publish it. And to Adam and Julia Fincher along with their proofreaders for working with me to make it the best book it can be.

Special thanks to cover artist Richard Woo for the terrific cover artwork.

Thank you all, from Dante, Kirsty and me!

CONNECT WITH THE AUTHOR

GINA X. GRANT

Gina loves the absurd, the funny, and the fantastical. Sometimes it’s hard to find books that combine these elements, so she decided to write what she wanted to read. Despite a degree in business management, Gina has kept her quirky sense of humor, which bleeds through onto everything she writes.

She lives in Toronto, Canada, just blocks from the house she grew up in. She’s married to a friendly curmudgeon from a mining town in northern Ontario.

Together, they live with a miscellany of rescued pets all named for famous jazz musicians.