The Next Death; Chapter 15

"What? Gran, no!" She's through the shop door before I can stop her. I groan in frustration before I follow her in. I silently pray that anyone but Agatha makes an appearance.

Gran stops to pick up and examine one of the random curios we have in the shop as Neal walks out from the back. He pauses when he sees me. I give him a half-wave. He raises a hand in greeting, head tilting.

"Oh, would you look at this, Eliza!" I turn to find Gran holding up a Russian nesting doll.

"What about it?" I ask studying its colorful face. Gran turns it over to display the bottom. Three Russian letters that I assume to be someone's initials stare back at me. "Does that mean something?"

Gran gives me a look. "You're as much fun as your mother sometimes. It means it's handcrafted. Someone took the time to carve each doll by hand and paint them." Gran holds it out to me. Slowly I accept it. "It's like holding a piece of someone. They poured their imagination, a piece of their soul, into making that."

I study the doll. For a split second, I can see a ghost of an image. I can see the paintbrush as it gently strokes the plain wood. I can feel their focus, see the final image they have in mind. I blink and it's gone. I look back at Gran. "That's a nice way to think about it."

"Hold on to that for me. I think I'm going to buy it. Let me see if I find anything else I like."

I groan silently as Gran walks off. This is not where I want to be right now. I look back down at the doll. I can't help but feel like an idiot just standing here holding a Russian nesting doll. I might as well wait at the counter.

"You do know that if you find something you like while working, you can just take it," Neal says as I set the doll down on the counter, "Reapers don't need money."

"I don't want it. My gran does."

"Ah. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say coming here wasn't your idea."

"No, but to be fair, I should have seen it coming."

Neal laughs, eyes quickly scanning the store before coming back to me. "Are you feeling alright?"

I blink, looking at him. "Yeah, why?"

He studies me for a second. "Something about your aura is. . . Different."

I can't help but feel alarmed by his comment. "Bad different?"

He shrugs. "I can't tell. Has anything strange happened?"

"Not since whatever it was that happened while I was training with Sam."

"Hm." Neal shakes his head. "It's probably nothing. Your situation isn't exactly common. I suppose it's completely possible for your aura to change."

"That wasn't exactly a vote of confidence."

"I could ask Agatha," Neal offers.

"She'll probably just say I'm dying in the ever so hopeful way of hers."

"You're right. Bad call."

"We could ask Sam."

"Sam's not in today. They swapped for the day."

"Oh. Is Mr. Mors in?"

Neal gives me an apologetic smile. "Nope, sorry. Didn't expect to see you today."

"Fair enough. He'll be in Monday though, right?" Neal is silent for a second. "Just how bad was it?"

Neal blinks, shaking his head. "Sorry, I don't know where my mind went for a second there. Don't worry about it, Sam and Agatha are more than capable of taking care of it, especially with Mors' help. He'll be in Monday."

"Why did Sam call Agatha Joan?"

Neal's eyes flick to the door leading to the back before he leans over the counter. "You didn't hear this from me, but Joan is Agatha's real name."

"Why wouldn't she want me to know her real name?"

"She doesn't like to talk about her past much."

"Was it that bad?"

"More like that famous."

I stare at Neal. He doesn't say anything else. "You can't just leave me hanging like that."

Neal looks at the door again. He sighs. "She is going to kill me if she finds out I told you."

"Won't I find out once I'm the boss?"

"Fine." Neal leans over the counter, waving me closer. Complying, I also lean over the counter. "Have you ever heard of Joan of Arc?" He whispers.

"The French warrior woman?" I whisper back. I can feel my brow furrowing. "What does she have to do with-" My jaw drops as I realize the connection. "Agatha is Joan of Arc?" My whisper has become more of a stage whisper, but I'm too shocked to care.

Neal pulls back, shushing me. "If Agatha asks, Sam told you. Sam has a better chance of surviving her wrath." Neal's eyes move suddenly, and he smiles easily. "Hello. . . Ms. Kissinger?"

Gran approaches the counter. "Close, but no. I'll give you half a point though. I'm Ms. Helsbrin." She holds out a hand. "You must be one of my granddaughter's co-workers."

"Neal," he says, shaking her hand. I don't miss the flash of understanding in his eyes.

I want to ask him about it, but I never get the chance. All I get to say before walking out is an exchange of farewells.