[center][IMG]http://i.imgur.com/fiENFjt.png[/IMG][/center] She knew from experience, research, and a fair amount of Internet forum gossip people tended to think Reapers could not die. It would have been nice if they were right, but Daisy was getting more than a little tired of this River-Styx-in-Champagne-Rose-Number-42 gig, and she knew it was better they weren’t. She’d moved to Boston six months ago. Two months after leaving Florida, five months after…Max. That’s what she called it now, the whole two days of hell she just shortened into Max, because anyone who knew what she was talking about didn’t want or need to hear anymore than that, and anyone who didn’t didn’t deserve to. Except WolfGirl. Veti fell into her own category there. Daisy didn’t know what to call it, and didn’t really want to. It bothered her sometimes, a lot of time, actually, that she, a Reaper, couldn’t say the word ‘died’. Charades could only get you so far when half your day job was saying, “Sorry, dude, you – “ and then frantically gesturing all manner of passings. Though the few customers who’d also been victims of more explicit deaths sort of tended to have it coming, pun very much intended. She’d received Atticus’s letter halfway down Bourbon Street in New Orleans, where she’d been pretty much since the moment Veti had vanished again. She’d tried spending those days when the werewolf was having her time of the month cramped in that awful little Bostonian apartment, but as it turned out, Daisy and Tiny Vamp didn’t even pretend to get along without Veti. They didn’t fight, really. They didn’t anything. But their truce was only really functioning when Veti was around to benefit. If you could call it that. She couldn’t. She didn’t think Tiny Vamp could either. Even Artie tried, though admittedly, any time he was praised for playing with endless chew toys, sleeping in people beds, and stealing scraps from the table, he thought he was doing alright. So, Daisy wasn’t sure that counted. But she could imagine Veti tipping just a little further away from that abyss she knew all too well every time he sauntered up to her as a Lab, or Shepherd, or Poodledoo or whatever the hell dog breeds they were getting away with these days. Daisy had stood in the side alley, smelling like beignets, looking like a 20-something college kid instead of a pink-haired Reaper, holding the little spherical letter, knowing what it was before she opened, deciding what she owed Atticus, if anything. She should never have agreed to kill him. They could tell her, all of them – Veti, Atticus, Henry, Siya, even that old guy whose name she’d never bothered learning – that it wasn’t her fault, and objectively, they’d be right. She’d gotten Max to his destination, and left Artie with him, so he could come back. And she’d thought it would be okay. He was supposed to be able to, she was going to figure something out, she really was – because she’d [i]seen[/i] Veti’s face when they relayed the order to kill Max. And she’d argued. Because it was a stupid fucking idea, and she wasn’t allowed, and even though Max had thrown her under the figurative bus the night before, she didn’t hate him. Not enough to kill him. Not enough to hurt Veti. She [i]liked[/i] Veti. And Daisy didn’t like anyone. But she’d been stupid. Proud, maybe. Riding a high off prior events. After all, it had worked once before. Getting the others back from Evil Fox Island. She’d “killed” Abacus, Henry, Max, and Old Guy, and brought them all back, and she was feeling pretty fucking decent about it, too. But she couldn’t do it again. Maybe it was time. Maybe it was Decima. Maybe it was fucking Maybelline, the point was Max had died. Right in front of her. Like it was her job. Like he was on her list. And he was. Because she’d put him there. Veti could say she didn’t hate Daisy for it. But Daisy sort of thought it would be better if she did. Then at least she’d have something holding her here, on this side. She wanted to tell Veti it wouldn’t be like she thought. Max was gone, way past the Gates, way past anywhere Daisy could get to. It wouln’t be like finding him in a crowded mall. It’d be like looking for a wisp of smoke in the middle of a thunderstorm on the ocean, and there was no moon and no stars and no way back to find a breath. And also you were, like, really fucking blind. But Daisy never said anything. Because if hate wasn’t holding Veti on this side, then hope was. And if she knew the truth, there wouldn't be anything left at all. -- Daisy took the fastest route to Ireland she knew. Well. Second fastest. The fastest way she knew wouldn’t land her in a Vampire Sex Rave. She’d had enough of [i]those[/i] to last a lifetime. They were easy to find, the lot of them. And make no mistake, there were a [i]lot[/i] of them. She probably should have guessed this group would throw a massive fucking wrench in the works from the moment she’d opened Abacus’s letter. That was just sort of what B&H did. He called them “an investigation and recovery company.” No. They were a fucking wrench-throwing company. She could pick them out from the ones she knew she’d hate right off the bat. There were even more that last time, even without the fae and immortals, though not a single GodBird among them, so hooray fucking small mercies. One of them [i]reeked[/i] of Death, even moreso than she, and not in a good way. This wasn’t Death in suspension, this was death, lower case ‘d’, far past its prime. Died, rotted, fermented, then circled back around again to something admittedly [i]very[/i] nice to look at, but ultimately nothing she wanted to have anything at all to do with. *He’s a Mummy,* Artie rumbled at her shoulder, sounding equal parts bored and intrigued. Somehow. “He’s an asshole,” muttered Daisy. “But he’s an attractive one.” Wrench-Thrower number one, then. Her eyes circled around the group, lighting only briefly on the smaller wrenches. Too many goddamn fae this time around, and if none of them were going to look like the Siren, then what was the point? A girl she couldn’t recognize from – "[i]Fuck.[/i]" Artie didn’t have to tell her what the next…[i]thing[/i] was. She pulled up short, half thinking of turning around before they even saw her, and might have, if she hadn’t sensed Veti here. The only reason she was here, as far as anyone, Artie included, was concerned. Still. She’d let her uncommonly kind and chaste soul get the best of her once and it had nearly cost her whatever remained of her life. This wasn’t a wrench. This was a sixteen-part Swiss Army knife with a Phillips head strapped to it and a live bomb strapped to that. Artie sniffed experimentally and growled at the black pillar of smoke the Wight represented on Daisy’s side of Death. “Great. This'll be super fun. Mummies. Wights. Why not bring in the Big Guy himself, we'll have some fucking brunch.” That was Bain & Hoyle for you. Gorgeous men. Completely disregard for rules, order, and respect. And practically no brunches whatsoever. She drew the exit second portal up from the water at her feet and stepped through back into life, keeping her eyes on the Wight as she did. The group was even larger from this end. She smiled briefly at Henry, gave Siya a neutral half glance, and casually ignored Atticus. Last of all her eyes passed as briefly as she could manage over Veti, lurking far off in her corner. She suspected the werewolf did not want to be made known yet, and so made her glance short. Yeah, that was why. Not because she was a fucking coward. Veti tried hard, she knew, to keep up appearances, and Daisy had to commend her for that. Siya would know the wolf was crumbling. And Max, of course, if he were here. But then of course, it would be a different night, and a different group, and Daisy might not be here at all. If she hadn’t been a Reaper, she might never have caught on to Veti's acute distress. People were wrong about that part, too. Reapers dealt in Death. But the dead and the dying were not so mutually exclusive as some seemed to believe.