“So, uh … ain’tcha gonna follow her?” Jack shifts, uneasily pulling himself back to his feet and leaning back against the wall near the front of his bar. It’s unsettling to see this scarred-up old sack of a man casually plopping himself back on his barstool, scythe still in hand. Of course, he’s Death. Why wouldn’t he be casual?

He pauses at the thought. All this time and he’d never thought to find out what the Reaper, Thegn Nateusch, looks like. The person who’d killed everyone he and Lyia used to know. Who nearly killed him. Now the bony, wrinkly assassin is sitting in his bar, drinking Jack’s shine, and—strangely, come to think of it—not actually killing anyone. He’s returned to his craning, hunched posture. But no matter how much like “Wrinkles” he looks like, Jack can’t unknow his real name.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from using the made-up name out loud. He tries speaking again. “Hey Wrinkles, you know she’s not coming back, right?”

Thegn doesn’t respond. He just uses his free hand to fiddle with his empty shot glass.

In the lull, Jack risks trying to stand up. Maybe I ca—

The scythe cuts across Jack’s vision, the dull back edge of the blade slamming into the wall between him and the door. The wall cracks as the blade punches into it. Jack’s eyes trace up the length of the handle all the way back to Death’s hand.

“Holy shit! The handle—er, shaft—pole? Well, whatever you call it, that thing stretches?”

“Boy, you have an absolute crap notion of what good customer service is.” Not looking at Jack, Thegn taps the rim of his glass. “You learn that from your old man, too?”

Jack stops himself. Throwing insults at Death is probably unwise. Also—Bah, bullshit. No one speaks bad about the old man. “What the hell do you know, you wrinkly old fuck?”

The head of the scythe retracts toward Thegn, but only far enough to dislodge itself from the wall. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, he sweeps the blade at Jack, slapping him with the broad side of it. It’s a slight move for Thegn, but Jack is knocked off-balance.

Careening toward the bar, Jack raises his arms mid-flight and braces for impact. But before he strikes the bar, he feels the back of his shirt and vest get caught with Thegn’s free hand.

The Reaper lifts Jack by his shirt the same way someone might hold a dog by the scruff of his neck. They’re face-to-face and the smell is making Jack’s eyes water. Why the hell is this grizzled old fuck givin’ me the stink study? So what if I dodged his stupid mark.

“It’s a snath.”

Jack’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

“The ‘handle-shaft-pole’ of a scythe. It’s called a snath. If you’re going to talk about a weapon, you should know the proper names for its parts.”

The creases in Jack’s face just get deeper. Nothing this guy is saying makes sense. “What’s your game, Grandpa? I thought Corva was your payday. Why would you wanna kill her? An’ if you wanna kill her, why’re you still sittin’ here at my bar, holdin’ me a foot off the ground, tryin’ to school me on naming farm equipment?”

Thegn doesn’t respond at all. He’s just got a distant stare, like he’s not even looking at Jack anymore.

Jack stares back, hard. Ain’t no way I’m survivin’ this anyway. No reason to hold back. All his lessons on minding his tongue can’t do anything to help him now. May as well spit out what he’s really thinking.

“Whatcha starin’ at, Wrinkles? Damn creepy old bastard. What’s your problem? Trying to remember what it’s like to not have your skin slap itself when the wind blows? Look, we’re done here. Girl’s gone. Your chunk of rock salt is barely gonna cover the damages you’ve done here. Either put me down or kill me, but it’s time you got the fuck outta my bar.”

Thegn exhales through his nose like an annoyed horse and … does nothing. He’s definitely not studying Jack’s face anymore. It’s more like he’s looking through Jack, through the bar, and over the horizon at something a million miles away.

Still, Jack waits for a response, hanging there like a fart in an elevator. His armpits are getting sore from the way Thegn has him held. His shirt and vest are bunched up there and holding all of his weight, cutting off circulation to his arms. His fingertips start to tingle as his arms begin to go numb.

Seconds drag by, and Jack has no answer from the old man. The hell? “Yo, Wrinkles! This ‘living statue’ thing is boring. What happened? You nod off? I said it’s time for you to get.”

Nothing.

Jack twists his head back and looks at how Thegn has him held. Fortunately, the old vulture only has him by the shirt and vest. The chembraid isn’t caught in his grip at all. Tearing that out would hurt more than he wants to think about. Not to mention the fact that it would be a waste of all those nits he paid for it.

For a moment, he reaches up to Thegn’s arm, but thinks better of making contact lest he pull the old man out of his million-mile stare. Instead, Jack reaches for his shirt’s collar and pulls it wider. However, he can’t just slip out of the shirt. Either his arms are too numb to raise any higher, or something is caught somewhere.

But maybe if I just swing—

Taking care not to touch Thegn, Jack sweeps his feet forward as hard as he can while pushing his shoulders back as far as possible. No dice. But there’s a little give.

A little more.

He swings his feet forward again, harder this time, and pulls on his collar with all the strength his numb arms can muster. Right as his feet reach eye level, he hears a slight tearing sound in his shirt.

His head and shoulders slip free as he flips upside down. A fraction of a second later, Jack thumps to the ground, headfirst.